FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

A wave of gray slush crashed up over the curb, then hung, frozen, an inch from colliding with the young cat.

The businessmen on the corner stared from beneath their dark-brimmed hats. A fox clutched at the fur stole draped around her neck, like she had been frozen in place along with the water. Someone let out a low whistle of amazement.

This was worse than the cell phone.

Today was Celsius's bad day. Number one, it was the twenty-third of December and he'd had a final to take this morning. Come on, you couldn't schedule it any earlier?

Number two, he'd ran out of people to ask to the school's Holiday Bash. Stupid party. He didn't want to ask the cute archaeology major to the party anyway.

Number three, he'd missed his bus stop, and the next stop was all the way down in the historic district, so he'd either have to go to an ATM and get change for the bus fare back, or spend half an hour walking home.

And number four, he was stuck in a time-warp to the Roaring Twenties.

The first clue had been all the hats. Men wore hats like they were going out of style, which was going to be true in about forty years or so.

Then the cars--big as bars, chrome-sleek and lacquered. Between his cell phone crapping out its batteries by searching for service and the strange looks he got with it in his hands, he had figured something was seriously wrong.

Then he saw the skyline. The old buildings, built to gilded specifications, crawling higher than anything else into the sky. Rounded curves and swoops and spires, drafted to bring the city into the twentieth century, were the tallest things in sight. Empire City was shorter, but measured and refined, with the gentle tint of philanthropy.

Celsius had tracked down a newsie, awkwardly passed a penny into the beagle's hand, then took the newspaper he'd been holding. Was that how it worked? No one had taught him how to buy papers from newsies.

"Egypt to Seize Tutankhamun's Tomb," one headline said, accompanied by a woodcut likeness of Howard Carter. "Russian Artists Satirize Soviets," was another, next to a copy of the offending political cartoon.

The date, perched at the top of the page, was December 23, 1922.

Then the car had driven too close to the curb, almost splashed him, and he'd frozen the water solid. It seemed like that had crossed the line. They had been willing to tolerate his messy hair, and the puffy blue jacket and jeans and sneakers that made people wonder whether he was trying to dress like a clown, but the brown cat had definitely crossed a line when it came to openly using his powers.

Celsius wished he had paid more attention in American history. He knew, vaguely, the history of superheros back to the thirties, which was about where the modern 'super' paradigm had begun. Was there still a stigma attached to having powers? Given the stares he was getting, the people around him weren't too thrilled with what he'd done. But they didn't still think supers were witches. Right?

"Sorry," he said.

That didn't help any. He pulled his lips into an apologetic grimace as he let the slush slide back down into its puddle.

Then he started walking. He turned and looked over his shoulder. A white-furred lioness with short-cut curls and a black winter coat was looking at him and walking toward him.

Then Celsius started running.

Tucked into an alley, Celsius sulked behind a fire escape. Though it was cold enough that snow was gently falling, his breath was cold enough to not fog up.

"Somewhere you were trying to get to?" a smooth voice asked. It was the sort of smooth you could no longer get, the kind that had all been bought up decades ago. Here, now, it was still plentiful.

The lioness was right next to him. Celsius flinched. Was she going to take him to an asylum? He didn't know if they still did that. Like hell he was getting needles jammed in his skull. Or, wait. Like hell he was getting needles jammed anywhere, especially his skull!

All the lioness had between her velvet-gloved fingers was a card. Celsius took it, still panting faintly, still dumbstruck.

"Dear Sir or Madam,

You are cordially invited to the Winter Gala, to be held at 1200 Broadway at 4 o' clock on December 23, 1922. This is an exclusive event, and your attendance is highly suggested based on the talents you've displayed. Be a part of the new age of Empire City!

Signed,

Lady Minerva."

When Celsius looked up, the lioness was gone. Did she have powers too? If so, she was his best chance at finding a way out of here.

As he walked out of the alley, hands in his pockets, the brass hands of the bank building's clock read three-thirty. He'd have just enough time to find the place--and then, hopefully, find some answers. Or better, find a way back home.

Celsius slunk outside the music hall. 1200 Broadway, that was what the brass numbers spelled out, but he felt just out of place enough to hang back, watch, wait for someone else to show him the right thing to do.

A car rolled to a stop by the curb. He could make out some motion in the back, behind the thickly tinted windows. Then, after that moment, the driver climbed out, walking through the snow, and opening the rear door. A narrow-muzzled canine with a downturned lip climbed out, briefly flattened his bowtie, then held out his hand for the sleek, white-furred mink, stepping carefully in her heels onto the sidewalk.

Both of them wore masks, hiding the details of their face but for their muzzles. Celsius drew his hand out of his pocket, looking down at his own mask. Theirs were legitimate masquerade-type masks, probably porcelain. His was just the self-sticky Super Supplies-brand mask in Beatemup Blue.

He still needed to get in, and if the dress code was plus-mask, he had no problem with that. After watching the couple walk through the front doors, he left the corner where he'd been waiting, smoothed his mask out over his face, and went in after them.

Celsius paused once inside, taking in the burnished brass grates and simple, 1920's-modern stylings along the walls.

"Excuse me, sir."

Properly trimmed in gold-colored edging, wearing a uniform of muted red, hands folded behind her back, the mare smiled politely at Celsius.

"There's a private party going on, so I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the usher said.

He snapped back to reality and dug the invitation from his pocket.

"There was a lion, she told--" he began.

The mare stiffened and took his invitation. "I'm terribly sorry! I just thought, the way you were dressed...no, terrible of me. Please, this way to the powder room," she said.

With a polite touch of the arm, the usher swept Celsius away, up the stairs and deep into 1200 Broadway.

Celsius smiled and offered a mumbled thanks when the usher left him. This was where he was supposed to be, apparently, so he opened the door and stepped into the powder room. A few well-lit mirrors sat along the opposite wall, worked into the marble with care and gentle curves.

Celsius's eyes slid from the decor to the white wolf in front of one of the mirrors, carefully applying a coat of bluish lipstick. Her ears perked up when Celsius entered, but didn't disturb her neatly styled white hair. Celsius immediately thought of old-timey actresses, but he'd been thinking about black and white movies a lot today.

The wolf's gown swooped around her as she turned, with a faint iridescent shimmer that was matched by her earrings, diamonds dancing like fluttering snow when she moved.

"Hello there!" she said warmly, looking over her reflection's shoulder. "I'm K--oh. Right, no real names," she said from behind her ice-blue mask. "Aurora. And you?"

Celsius slowly walked forward, until his hand rested on the edge of the counter.

"Celsius," he said.

He took a moment to look the wolf up and down. Like the lioness, and like the couple, she was clearly well-off. He wasn't sure if her rings were wedding rings or just 'look at me, I'm rich' rings. It seemed like if you had superpowers back in the twenties, you could make yourself rich...but you still had to hide it. Rich black sheep and wealthy prodigal children.

On top of a crystal plate, cut into muted prisms by the lights shining from above, were a few cookies. They were neatly overlaid in one corner of the plate, and the flecks of crumb spoke to the rest having been eaten already.

He hadn't eaten anything since lunch, had spent the last hour wandering around Empire City's past, and they smelled a little bit like peppermint. Celsius took the snowflake cookie and bit off two of the arms.

"A pleasure to meet you. So your gifts are like mine, then?" she asked.

The wolf caught Celsius's eye, then leaned closer toward the mirror. Her breath hit the glass and flowers of frost swelled out from the point of contact.

A cold shiver whipped around him, not chilling but tingling, like the first step outside on a cold morning without a coat on, letting the cold hit you but not yet feeling it sink down into your skin. Celsius breathed in sharply.

Celsius nodded. "Yeah, I'm ice too...sorry, just...feeling funny."

He pushed his face into his paws. The tips of his hair dangled over his knuckles. Then they dangled just a little further. Then they dangled down to the backs of his palms.

A sharp jolt, like a spike of cold, had thrust itself into Celsius's right temple. His brow throbbed and his eye ached. He sunk down into the chair, leaning against his right arm, rubbing his brow slowly.

Blonde spilled from his bangs. It flowed down and out, in a smooth, ice-gold stream, until it brushed the top of his shoulders. It spread, like dye trickling through snow, inching down through his roots, then pouring down his locks. His hair was growing longer, even outside of the corner where it was rushing toward a silvery blonde.

He pushed his hair away from his eyes, then realized what he had just done.

"I need to go," he said.

Aurora made a quiet noise and barely looked at him, more interested in her rouge.

He rose from the chair and tripped over his own feet. The white rim and toe of his sneakers swelled up toward his ankles. His toes squeezed into the narrowing tip and his feet arched to compensate for the rising heel. Rubber turned firm, then stiff and glossy. His steps were shortened by the height of the heels, coming down with a click far sooner. He tried to walk quickly and the shoe's heels shot out from under his feet. The fastest he could move was through delicate, small steps toward the door.

Blonde seeped down from his hair to his forehead. The shade was different, his hair the silver-gold, while his fur was swept with paler Siamese tan. His hair was heavy on his head, weighing down and pushing whenever he moved. He flicked it behind his shoulders, but it still felt like a burden, dragging against fabric and trailing behind him.

He was halfway across the room. If he got out, maybe the changes would stop? No, it hadn't started when he came in. It was the cookie.

Celsius bit back a desperate moan as his shirt tightened. The chest squeezed in against his own, where a pair of breasts were slowly rising from his slender frame. As they bulged, his shirt swept out larger, keeping a snug hold, but only just. It rode the edge of tightness on out to C-cups while Celsius watched, jaw open.

He had no way to expect what having breasts felt like. When he moved, they shifted. Warm fur brushed against more fur in his cleavage, sliding smoothly with each step. The click of his heels was echoed in the small snap of his breasts, the little bounce that ran all the way down to his stiff, if well-padded, nipples. Each step was an experience with feelings of tightness, taut skin and firm nipples, that he had never experienced. He curled his fingers into fists and raised his arms to try to ease the motion of his breasts, but no matter how daintily he minced, they were determined to wobble.

The neckline plunged, and as it did, the hem of his shirt stretched lower. The material was changing from soft cotton to what might have been silk--Celsius didn't know fabrics, but it had far less stretch to it, and clung to his stomach. It resembled a dress, and a dress cut this carefully, sitting so neatly against his body, had to be tailor-made.

Henniman's. Why had that name popped up in his head? It was a tailor's shop, and they had dresses like this and oh fuck, why did he know that? Maybe he'd seen it on the way. He really hoped he'd just seen it today. But if that was true, then why did he know that they had some of the most skilled seamstresses this side of Empire City? Agh, damn it, he needed to stop thinking about his dress--er, his shirt!

With his shirt draping over his pants, the thick denim was thinning out. Threads tightened and shrunk and grew smoother, losing the blue wash that gave the denim its color and instead blanching to pure white. The feel of rough fabric against his fur changed and filtered into something softer, something that slid with the motions of his legs as he moved, which clung to the shape of his legs and told him within an eighth of an inch how thick his hips were getting.

Stockings.

Celsius realized his pants were becoming stockings. He reached down with his claws and dug them into the weave, but a sudden flutter rose up in his chest. He was going to put a run in his stockings if he kept doing that with his claws! He needed to take them out right now.

He let go of his stockings. Where the hell was his will power? His hands made another move, grabbing the drooping hem of his shirt--which was flowing down thicker, more finely stitched, far more of a dress--but he couldn't grab at his stockings for fear that he might damage them. Damaging them was exactly what he wanted to do, but his subconscious wouldn't let him destroy a pair of fine stockings he'd bought just the other--arrggh!

Aurora was out of reach, sitting in front of the mirror and patting the tip of her nose with a dusky powder to give it a glistening, wet look.

"Help!" Celsius gasped.

Spreading his lips made him feel the new weight they had, soft and lush and more suited to the sweetened sound of his voice.

"Not until you've finished changing, dear," Aurora said.

His fists clenched in anger and his whole upper body flexed like he wanted to punch her...but he wasn't strong to begin with, and the changes were sweeping any strength left in him away, leaving him with a softer, more pliable feeling. He was more limber, as if that was any consolation for learning he was growing weaker.

Celsius could count the underthings fluffing up beneath his growing pastel blue dress. Panties, garter belt, petticoat--he glanced down in surprise, catching a glimpse of white frill before the dress swelled over it, poofing out gently to make his hips look wider. He was three-quarters of the way to the door. Each step made his dress swing back and forth, weighing on the petticoat, pressing inward, squeezing against his waist.

The chill tingle, the liminal feeling of cold, trailed through the fabric of the panties. Celsius bit his soft lip. Things were shifting in ways they were never meant to, organs sliding and rearranging, spreading, pushing gently against his hips for space.

Celsius's jacket shrunk upwards as its hem dissolved into lace, losing its fluffiest padding and redirecting the rest. The dark blue stretched over his shoulders, trimmed with a ruffled edge of lace, and puffing up round and soft and dainty. His shirt, stretching down beneath the jacket-blouse, poured its sleeves along the cat's arms, just behind the wave of blonde washing over him.

Celsius had stopped walking and now stood still. He kicked at the sides of his shoes, tugged at his stockings, and tried to peel off the gloves that enveloped his hands. Getting out wasn't going to help. This wasn't stopping. And he couldn't damage all this fine silk that he'd paid nearly a hundred dollars for! God damn it, that wasn't--

His thoughts burst. A rush of tightness, of aching, filling, heavy growing cut straight through what he had been thinking and it all spilled down into his chest.

With fingers trapped inside velvet gloves, Celsius grasped his still-growing bosom, now complete with a plunging cut. His hips knocked backward suddenly, like a switch had been thrown in his thighs. Chest thrust forward, ass thrust back, she felt the change like a warm, swollen ache between her soft hips.

Blonde was winning out over brown in her hair, as only the lowest layers still held onto their dark pigment. Each step she took, it was getting lighter. She was walking again. Not toward the door, but back toward Aurora. She knew what was going on.

Aurora, you've got to help me!

"Miss Aurora, do you think you could help me?" she asked.

I look like a girl!

"I look like some girl who doesn't know a thing about makeup. This is all wrong," Celsius huffed, gesturing toward her face.

I know you know what's going on. Fix me!

"Could you...fix my makeup? I know you're fantastic at it," she said, as sweetly as she could.

Nothing was coming out of her mouth right. She wanted to reach out and grab Aurora, but her body no longer responded to what she wanted. She felt the memories running through her mind like a river, always present but never the same twice. She wasn't going to be turned into some high-class nouveau riche. She was old money, damn it!

Aurora lifted the mask from Celsius's face. She glanced at it, set down on the counter beside her. The color bleached out of it like all the rest, dark blue fading to light as its edges blossomed with patterns of snowflakes. The cheap rubber stiffened. It had been fired in a kiln and glazed and sculpted delicately just right to fit on Celsius's face. She knew this, and she also knew it was entirely wrong.

"You're just the sort of girl Minerva needs more of. An example of why we gifted are the rightful captains of industry in this new world. Young, confident... and looking for a man?" Aurora said, raising her delicately arched eyebrows.

A tingle preceded a giggle slipping out of Celsius's throat. She nodded, even though she most certainly was not looking for a man. She'd lived on her own thanks to her gift, and she didn't need a man to...wait, wasn't this wrong...somehow?

"You'll have your pick of every gifted man at the gala," Aurora said, winking, "once I'm through with you."

Aurora brushed her eyes with a powder to match her masquerade mask, then brought out her lips with a bit of pink, and thickened her lashes and dusted her cheeks while all the white Celsius tried to remember why she wanted to get away from the bubbly, rich wolf.

"Oh, please," Celsius purred. "I'm sure I'll hook some women, too."

Once Aurora had topped off her work with a pair of pearl earrings, Celsius held her own chin between her fingers and looked herself up and down, from mascara to neckline, in the mirror.

"Excellent work, madam!" Celsius said.

She tried to ignore the shouting coming from the back of her mind.

"Shall we go together?" Aurora asked, offering her hand. The wolf's larger hand, sans glove but adorned with two silver rings, slipped into Celsius's palm and held on gently.

They've got cars big as bars

They've got rivers of gold

But the wind blows right through you

It's no place for the old

When you first took my hand

On that cold Christmas Eve

You promised me Broadway

Was waiting for me