FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Special thanks to psydrosis, DukeFerret and fopfox for proofreading!

Chapter Two

But I Got Sideswiped

Come on, Rodney, it's just one job.

_ _ Deep breath. Head down. Tie fix. Heartbeat like he lost twelve years.

You can do it. You can do it. You're gonna knock his socks off.

_ _ Shoes scraping over the welcome mat, he balled his fists. Puffs of breath, in, out.

Eighth time's the charm, baby! That's right! Come on!

And all those mistakes compiled to a final draft in his head, one that he repeated to himself a thousand times over for perfection. A sign above him loomed, pink and green were the letters, "Pollinate"; the red bulb above it that signaled "Help Wanted" was the one that drew the pressure up.

Here we go. Three...two...one!

_ _ Elbow first, he shoved the door open like a battering ram, and was immediately assaulted by the pungent mishmash of humidity and wildlife, sneezing almost instantly; no matter, he met eyes straight to the otter behind the counter, who smoothed his tan whiskers around his maple syrup colored fur, readying a smile, pointing a finger in the air, all for the knockout first impression that was about to leave his lips:

"Hello, man behind the counter table!" he announced. "My name is Rodney Bennett, and am I ready to buy the nearest plant flower job right here!"

That probably didn't come out right.

Eyebrows raised, the clerk retained a gentle smile. "Good afternoon! May I set you up with an interview, sir?"

"Oh, why not waste any time, you all know how it's gonna go," he said, propping an elbow on the table. "What's your name? Reese? Awesome name tag. Tell 'em this: I've been standing outside this window for a solid fifteen minutes 'cause these plants are the bomb. So many colors! You've got green...yellow...pink...let's face it, mostly green. And you keep that green in check. But I'll let you in on a little secret...I think I can green even better."

Eager eyes, teeth shiny, the punchline was there, but he nodded in a way that suggested absolute confusion.

"Anyway, flowers, in general are gnarly. You don't see 'em in many places around here, and that means not a lot of people know how to take care of 'em. Well, guess what? I've had a big 'ol pot of them in my windowsill for ten whole years. That's right: three thousand six hundred fifty days, to the dot. I did the math in my head. And not only did I water them every day, but throughout all that time, they never once died."

Reese blinked. "That's impressive."

"It's a little superpower of mine," Rodney said, examining his nails. "That's why I'm major big business and whatnot. Anyway, do you have any questions for me?"

Bewildered, he shrugged, a tiny laugh as he laced his fingers together. Rodney clapped, bent back, "Okay! With that said, I'd like to assume the position of the store's new professional flower waterer. Just tell me where I sign up, and I'll get right to work. I won't even ask you about the salary, because why would I ever do that?"

Reese's head tilted, "I'm glad to hear your enthusiasm, but no such job exists here. Taking care of the plants is just a side gig for the clerks."

"Really?" Rodney asked, dying a little inside. "Cowabunga! And I'm just now hearing about this? Whew! Wouldn't it be so much easier if I could just look this stuff up just to be sure that the job in my head is something that actually exists? but I can't think of anything in our world that can do that. What else is open, then?"

"Just a moment sir," Reese said, tapping the lime green Pod built into the countertop to display a holographic tower of twenty boxes, three of them red while the others were green. He clicked his tongue as he phased a finger through each of the reds, reading the window that sprung from it. "How much experience do you have in the marketing industry?"

"I, uh...." Rodney tapped his fingertips together as his eyes flicked left to right. "I've been in the business twenty years, just came off a hiatus!"

"We've currently got jobs open for the marketing positions, but we need to review your Social Credit and a brief transcript of your skills from your last boss to do it."

"Uh, actually, I'm tired of marketing, anything else?"

"Perhaps you'd like a graphic design position? We're currently low on artists with at least twelve years of experience."

"Twelve years?" Rodney took a step back. "Wh-...don't you guys have any introductory positions?"

"Sure! We're currently in need for a professional box flattener."

"What's that?"

"You flatten boxes."

"That's it?"

"And then give them back to the company so that they can re-use the materials."

"...To make more boxes?"

"Yep!"

"And you just...do that? Forever?"

"Some call it a metaphorical experience!"

"More like a bogus_experience," Rodney scoffed. He flamboyantly turned back to the door as confused shoppers stopped in their tracks. "Enjoy your buttercups, Reese! I thought we had it all. We could've had a honeysuckle! Now all I have is a bleeding heart. I guess every rose has its thorn, and I'll be pushing on daisies before I'd _ever come back here."

Reese nodded, raising his voice, "Well, if you do decide to come back, we're having a big sale on yellow daisies this week!"

Rodney turned back, wide eyed. "You are?"

Two and a half minutes later, the door squeaked open as he held a bright, yellow daisy in a palm-friendly pot, a stern look on his face.

_Okie dokie then, there was probably a better way to do that. _

On his right shoulder, he toted a bag full of other useless souvenirs; the eighth time was _not_the charm. Grunting, shifting pace, he was tempted to put it in the bag, but then again, it needed sunlight. Rodney reasoned with himself with this. It was at least a good reminder of how nice a day it was, how the sun perfectly eclipsed and peaked out from behind the tallest skyscrapers in the district, but now was not the time to bring that up.

Why is this so hard? I don't remember it ever being this hard to get a job. I barely even remember how I got my last job.

Sweat around the notches of his fingers, the stretching plastic, the disappointed sighs, all the stores seeming to blend to one boring line. It was only when no one was around when it felt like this. The night shifts avoid it, the day shifts willfully shrug, but both must hit the sidewalks eventually, and when they do, they'll feel this loneliness. The truth is, it never went anywhere. Something about it got his eyes stuck. Like them, like all of them, he couldn't stop walking the same line.

_Maybe they'll contact me back? Wait, I didn't give them my identity. I'll just hope something in the store scanned my Pod automatically. _

_ _ It was just a basic security protocol, impossibly common, yet suggested they had expected him to steal the most pungent flowers the first second he showed his face. Though the implication of another thing trickled down his spine; another realization. That loneliness clashed with surveillance was the greatest example of how the people were not alone. That little touch that inferred nobody would ever be attacked, lest they lose all their Social Credit instantly. Perhaps the man on the other end would like the way they styled their fur and secretly give them some Social Credit. Easy way to fall asleep at night for the both of them. And they'd feel alive for a moment, enough to predict the next moment of safety and it'd be wonderful, jolly as ever...then the briefcases hit the floor, glasses up, coffee still burns on the tongue: meeting at ten, data parsing at twelve, pick up the Pod, lunch break to a disappointing recess, you know the drill. Get back to work. Rodney's heart, an anchor, his feet, the propellers; every time, every single day lost in the past, and how blissful was that ignorance now? All eyes are open, but nobody's watching. City moves on.

An electronic ring sounded from all sides, and a pulse of red light ran up and down the towers, in a celebratory way; five o'clock. Pulsed over each and every window, and it, too, was watching in. Everybody's gotta know at once that their shift's over. You could almost hear all the elevators move at once through every single building as it overlapped with Rodney's footsteps.

It was at that point when his meandering caught up to him. The white bordered writing on the ground told him he'd just crossed into District Fourteen. Just as vacant as the last, for now, another hallway of silver skyscrapers, yet something about it was indescribably different. No time to decipher: out spilled the doors, a cacophony of footsteps that Rodney blocked out just from his thoughts. The daisy in his hand swayed from side to side, beyond it, all the signs and billboards towered over doors and rooftops seemed to blur into colored shapes. The longer he looked, the more the differences seemed to jump out at him. The sidewalks a little thinner, the jackets a little fuzzier, shades on people whose facial expressions rested a little too comfortably. There spawned a thought so pure, he nearly thought he said it out loud.

I don't think I'm right for any kind of job.

Then he bumped shoulders with one of the passersby, losing the grip on his left hand. The world seemed to travel in slow motion as the pot slipped, tumbled, a three hundred sixty degree turn, until it shattered pot-first onto the ground, spraying shards everywhere.

"No, no, no!" the desperate raccoon gasped, dropping the bag to brush up the soil. The plant still stayed intact, drooping from the bulb. "I can fix this! I can fix this!"

Then he slung the bag straight over his shoulder and sidled frantically through the streets, cupping the pile of soil, looking for a sign of another flower store. Bumping and sliding through the denser sidewalks, his eyes were stuck to looking above for anything to take his poor plant. Worse still, the soil was dropping through the cracks of his fingertips.

"Hello? Hello?" he started calling out when nothing jumped out to him. "Do you have a pot? A glass? Anything? Something?"

A store that reskins his Pod. A marketplace. A tattoo artist. He wasn't looking where he was going at all. The soil kept falling.

"I can't let this plant die!" he said. "Does anybody have a pot?! Anyone?! Anyone?!"

Not looking where he was going, he looked forward for a moment and slammed head first into the next person. They both grunted and toppled backwards, their nice suits picking up loose gravel.

"O-oh god, I'm so sorry!" he frantically said, though his eyes were to the sidewalk, looking at the residue of soil scattered all over the sidewalk. In his hand, he held the solitary daisy, a few exposed roots running white as old hair from its otherwise nourished, green body, and vibrant yellow head. He looked up for a quick apology. But Rodney couldn't look away. It was just too perfect. As if the chaos around him ceased to exist, he lost himself in the eyes of the most beautiful lynx he'd ever seen. And the longer they locked eyes, the more they realized how mutual it was.

"It's okay...." Miles said at last. "You, uh, need some help with that?"

Rodney paused, slightly embarrassed. "Y-yeah...I did...."

Another awkward silence. The two still didn't look away.

"...Uh, anyway," Miles said, "I could find a place to-"

"It's for you!" Rodney blurted, jutting it forward. "It's for you."

Another long pause.

Miles' mouth was agape. "Really?"

Rodney felt a frog in his throat. "Y-yeah! I think it'd look bitchin' with your-oh, uh, I don't know if...that's..." His lower lip quivered. "Hey, I didn't get anything on your suit, right?"

"No, no, you didn't," Miles shook his head playfully, "thanks for being polite."

"Can't be more ruined than mine, after all," Rodney said, "for your sake, I don't think you should look at my pits."

A red flag caused a jolt in his heart like a warning shot that he'd messed it all up. Against all odds, the two of them broke into laughter, an awkward cadence as they both recognized the uncertainty of all this. Head tilt. Subtle breath. Rodney's growling stomach. Oh. Guess that broke the silence.

"Uh, sorry," he said. "I've been running around all day, haven't had a thing to eat."

Miles shrugged as a response, but he didn't even know why.

"That's fine," he stammered, "wanna get dinner?"

A thud struck him the moment he finished his sentence. Wanna get dinner? Of all the things that could ever come out of his mouth, that was the first time he'd asked that without a meeting scheduled. Besides, there were still important things to do. Seven, take an afternoon run. Eight thirty, heat up dinner in the microwave. Nine, tinker with the gadgets. Midnight or later, grind out schematics, at least one minor breakthrough before even thinking about sleep. There was work to be done. There's always work to be done.

Rodney nodded. "Sure thing. I think I know a place nearby!"

And Miles nodded with him, eyeing between the ground and him.

"I'm up for it."