FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I woke up in the first half-year in a sickly daze and nearly vomited on my black-furred chest.

The heat of the summer air swept through the open window, breathing what little life could be brought into my hungover corpse. I heard the roar of the street sweepers clean up the refuse of the New Year's celebrations, the figurative signs that said, "New Year, New Pallwell," the adamant refusal of the continuum all of us Hastark lived in. Or it was part of the continuum to refuse it. That was why everything stayed the same, despite the new year. It was all part of a cycle.

A smell of alcohol carried upon the wind. My breath.

My head, a font of pain and anguish. My body, insufferably nauseous. My mouth, left ajar from drinking until I fell asleep. I couldn't wish this pain on anyone else. But I lived through it as if I wished it upon myself out of self-hatred. I got out of bed and stood up. Bottles rolled off the blanket and onto the floor. One shattered, splintering into enormous claws of glassy material that slathered the floor with drink. One shot over in front of my foot. I saw my face.

The same mug as always, with bloodshot eyes and a tired, droopy right lid, all under the red and white fur of my cheeks, the black chest and black legs and arms and hints of my orange back, greeted me. One of the few red-pandesque in the entire city. It made me wonder if that's why my parents moved up here. To be 'unique.' I didn't care, though, that life itself was miserably 'unique'. I wanted something enjoyable that morning instead of painful anguish.

Something from my brother, Monroe. I wondered how he went that morning.

My brother wasn't like me, and I knew his morning well. He was a raccoon-phenotype man about my height, with similar white spots and an otherwise gray fur with a masklike marking around his eyes. But unlike people who looked like that, he led a completely different life. Monroe liked to keep his fur near his skin and didn't drink himself to where he suffered. He didn't drink at all, if ever. Instead, Monroe woke up at three after Guard-Change every day, went to bed as soon as the sun set, whenever it did so. He loved his life and would message me every morning as soon as he woke.

It was around that time when I checked my visor's clock. It needed a charge; it wouldn't turn on.

I hated this. I hated this so much.

I kicked the glass shard under the bed, regretting that action since I could step on it, but I ultimately didn't care. I grabbed my work clothes, flung them over my shoulder, and headed to the shower room next to the spiral stairwell. A few bottles greeted me on the way out--of course, they would--and one fell down the spiral staircase. Too many were in this house. I had a problem, but I had no solution.

I saw myself in the shower room mirror, placing my visor on its charging port. It would take a few minutes. I left it as I entered the shower itself. A rejuvenating oiling of the skin, a scent dusting, a wire comb to pull stray hairs out. A soap wash to get excess oil off and a running of the shower, heated with summer heat. It came hot; it came comfortably. I liked it hot, though it turned the skin on my nose redder than my fur. Spirits on soil did it help my hangover, though I needed something to sate my stomach--and my headache.

Out of the shower, a pat-down, a combing. A run-through with the bag trimmer and it came out as a perfect middle height fur. How we kept clean before the greatness of modern barber tools I didn't know. I knew little of anything anymore. The hairs came half a thumb thick with the setting I liked. I liked my fur, damn it all, and it looked clean, presentable, ready for the day, and totally without a hangover. Got dressed, took another five minutes when including the stumbling and the spinning world around me. The process took thirty minutes to make me appear to anyone who I was not - a waste of life.

"H-Hilda, ugh," I said to my visor's AI. The words came so much harder after a night of drinking. "Check my messages."

"No new messages," the custodian AI said.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "What about Monroe?"

"Last message from Monroe," it said. "Seven-fifteen Post-day-change. Message reads, 'Can't wait to see the picture tonight!' End message."

We had watched a movie the night before. I picked up Monroe around then. But that was less than nine hours ago. Now wasn't then, and I wanted answers now.

"Call Monroe," I said.

"Place the visor on for best experience," Hilda said.

It still had half a charge. Best to wait and leave it I decided. There were things to do in a morning. Things to set right, such as your waking meal and a drink of water. I got the water straight from the tap in the kitchen room, after heading down the stairs.

I noticed another window laid open. It was surprised no one robbed me. My A/C bill would end up outrageous and rob me instead, I figured, since I also heard the quiet whispers of the air vents.

I went to work on my breakfast. On the stove, I cooked brined banzin slices. People all over Prakot went crazy for banzin, and it came cheap in the store. I bought them out of necessity. Breakfast came with a running oil covering, an edible and clean oil instead of the scented inedible goodness I rubbed on myself. A bit of beet sugar, some spiced peppers. All sizzled in the pan, all served on a plate, finished in -- again -- thirty minutes. The heat from the pan warmed my face, and it felt pleasant.

I could have gone to work then to HaltShift. I usually did. But, then again, my head liked to remind me that autopilot was the only thing it allowed. No smiles, no happiness, just pain and process. First part of the process: getting rid of the pain. I stared at my meal, at the light pink of the cooked slabs all starchy and fruity. The red and green chilies around the plate placed to keep my sanity. My head throbbed.

"Fuck, my head," I said. "Spirits on soil."

I headed back upstairs, fully cleaned, groomed, and in pain. I checked my charge in the bathroom. It was full. Ready to call my brother. I placed it upon my head through a leather grip, wrapping around the right ear around my hind-head. I had forgot I wore the grip to bed on accident. The visor had a cup to connect to on the grip's backside that doubled as its charging port. How it was watertight I couldn't figure out, because if I didn't wear it properly it could easily break, such as leaving it in the rain. It gripped my right eye like goggles and I pressed it into place. The lens glowed green then clear. The UI opened. I pulled up my brother's contact through a fling of my right hand to scroll, a flick of my right ear, a pinch of my lip in anxiety.

Then there was my brother. My brother took his photo with his phone, an older piece of tech that he had a fondness for. It reminded him of the "good old days" when people were more religious, though he skimmed over the fact they weren't his religious people. He had his Daojin hat on, which he wore with his monk garb, complimenting his gray fur. He wore it as part of his religious practicing license, which he abused to teach Spiritism. I found it funny. He took a southern religion from a southern family but was an adopted northerner. And then, with the gallon hat of Daojin, a nationalist symbol of the Prakoti, he walked contradiction. But he was my brother, and I loved him.

"Hey, Monroe," I said, prepping myself for a four in the pre-change call. "How are you, buddy? Did I wake you up? Just checking on ya."

I paused.

"Ready to send?" Hilda asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Message failed to send," Hilda said.

"What the moon? You're going to send that message, right? Send it again."

"Message sent... Message failed to deliver," it said a moment later.

I grumbled. "Bring up written texts."

The text log between Monroe and I pulled up. The last message went to my brother, not me. My message, the transcript recording, sat in the failed to receive state. The message before that said, "Putting off the paper for tonight. Need to send early tomorrow." He used his phone to write and send messages, his paper included. As I went downstairs I rubbed the front of my head, partially to soothe the pain I felt from not just the drinking. Though with food, that aspect faded. I clenched my jaw, biting down on my incisors. It hurt, pushing my teeth around with the pressure. But all I wanted was for Monroe to be okay. He needed his phone to write, and with if off...

"Hilda, start up the Chili-mobile-" I groaned. What was once funny was now degraded to mind-numbing dumbness. "-I'm headed to Monroe's place."

"Okay, Jack," Hilda responded. Outside over the light hum of the cleaners, I heard the engine roar.

"And close the inside windows as well," I said. Sliding windows accompanied. A few clicks of locks. The house's windows closed, and hopefully, it trapped the bill.

"Confirmed," Hilda said.

I headed outside. The only thing I didn't trust the AI to lock, my front door clicked shut with a physical key I pulled from my wallet. I patted myself down, saw my polo, my pants, the shoes...everything was ready for work. But I needed to check on Monroe just in case.

The 'Transporters', also known as 'cars' basically everywhere else but Prakot, used treads instead of wheels. Why on Polk and the moon above the locals preferred treads only Monroe could tell, given his historical zeal. But I hated them. So many moving parts, all for nostalgic patriotism. Disgusting to an engineer, though they were admittedly cool. My transporter was a light green, so I had called it my Chili-mobile. Fitting, honestly, because it had all the spice and none of the flavor. And having its name in my mouth burned. That, too.

The transporter blustered airflow from the vents, bringing a pleasant breeze into my fur. The hair on my head fluttered about and blustered in the gale. My shorter fur held its ground, but the coolness caught. I turned it down. The engine blew warmth instead.

"Whatever, you bastard," I said and planned with Hilda to get to Monroe's place.

Monroe living in the forest always confused me. He lived in the oldan portion, where they mined the trees for transporter-fuel and other material. Drills rang out from every side of the forest on a good day. The stuff they mined from them flowed like honey but smelled like sulfur and used for oldaline, the fuel that makes transporters and cars operate. Including the issues with having near-combustible material surrounding your home, I thought my brother was crazy because of living there. The fact he built his house out of the wood was another issue entirely.

I looked to the Pallwell, the ancient fountain standing up in the middle of the small city. It stood valiantly to time itself, being there since I was born, likely to be there when I died. It brought me great comfort to see the water flow and to know we still didn't know where those pillar-like objects came from. Some mystery stayed with us, at least. And the lights glowed on it, beacons shining to illuminate the face. It was dark outside, the only other thing I could see being the lights of a few other thin-homes and my place. There, though, I felt peace, for the warmth of the air and the light of the stars brought an easing to my pain. The city was lovely; the country was horrid.

The transporter's engine continued to rumble, ready to move. I went. Though it was more like Hilda went. She had the directions to get to Monroe's place; I had the will to get there. We worked together.

There was still the distance to the forest. It sat on the crater's edge of Pallwell Heights, behind the Pallwell itself. One could make out the crater's edge from here even in this darkness, where the buildings no longer held shape and the stars no longer held light. I continued to watch the sky as we reached the inner loop next to the small lake in the city's center. The municipality had trawled the bottom of the lake in order to build the inner loop. It didn't poison the well to dig around it. As a town we were lucky, digging like that poisoned other wells. The road itself had people walk on the innermost portion, facing the buildings and crossing into underground parking lots. I saw no one out. It was four past Guard-Change, what did I expect. As such, I was the only car on the road. For a few minutes, anyway.

"Hilda, call Monroe." The connection rang.

It didn't connect. Was he not up yet? He had to get work done soon.

On the topic of work, People must work to maintain a city. There was so much effort in staying alive that I found it unbelievable. I had to work hard at my job and got paid six thousand shellacks a year. It was poverty to live on four thousand a year. But these people still worked, these Hastarks of various types. The fennecs that were abundant and the various other fox-types. The wolf-people, my family and other immigrants, the raccoon-people, and other Prakoti nationals. All of us worked hard to keep the city alive and running for another day. So did thousands of other cities and towns. It was hard work to keep a populace around.

This line of thought was why I nearly gasped when someone didn't try their part and instead sped past me on the wrong side of the road on the shoulder, breaking all the rules of the civilization we so desperately built. The poor driver clearly didn't let his assistant drive for him, or he had a terrible one. One's not supposed to pass on the right since that's too close to the motorcycle lane. It didn't help that there were four young adults on trackcycles, all four in proper motorcycle plastic-leather attire, using the wrong lane as well on the innermost side, coming too close to his transporter in the shoulder instead of their designated lane.

Hilda recorded it all. The handlebars, long and well past the hands, scraped the door of the person passing me, sparks flying from the rubbing together and metal screeching in unhampered anguish. When they did the two swerved apart. Thank goodness for engineering principles at work, at the cost of simplicity. I took control of the Chili-mobile and brought it to a stop. It swerved to the side. The four kids stopped as well, slowing to a crawl. The other car drove off out of sight.

After parking I got out, stepping onto the treads outside the driver's door. The brakes had laid a small track behind me and so did theirs. Two of them were tigers, one was a bear, another a rabbit. All natives to Prakot, though not to Pallwell County, making me the odd one out. They looked young. I guessed a half-decade under my age of thirty half-years--or five years to my fifteen years.

The one who caused the sparks, the bear, had a funny face and a rounder body. His eyes slid into odd positions, although only barely noticeable, and his maw was flatter than normal. Despite that, he talked with training, his words calculated as he exclaimed to his friends, "I'm not dead!"

I could tell he was a dredge, though he worked excruciatingly hard to get his body to work with himself. In some ways he and I had a kinship, being outsiders. Except he rode with friends and I was mostly alone.

The others approached me as I walked to them. "Hey, man," the rabbit said. "We were following him. He was-"

"Are all of you alright?" I asked.

The bear nodded, his jowls flapping a bit. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not dead!"

"What're your names? Did you know you guys were on the shoulder?"

The two tigers crossed their arms. I must have phrased it wrong.

"You won't rat us out, right?" said the male of the two, bulkier in the chest than his tiger friend.

"His father's an enforcer," said the tiger-girl, and she pointed to the bear-man. "He can't get in trouble."

It surprised me they all worried about things other than their own safety. The one with the hardest time had it all together emotionally compared to the others. Although he had visions of sadness written over his face, the tear line still visible on his cheek fur and under his driving goggles.

"I won't rat you out," I said. "I'm too busy checking in on my brother."

"Oh, where?" the Bear-Man asked.

"The oldan forest," I said. "Why do you ask?"

All four paused. The first to speak was the rabbit-boy, who took off his helmet. I noticed he was the only one wearing a helmet of any value. The other helmets had ear holes. His helmet didn't and it protected them from tearing off. "We just came from there," he said. "We hang out there all the time. Traffic's terrible. Why would anyone live in there?"

"Richard?" asked the bear-boy. "Do you think that-"

"No, VanMarco," Richard said. "It's not. We're okay, sir. We'll get his father to come help us."

I nodded and drove off. The way out of the crater involved a long-sloping road. Many exits trailed off its side like branches of a tree. They connected to rim houses and went to the middle ring before sloping flat to the inner circle. A mural of two famous figures, Jawein and Khistos, covered the sides.

I passed by the city's once-fishery, the Gibbon's Hand. The Gibbon's hand had plenty of transporters run into it and the trucks that once loaded it. Now a giant multi-company bar, like a mall for drunkards, it had the perfect position for all the metropolitan losers to get drunk with the least travel.

"Text Monroe," I said to Hilda.

"Message unable to send," she said.

No way. "Did he turn it off? Could you check, Hilda?"

"Cannot check state of non-visors," the robot said.

I sighed and slumped in my chair. This would be a disaster if he didn't get his paper done.

The forest sat on the direct path of the main highway. It was to the benefit of those living inside the crater to not go this path: Too many out-of-town weirdos and miners came through the woods. To find that young adults regularly hung out there made even less sense. But sometimes life made little sense, for Monroe lived there after all. The ceramic road of compressed sand rustled the Chili-mobile as I drove through. The smell of agitated iron dust kicked up. It smelled like pool water and blood. I hated it. I didn't know how Monroe handled it.

The drive took a few more minutes until I came upon his home's path along the highway. Made of gravel, like my front yard, the path slipped off from the highway road and turned until perpendicular. He owned the whole path, though it was clear some folks disturbed the gravel and the dust in it. Paths led around the trees, drillers looking for a way to turn around. That's what I assumed. His house, shrouded by trees and made up of the same wood, announced itself with a lamppost illuminating his bungled car. He used both as a prop for acting like a southerner since lampposts were first used in the south and his car couldn't work anymore. The parts were too expensive due to import taxes. Cars came from the south and were therefore luxuries to some northern states, like Prakot. They turned terribly but could go faster than any speed I could imagine.

What bothered me, though, was the trash left outside. I knew he hadn't left trash there before. Bottles upon bottles upon bottles.

Alcohol.

"Shit, what did he do?"

I unstrapped my seatbelt, stepped out of the transporter again, landing in the dust with a puff upward. It smelled awful, but that's what the oldan trees liked. The trees made better oldaline when they were happier, Monroe explained to me once. I knew botany but never focused on commercial environmentalism. I was an environmental engineer by profession, but I focused on the structures and not the finer details. All I knew was its metallic nature and its stench.

The door in my brother's place had to be locked if he was asleep. I had a key--and by key, I meant my Hilda could unlock it.

"Hilda?" I asked. "Please unlock the door."

"Door already unlocked," it said.

I tried the door again. It jammed previously but moved to my push the second time. I heard glass break and more bottles shuffle. New Year's drinks across the floor. And not to mention the other horrors I saw inside. It was an unkempt disaster--even when compared to my home. Trash, rather papier mâché at that point with the spills, laid all around the floor. I heard the television static along with the reverberations, telling me about its broken state. Bottles, again, everywhere. Something spilled from underneath the door and into the outer dust, clumping it. The door slid less, but it opened. I went inside.

Monroe had slathered the black oldan walls in the red dust. Some Legalist symbols from the Prakoti religion marked the walls, a tilted scale with equal weights. Hate symbols, probably for a presentation Monroe planned--but he had a paper. Some pornographic acts played on his computer instead of solace in music and the calming allure of a finished paper. He forgot. He forgot hard. But he didn't drink. Did he forget that, too? Did he embrace himself in sin, like he said he never would?

"Monroe!" I shouted. "Wake up! You've got a paper to do. Let's go, buddy."

No response. He had to have been asleep in the next room. The sizzling television sat in the way, facing a couch on the other end. But I couldn't see the couch with how many drinks were on it. He really messed up this time. How did he even drink that much in one night?

"Monroe?" I asked, heading into his room. "Are you okay-"

His door stopped too, hitting something. His bed empty. The bathroom door underneath his bed was closed. The lights were on. Where could he be?

I closed the door.

Monroe's body slumped from behind it.

My eyes took in all they could. He had his outdoor clothing on, a thin coat and pants, the same clothes from when he went out last night. His face, with the black and gray marks on his fur that gained him the moniker of raccoon, held atrocious panic all over. From where his hands were, where his claws were, they tried in vain to claw the thing around his neck off. He seemed to still gasp for air. People in shock act randomly, something I did in that moment. Instead of calling for help or my parents, I parted the fur around his neck where it crimped.

Panic set in. An orange zip-tie pulled tight around his neck kept his throat strangled. The zip-tie still had a price tag on it. Someone bought this. Had Monroe bought this? I bought some once, but they were tools! They were-- I stared again. Monroe was dead.

The person I grew up with for my entire existence was now dead.

I shook, felt nauseous. I ran outside, closed both doors behind me. Monroe killed himself. Why would he kill himself? I didn't know. I couldn't answer. I bawled, screamed at near-five past Guard-Change as the sun rose, the night sky an early blue. It would bring the world of our planet warmth and comfort, but all I could feel was the inner pits of freezing despair.

As if I had frostbite I no longer felt my hands. They shook as if searching for warmth within this world. My brother, the one I grew up with, the one I went to college with, my best friend--was dead. The worst of it all was that my mind came up with an answer. I thought Monroe killed himself. Zip-ties were supposed to come off. They had to. He let himself die it seemed and came to regret it. I wailed, but for how long I couldn't tell.

Something caught my attention after I calmed somewhat. humming coming from behind the house. I had convinced myself I lost it. There was no way. It was Monroe's voice, humming a tune otherworldly. It was all a giant joke. He was okay after all. I ran out the door, went outside.

Turning around the corner towards Monroe's toolshed was an ethereal form of Monroe himself. The only thing I for truth was that it wasn't Monroe.

"Hey there," the ghost said. "I'm Pzyko. Puh-zai-koh, like that."