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They were ushered past the floating feet and eye-level asses of the other guests, already perched atop their high chairs. Stephen spied no ladders on their chairs, the reason for which revealed itself as he was pointed to his own chair. It sat low to the ground, and indeed, the other chairs had been pumped aloft on pistons like office chairs with compensation issues. He shot a smirk up at Franky as she seated herself next to him in a much more normal seat, disregarding its size.

Won't need your help this time, big girl.

She caught it, and shot one back.

Good on you, squishy. Is probably what she thought.

As soon as ass touched patent leather he did not shoot up, but instead someone with a brush shot out from behind him, rapidly dabbing the powdered thing over his face before he could even ask what was going on.

“It'll have to do," sounded the clipped voice from the annoyed face of a professional who was forced to do unprofessional work. Yeah, sorry about that. Guess they really were fashionably late.

Someone started vigorously pumping a pedal at the base of the chair, and then he did shoot up like a mushroom on wet soil, the waiting faces of the members of the panel rising in view over the edge of the table like the start of a new day. One in an alien solar system with multiple suns, their roles fulfilled by the multitude of studio lights beating down light and heat on their exalted circle. He squinted and blinked until he could look at people without tearing up.

The only person he recognized was the host, sitting at the head of the table to his left, past the bulk of Franky. Few people didn't know who Matthew Newchurch was, even if they wanted nothing to do with the show. Part of him wondered if the shared feline ancestry between the host and the surly tigress would cut them some slack, but the similarities ended at fangs and fur. The man was rather small, and where suggesting grooming to Franky was akin to threatening her with a bucket of cold water, Newchurch was well groomed by nature and profession. He affected that casual look so popular among people who were anything but, but there was nothing random about the way his hair appeared in the same approachable messy coiffure night in, night out. Where Franky was casually intimidating, Newchurch exuded an aura of calm. Just another night's work for him.

The space beyond the table melted into an indeterminable muddle under the blaze of the lights. A voice sounded from behind the glaring lens of the main camera.

“Live in ten!"

Not ten minutes, either. The intro tune was already playing on people's TV's across the country. Jezus. Here they were. He glanced over at Franky, and the soft side he'd just seen of her had already been subsumed under the face she usually put on. Her claws were out, tapping lightly on the table.

Newchurch's eyes took on a sort of luminosity as he faced the camera. He took on that expression he always did, nose down, eyes on the camera, head slightly cocked, one ear turned several degrees lower than the other. He honestly hadn't considered the host to have a 'look' before, but seeing him turn it on made it obvious. If Franky looked at you that way, it kicked in your fight or flight instinct. But on the diminutive cat man the predatory face looked assertive, confident.

A dark shape behind the camera gave a gesture.

“Good evening. Tonight on The World Keeps Turning we're speaking with upcoming author Gemma Anderson about her new book, about what it's like to actually be as blind as a bat, and we talk to the man who scaled a mountain for charity. But first, the challenges of safety in construction and going viral on the internet." He beamed a disarming smirk at the camera.

Screens around the studio, both for the audience's convenience and theirs, lit up. Stephen focused on one hanging over the main camera. In the jolting, halting camera work a large shape came into focus. Blue coveralls, orange fur. Tendrils of nervousness crept up Stephen's spine, involuntarily his eyes darted across the faces of the other guests, but their attention was firmly on the video. It wasn't like they could know he was hanging out in Franky's bag, but he had no idea what he'd say if someone threw it in his face right now.

Franky bobbed up and down in the frame as the cameraman pumped his legs to catch up. At least he could finally put some images to the memory. She flashed them quite the eyes when they came close, growling 'no comment' at them. It didn't deter the reporter in question, a smarmy looking fuck, for long as he thrust his microphone as far up to Franky as he could reach. Which wasn't very.

And there it was. He'd been on the look-out for this. Somewhere while Franky tried to move on, and he tried to keep up, he firmly kneed the bag aside. The guy actually did a visible double take, falling behind with a single limping step. Serves you right, asshole.

They were about the make their escape, now. The video should be coming to an end. The reporter whipped his head around to face the rear, confidence draining from his face, the picture spinning in a motion blur to face the same direction. A rapidly approaching wall of beastmen face the crew, crashing into their personal space like a tidal wave under boisterous shouts. It was hard to make out what happened during the commotion as the cameraman tried to focus his field of view up, catching more sky than face. But at some point he lost grip of the instrument, and the segment was cut off in a washing machine spin.

There was a bit of polite laughter from the crowd. Good thing, that. If you were going to be implicated in vandalism, it was always better if it entertained a few people along the way.

Newchurch swiveled towards Franky in a smooth, practiced motion. Stephen practically felt the camera switch.

“Of course, this wasn't your first encounter with the press, was it?"

Franky just looked at him for a second before answering. “Eh… no?"

The screens switched to a shot of the tabloid front page, with its shouting headline accompanying the oh-so flattering shot of him snuggling up to Franky's titty with the teetering, slack-jawed expression of a practiced junky, and Franky staring straight into the camera with golden eyes shooting fire and her snout scrunched up in an ugly snarl. An earnest wave of laughter traveled across the audience, and even their hitherto still anonymous table-mates allowed smiles to lift their seriousness.

“Franky, you're a construction forewoman," Newchurch fixed his gaze on Stephen, “and Stephen, you're a safety analyst. Why don't you tell us a little about how you met? Apparently it's quite the story."

He looked up at Franky, finding she was looking down at him.

“Eh, you wanna start?" she asked.

“Why don't you give it a go?" he responded. Come to think of it, he hadn't really heard it from her side, what it was like. They were both there, after all, so there was no point in going over it.

A thorny thought stuck in his mind as he contemplated the peaceful expression on Newchurch's face. The half-lidded eyes, slight smile, preened whiskers. All very measured. A man who's every movement betrayed professionalism had left it ambiguous who of them should speak first.

“It were a regular workday, an' all of a sudden the boss says I get ta entertain this squishy all day." She jabbed a thumb down at him. For all her mistrust of the media, she seemed to not have noticed the discrepancy. “So he sits oglin' me all morning," a polite chuckle from the crowd, 'til it's lunchtime. We're walking, and there's this sound, like a rockslide. Like, when you hear that, you know somethin's off. I look back to this guy," another jab of the thumb, “and rubble's just rainin' down round him. And he ain't movin', so… well…"

Aw, was she embarrassed?

“She jumped right on top of me," he interjected.

“You didn't walk away completely unscathed from that, am I right?" Now Newchurch was unambiguously addressing him, not Franky, who took the brunt of the impact.

“I bruised some ribs." He lightly tapped his sore side. “Still beats being crushed by a ton of rubble."

“My fat may have cushioned the blow a little." Franky said to the mild amusement of the audience, flashing a sharp-toothed grin.

“It could have ended a lot worse." The man who spoke now was a Conroy Light, obviously far more accustomed to wearing a suit than he or Franky would ever be. Lean, and appearing fairly tall for a human, with the sort of hair he probably rarely touched himself. It took Stephen a second or two to realize he was referring to Franky, rather than the rubble.

Newchurch immediately turned to the man. “John, you're here representing the United Workers' Union. What's your view on this?"

Wait, a union man. He chanced a glance up to Franky, and her expression had hardened.

“One of the challenges of the modern workplace is integration of large scale workers like Franky, here." He gestured towards her with an arm in the sort of manner that might have seen it removed in another context. “If her heroic action had ended in the death of Stephen, we'd be having a different conversation."

“One I'd have far less to say in." He was sure he sounded a little surly, but the audience seemed to like it. Really, that was the part that made it surreal. With the glare of the lights turning the audience into a chorus of silhouettes he could just about imagine that he was just sitting around a table with a bunch of random people he'd never see again. But when the ghosts stirred, the illusion was broken.

“What do you mean by that?" Newchurch addressed the union man.

Something hard seemed to shine in the man's eyes.

“Large scale workers have a clear physical advantage over most people, and we're still approaching that through outdated means." He paused for a strategic second. “What worked in the past, no longer works today. In the present system, for instance, large scale workers are considered as construction equipment, due to the work they do. This brings with it a number of legal difficulties."

When you were close to her, it was hard to ignore even the small movements Franky made. The sense of shifting weight was palpable as she crossed her arms.

“Brings with it a few advantages, too," she rumbled across the table, and the studio in general.

“Obviously." John the union man took no consideration time before answering. He seemed like the sort of guy who was somehow always ready to go. “However, that's part of the problem. There have been growing voices in the professional community about a certain… inequality represented in the current arrangement."

Time to chime in. You're here to talk, so talk.

“Look, I think…" Newchurch's head swiveled to regard him like a camera on its tripod, and he could suddenly feel the glare of attention beating down on him with the same heat as the studio lights, “… I think this has really nothing at all to do with the media response to what happened. Let's not forget we're here because people tried to turn her saving my life into something negative."

He could feel Franky un-bristle somewhat.

“Ah, that's a good point," Newchurch conceded, then nodded to the woman sitting besides John. She was another person with the sort of haircut that could feed a student for a week in terms for cost, permitting herself the somewhat more colorful style of dress of someone who claims to be 'in touch' with things. “Clarissa is a media expert we've invited to weigh in on that subject. Clarissa?"

“Thank you, Matthew." She acknowledged him with a curt nod. “What we often see is that these things are interconnected, whether that's consciously or subconsciously. Certain viewpoints can manifest themselves in a sort of wishful thinking, and I believe we've seen that at work, here. If there's a belief that workers like Franky enjoy a certain amount of privilege not afforded to others, that informs the interpretation of events."

She just said the same thing twice. Yeah, he could see what was going on, here. This was a set-up. You get two unprepared yokels off the street, and set them up against people who did this sort of thing for a living. John and Clarissa probably knew exactly who they would be speaking to beforehand.

He should have seen this coming. Franky probably did see it coming.

“We're all just doin' the jobs we can." There was a sharp edge audible in Franky's usual gruffness. She definitely knew she was on the defensive, here.

“Of course you are, but don't you think it's important to get through to the cause of problem?" Newchurch spoke up to her.

That was the way it was going to be, then. They had to survive this for however many minutes they had left without making themselves look like idiots, or confirming the idea that Franky was secretly to blame for her own misfortune all along.

“It wouldn't be the first time predatory press got things wrong," he piped up before Franky could growl at the carefully preened cat. “First they reported I'd died in the accident, and they were trying to pin it on the nearest person. The press often likes to think that all insight into an accident ends after the tally of victims. The reality is that it's premature judgment, and that dry reports don't make for good headlines. The only thing this has to do with large scale workers is that one was close enough to prevent a bad situation from getting worse."

There, take that. He just had to toe the line, keep everyone from veering off into tangents. In the corner of his eyes he caught the lights gleaming off Franky's fangs.

“Tha's right," she said resolutely.

“I don't immediately agree with that," Clarissa said. Despite the apparent agreement her voice remain aloof to it, droning on in frustrating neutrality. “Optics play a large part in media response and can't be ignored in the eventual result. If there is pre-existing friction, that will show in reporting."

“That's just what we construction experts like to call 'talkin' shit'."

Franky's directness drew some scattered laughs from the crowd. They'd been so silent to the dry opinions of the other guests that Stephen had almost forgotten they were there. Again.

“Now, let's keep it civil," the host cautioned Franky.

They knew what they were doing. Invite a rough person like her, then pretend to take umbrage at it when she bites back after you take shots at her.

“Clarissa is right," John spoke, “the position of exemption large scale workers enjoy has been a point of contention for a long time, and it's impossible to have this discussion without acknowledging it."

Stephen made to speak up against the accusation, but found himself pre-emptively cut off by Franky's voice rumbling up to speed like a long haul truck.

“Your position of exemption," she spoke those words with a bit of venom through clenched teeth, “has always been advantageous to construction companies, while it only guarantees jobs for big folk we've been doing since people've been building. In the end it's jobs what it all comes down to," a pronounced creak sounded from the table as she leaned forward, “and we all need jobs, big an' small, 'cause we all need to eat. Difference is, big folks need to eat a little more. That's all we want, and pretendin' big folks are a new thing who just busted onto the scene to push you around ain't honest."

Nobody at the table seemed ready for the orange bulldozer to start speaking in complete sentences, though the union man did manage to flap his jaw open to try and respond.

“I'm not done yet," Franky cut him off. “If this is where you want to go, you ought to put your money where your mouth is and tell me what your problem with big folk is instead of tryin' to tell me I deserve to be dragged by fuckin' tabloids."

This time the audience remained silent as Franky settled back in her chair. It made the light chuckle issuing from behind Newchurch's smirk all the more pointed. The host didn't drop a beat.

“It seems this topic has released some frustrations."

That was a stalling tactic. Stephen had spent enough time in dreary offices to recognize that confident, hard-hitter's way of saying nothing.

“It's a fair question," he chimed in.

“A lot of people aren't happy with the current arrangement." The man's face had hardened. “You fall outside all of the normal arrangements for regular crew, instead falling into the same category as people who have to go through months of training to operate machinery, and who have to bear responsibility for that machinery."

Franky chuffed. “I haven't met those people. And I don't need no trainin' to swing a shovel."

“These concerns don't come from thin air. It's not just about bureaucracy, it's about safety as well." He turned his gaze towards Stephen. “Wasn't a safety check the entire reason you were there?"

A jumble of wild thoughts rambled through Stephen's mind. How did the guy even know? Who had told him? Just watching the others talk was a spectator sport, but now those annoyingly placid faces turned towards him and the studio lights seemed to go up in intensity. He felt like a wilting leaf of lettuce beneath them. He had only one ally in here. He stole a look up at her striped face, and found one ocher eye looking back down, trying to not be obvious. He'd never claim to be an expert at reading eyes, let alone tiger eyes, but they connected for a moment. There was that agreement of brothers in arms. A sense of trust.

Now, there was something else in the back of his mind. The nasty parts of him forming together in a fist of frustration.

“There are safety checks on every construction site, for everything." He tried to focus on the smarmy, soft face of the union man. “It's a boring office job done by normal people you probably haven't thought about twice while you go about your life never breaking your neck over anything because someone already thought about it before you even got there. We look out for loose bits of carpets or misplaced warning signs, and none of it ever makes the headlines, or…" he swept his arm to take in the host, the guests, and the entire studio, “… national television. So what's your point?"

The corners of the man's mouth curled up almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowed. If Stephen had to guess, he was glad he had elicited a reaction.

“So you agree that large scale workers can be dangerous?"

Ah Jesus, this guy.

“I just told you loose bits of carpet can be dangerous. Life is dangerous. If we never took risks, we'd be having this conversation in a cave somewhere. Safety is about minimizing the risks of whatever you want to do, not to never do it."

In first instance the union man only answered with silence. Just when it seemed someone else would jump in, he returned to his script.

“It's the opinion of many people that the industry has failed to move with the times. We have people doing jobs of machines, with fail-safes and trained operators. Large scale people shouldn't be expected to prop up the construction industry, either."

Probably the union man had thought up that line beforehand, and has just looked for a place to dump it because he just had to work it in. Franky made a rude sound at it.

“Just an opinion," she said.

Clarissa spoke up quickly, scrabbling for relevance. “If opinions are strong and persistent, you have to ask if there's something valid behind them. That's the only way we can move forward as a society. That's the core function of media, to give people the means to question things."

“Lady, if you hate the color ora.."

“I'm afraid that's all we have time for." Newchurch spoke up over Franky, which to be honest was quite the impressive feat. The small cat had quite the studio voice on him. He ignored all of them, addressing the main camera. “I want to thank our guests for this segment. We'll be back after the following messages."

Damn. That was it, then. Ten minutes. It certainly didn't feel like ten minutes. Now that the tension was gone he leaned back in his chair, feeling very much like a deflating balloon. He could even hear a hiss, and the table with its occupants receded before him…

Oh, that was just the tall chair dropping him down to floor level. An army of staff came scurrying out now the home audience wasn't looking, taking the chair away as soon as he freed himself from it, putting the table back on its wheels and pushing it off. They were clearly going back to the normal set-up. No big guests for the rest of the evening. Newchurch was getting his make-up touched up while standing off to the side, talking things through with some sort of director. The same staff member that had escorted them to their places appeared before them.

If they wanted to sit in the audience and watch the rest of the show. One glance up at Franky showed she had much the same idea that he had.

“We're good, thanks. Can you call our transport instead?" He had to work to keep his voice friendly.

If they were sure.

No, he'd just accidentally said the exact opposite of what he had intended to say.

“Yeah, we're just tired."

With that, they were escorted past the audience, out of the studio. There seemed to be less stares for Franky, now that they'd had a good show of her chewing on her words in the arena.

If they wanted to wait in the cafeteria until their transport arrived.

“Nah, I'll be outside," responded Franky. And that meant he was going to be outside, too.

They made their way through the main hall, past its ancient, repurposed walls, through the glass facade swinging open in its entirety to let the tigress pass. The frigid evening air washed over Stephen like a wave in summer, cooling the sheen of sweat the heat of the lights had coaxed out of him. The entire thing made him feel like a reheated chicken wing, technically crisp, but actually soggy. He took a deep breath to cool the inside as well as the outside. To convince all the panicky, subconscious bits of him that he was really, truly outside. That it was done. Over with. They did it.

Asphalt gleamed before them like a dark lake in the light of the moon, street, and city. Lots of light to go around. Night was more of a state of mind in the city, but one he often found he preferred.

A sound like someone breaking a thousand sticks of celery jolted him from his meditation. Besides him Franky stretched her arms, arched her back, and tail, and showed a terrifying maw in a yawn. The curl of her tongue was cute, though.

“Christ, that noise is you?" he blurted out.

“Just some sore muscles." She stretched her arms again. There was less sound, but it was still like someone taking an ax to furniture.

Yeah, nothing about her was subtle.

They were silent for a while, looking at the city lights. There was no place for them to sit, so they settled for leaning against a lamp post, Franky bending it one way, Stephen not really the other. Whenever the wind picked up it became evident how cold it truly was, and how truly he wasn't wearing a coat. Nevertheless, the wind seemed to carry the stress from him. And Franky probably needed the cooling more than he did.

“Did we do well?" she asked eventually.

“Jeesh…" was all he could say for a while. “Shit all went so fast. With everything leading up to it, all that stress and nonsense, and then it just went by like that. At least we told them you saved my life, right?"

“Yeah, I guess."

Another moment of silence.

“So… you OK?" he asked. “You know, with the whole just having been on TV thing?"

“It weren't as scary as I thought it'd be. More annoying. Thanks again for talkin' me down, though."

He smirked. She wouldn't see it from up there, but he made sure it carried in his voice. “Told you you'd be fine."

She let out a single barking laugh. “Yeah, well, you had some fire in ya, too. Really shut that union stogie up for a second."

Stogie. That was a new one. Wasn't that a type of cigar?

“And you had some eloquence going, there. Guess we really learned from each other."

She laughed again. “Asshole."

“Guilty."

They let themselves marinate in the cool night air for another silent few seconds. The entire thing still didn't seem to have coalesced into reality. Maybe it'd be full reality by morning. It could become real sooner, if he'd just turned his phone on. No doubt comments were already rolling in. And that was exactly why he'd leave it off for the rest of the night.

“Franky?"

She acknowledged with something between a grunt and a growl.

“What were you going to say at the end there?"

“Ah shit. I was going to say 'Lady, if you hate the color orange, you might wanna avoid datin' me, but I ain't gonna be less orange'."

Now it was his turn to laugh. Really, he'd planned on a gentle chuckle, but what came out was much more pronounced. Maybe it was the absurdity of it all that left him clutching his sore side as he rid himself of the last few laughs. Or maybe he just needed an excuse to let it out.

“That's pretty good."

“Glad ya liked it," she grinned down at him with all of her sharp teeth. “For what it's worth, I really liked your line about safety. Ya know, 'bout takin' risks and all."

Huh, yeah, that had been a decent line. He hadn't though about it at the time, but it was kind of surprising he'd just thrown that out there with zero planning.

“Thanks."

He looked up at Franky as she casually lounged against the lamp post, lending a small bend to it. The stark lamp light suited her total lack of charm or finesse. A working class model for a harsh world, all muscles, curses, and beer belly. And soft fur, warm eyes, alluring stripes, and cute spot on the nose. He'd thrown himself at that tough facade often enough to soften it up, to make it a welcome sight. And maybe she'd thrown it at him, too. In the least literally.

The chug of a diesel engine closed in on them, headlights sweeping over them as a pope wagon rolled up to them, Franky the obvious calling card for their business.

It came from her, that line. She was his risk.

“Hey, umm, Franky?" Real fucking eloquent.

“Ya?"

“When we get to your place, can I come in for a beer? Unwind a little?"

The light striking from above put her eyes in wells of shadow as she looked down, gold glinting in the dark. Her fangs, and all her other sharp teeth, shone in the night as she widened her black lips in a broad smile.

“Was 'bout ta ask the same."