FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Back in 1995, a certain Satoshi Tajiri had just returned from a place that could only be described as indescribable. It was populated by humans, of course, but not just humans, and not just your typical run-of-the-mill animals, either. These animals were different. They were superpowerful. They were intelligent. And, unlike the animals known today to the average reader like you, they were willing and knowing partners to humans. It was a surreal, almost magical place that Satoshi just had to tell others about. That's how he ended up in such trouble.

"So, you're Satoshi Tajiri, are you?" harshly asked a tall man in a suit to the Japanese man sitting across from him, taking his own chair on the other side of the interrogation table now.

"Yes," answered the translator beside the interrogator bitterly after a translator having translated the interrogator's question into Japanese and retranslating the response.

"Mr. Tajiri, make no mistake. The American government can make you disappear. Can make you seem like you never existed. We're ready, willing, and able to make that happen. We don't want that to have to happen, though," prepared the nameless interrogator, leaning in now, "which works out well because it doesn't have to happen."

The translator relayed this and the response, which was, "Save the games. I don't like games. I want to know why your goons brought me here."

"You don't like games, Mr. Tajiri?" chuckled the American inquisitor, "Forgive me; considering your profession, it seems comically ironic that you don't like games.You know, I've had every console Nintendo has ever developed since-"

"What do you want?" Satoshi gruffly interrupted.

The American scowled, but quickly realized his mistake and reattained his friendly smile. "You're a man of action, are you? Don't like to waste time? Like to get straight to the point? Well, that's fortunate for the both of us, as there's no need to make this more uncomfortable than it needs to be. Here it is, Mr. Tajiri: we -the American government, that is- find it... prudent... that your 'discovery' remain on low for a while. Until people are ready enough to fully understand what the possibilities could mean. Does that sound reasonable, Mr. Tajiri?" Of course that was a total lie, but lying is what he got paid to do.

Satoshi, instead of being intimidated, was far from it. On the contrary, he smirked knowingly. The interrogator knew what this meant. He was going to try and negotiate. He really hated negotiations. The captive Japanese man fired off some rapid Japanese which was translated into, "Surely, Mr. American, sir," in a sarcastic tone, "you can't think this is something I can merely keep quiet on. I can try, oh, I can try... but keeping secrets has never been my strong suit. I'm oh so prone to accidental slips of the tongue. If only I had a sort of, I don't know, incentive to take extra care of what I say."

"Mr. Tajiri, let me remind you that we are not inexperienced at making people we don't like vanish into thin air," warned the American, "So we are under no obligation at all to concede anything to you. Let's be open; you will die, and all record of your existence will vanish without a trace if you do not cooperate. If you see sense, however, you'll be free to go back to your video game developing job, where I personally will be waiting with bated breath to see what your company comes up with next."

Satoshi wasn't fooled; he knew he was the one really in control. "You can make me disappear sir. But you cannot repair whatever damage I do by speaking out."

The interrogator really hated it when the interrogated try to play this card. It meant they were smarter than they looked. And, their was only counter for it... and it doesn't always work. "Mr. Tajiri, surely you aren't implying that you would put your life and legacy on the line for the sake of sharing what will be seen as the tales of a madman."

The smirk of Satoshi grew while he confirmed, "That is exactly what I'm implying, Mr. American sir. Now, the reality is that you're not going to keep me quiet. I'm a horrible secret-keeper. But, I can distort some facts, change the story up a bit... say, pretend it's merely a story or... oh, I don't know... a video game pitch."

Everybody knows the story from here, even if not all the details. A year later, Satoshi Tajiri went to Nintendo and pitched the idea based on what he saw: a game of kids and their pocket-kept monster beings side-by-side with dreams of grandeur and on a personal journey of self-discovery. The upper brass of the company was thrilled by the possibility of the idea, particularly due to some very explicit details Satoshi added in, and put resources towards its development. Eventually, it was released to the world with the name Pocket Monsters. Or, for short...

Pokemon.

Ironically enough, the USA ended up becoming one of the places where this game and anime became the most popular. A great many young children and even no shortage of adults were eager to stick the first Pokemon games into their Game Boys and dive into the world of Pokemon. Our protagonist was neither those children nor those men. At the time of Pokemon's creation, he was no more than a developing embryo in the womb of his mother. Soon enough, though, as soon as he was old enough to understand the concept, he was hooked on the games and show, which unbeknownst to nearly all was based directly off of Satoshi Tajiri's own adventures...

Hey, how's it going? Yeah, I know what you're thinking: "This journal seems pretty empty. This part looks interesting, though." Well, person who has now invaded my privacy, you would be right. My guess is that this and all future parts of this little journal from here out will likely be very interesting to say the least. Maybe it doesn't start out that way, but it is. Really. Truly. I swear. Since you've already invaded the privacy of some fifteen-year-old, you really don't have much to lose by reading on, now do you?

Eh, I'm just messing with you a little. If I've lost this thing for any reason at all, I kind of deserve to have it read. Just don't blame me for whatever I end up getting you involved in.

Anyway, how are you doing? I guess that's irrelevant since you can't answer me, but my understanding is that it's a decent ice-breaker. Now that the tension has been cleared up, my guess is you'll want to know just whose journal you're perusing anyway. Well, in case you were too lazy to read the name on the cover, I'll tell you once more that my name is Kyle Skube (pronounced like Scooby-Doo): top athlete, charmer of females, and straight-A high school sophomore.

Yeah, right.

No, the reality is that I can't play sports, have never been on a date, and get mostly C grades along with the occasional D. Now, you likely view me as a talentless loser, so let me clear that up. In addition to being Element's bass guitar player, I'm a wiz at chess and acting. As well, I'm Element's primary songwriter, not that such concerns you since we're a nobody band as of yet. But we'll make it big someday.

Now you're thinking, "This isn't interesting at all!" But it is, my friend. Just stick with it.

When things got interesting was yesterday, early December. Where they got interesting was out in the country, a pretty rural but somewhat suburban road just a small ways out from Raleigh, North Carolina, USA, Earth. Trust me; that last part was necessary. Few cars pass through here, so when TV and video games, namely Pokemon (which in this situation is quite coincidental), cease to amuse me, I'll unfold my scooter and glide up and down the street between the cul-de-sac at one end and about halfway into some woods where pavement turns into gravel at the other. The day before yesterday, I wasn't at all disappointed to hear that work was to be done on the gravel, since a fully paved road was sure to make things easier. At the same time, it wasn't to conceivably interfere with my scooter run.

Riding to the cul-de-sac is fun, but not too fun; it's uphill from my house, meaning that I can't just coast in that direction. It's necessary to keep kicking off of the street with a rapid rhythm just to keep my low-tech vehicle moving. It isn't a super steep climb; I just lack an electric scooter.

Turning around in the cul-de-sac and switching directions, now that's the fun part. From there, gravity does its job and does it well. From there, I can coast down the road at what feels like very high speeds. I can even get so fast that kicking off gives me more friction than forward thrust, actually slowing me down. Just for fun, I'll pull the occasional stunt as I glide downhill. Nothing really fancy, though. Just an occasional bunny hop, which at high speeds and with the high height that strong legs can attain feels just like flying. When I get enough height, I try to twist the footboard around in a complete circle beneath me. Once in a while, I even succeed.

Yesterday in particular I had a need for speed, though, so I avoided all that. I just wanted to feel like I was outstripping the whole rest of the world. I was, too, in my own mind. The problem? I came within half of a hair's width ro running straight into a barricade that blocked off the bit of the road that led into the wooded area. As it did happen, I slipped between two barricades and shouted, "Sorry!" hastily back to the poor road worker who had to dive out of the way to avoid being run over. I'd passed into a road work zone, though... or, at least, that's what the signs indicated... which is a little odd, since there were no tools or construction vehicles in sight.

The observant onlooker would see that things were really weird, though, when a small ride in yielded not more laborers, but instead some guys and women in fancy suits. Me, I say that someone wearing a suit outside of a worship building, courtroom, or white-collar job is not to be trusted. Granted, you can't really trust them either, but you can at least trust them a little more. Wait, that's a contradiction. Whatever, you get it.

Anyway, it did bother me, but I was a little too preoccupied with the runaway scooter; it didn't manage to stop before hitting dirt road, at which time it did so briskly, which in turn got it to buck me off like an angry bronco. My elbows are still visibly scraped up. Oh, well. It could have been worse.

Oh, wait. It was.

"Stay down, kid!" commanded a suit as he and another drew nasty-looking pistols from inside their coats.They didn't appear to be pointed at me, though. When a shot was fired, I squinted my eyes in fear, but it seemed that nobody was on that bullet's receiving end, as I was not hit and heard no cry of pain.

Next thing I know, I'm being yanked up to my feet, bear hugged with my arms bound against some huge guy's body and what felt like a knife at my throat. Adding to this, I was made to face two suits who didn't see the merits of lowering their guns.

"Put the guns down!" demanded he who was apparently not my savior but my captor. Well, crap.

You know what one of those asshole suits did next? He shot at me! The son of a bitch shot at my captor and me! I kind of hope he's the one reading this so I can teach this guy the first rule of hostage situations: the guy with the meat shield always wins. Let him. Thankfully, his partner had some sense and threw her arm in front of him. My guess is he was some rookie, as his shot was also deplorable, apparently.

A sort of standoff, staredown ensued for the next minute or so, and the whole time my heart was making a desperate attempt to escape the situation by thrusting itself into my ribs, trying to break right through them. I wasn't able to get a look at my captor for that time, as my chin was lifted in order for that blade to have perfect access to my teenage neck.

I was forced to take a step backward when the guy holding me did. And another. And another. I'm not sure if I should be relieved or pissed by the fact that the suits did not show an indication of following, though at the time the bigger concern to me was what in hell I'd just stumbled into. Ten steps later we'd left the road and had passed a couple of trees, but the armed suits didn't budge from their positions. In the end, I was just dragged into the woods by some random guy, and pretty deeply, too, while the other well-dressed people pointed handguns in our general direction.

At some point after a few minutes of me walking in a very uncomfortable position, he finally let us stop, pinned me roughly to a thick tree and stated in a deep, rough voice that almost sounded like an animalistic growl, "I'm sorry." Whoa. That is not what I was expecting to hear. "I'm sorry I had to do that. You shouldn't have been forced to get involved in this. Believe me, the less you know, the better. Go home, , and pretend this never happened."

I was shoved very hard away while my attacker(?) fled with his tail between his legs almost literally. I say that because while it wasn't between his legs, I got a quick glimpse of a tail before he disappeared as I turned around as swiftly as I could manage to see who it was that was not running away from me. Now, I want to know what it was.

Whatever the heck it is that I apparently shouldn't have been forced to get involved in and the less I know about which, the better, it's too late to fix anything. It looks like I'll be spending my weekend trying to find out what's really going on down the street, because suits, guns, and inhuman hostage takers don't scream "road work" to me. Lucky you. You get to just read my next entry. Me, I not only have to wait for the information to present itself whenever it does, but I have to actively search for it.

And I will find it.