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"Unnatural Tendencies" - Chapter 1

By: Ty the Fox

I am cursed.

_ If I admitted that to a random stranger, I'd probably just get a raised eyebrow and perhaps a mistrustful stare. I wouldn't blame them; by most accounts, I live a gilded life. I'm the lead guitarist for a metal band and enjoy all the perks associated with a free lifestyle on the road: seeing the world, devoting my life to performing the music I love, having an active nightlife, meeting thousands of adoring fans, having no lasting ties to anyone or any place...I could go on. It's a great job. I'm also a real gym rat, pursuing my own physical fitness to an almost obsessive degree, and that lends itself to its own perks; namely, I get laid. A lot. Case in point: It's early Friday morning, I'm currently lying down naked in someone else's bed in someone else's apartment, and that someone else (a deliciously cute and slender arctic fox) is just strumming his guitar and humming softly, no doubt still on the emotional high I'd given him last night. I clear my throat and he looks at me, eyes warm and adoring. He wants me. And I want him._

_ So then, how am I cursed? It's because even now, with this wonderful, warm, sensual being desiring me in the most intimate way, I can't think about the joy of the oral sex about to ensue. Instead, I'm consumed by my own twisted, perverse desire: to swallow this fox whole and alive, cutting his life short as he slowly suffocates and digests away inside my stomach._

How did things get so far?

Well, this desire - no, need - began simply as a morbid curiosity. As a young pup, I had a certain fascination with the act of eating; stomach-rubbing, burping, swallowing, and the like appealed to me in a visceral, indescribable way. I used to artificially gorge myself when my parents weren't paying attention, pushing myself to eat past the limit of comfort simply to bask in the feeling of satiety. Afterwards, I'd watch and rub over my noticeably distended middle, allowing the sweet symphony of sounds it emitted to lull me to sleep while I digested my meal. And then there were the television programs. So many children's cartoons place characters in situations in which they are harmlessly eaten alive or force-fed immense quantities of food or liquid. The net effect of these scenes is the same: a character's stomach would swell to an absurd, comical size. Everyone laughs...except for me. Those scenes were instead deeply affecting for me, so much so that they would play over and over in my head for hours on end. I remember spending whole weekends watching reruns of a show just to try to catch those few, titillating ten-to-fifteen-second stretches. At the time, I was too young to question my behavior, or even think of it as being weird. Something about eating - and eating others - just gave me a kind of pleasant, tingly feeling inside that nothing else could, and naturally I continued to pursue my unusual interest.

As I crossed the threshold of adolescence, this interest took a distinctly sexual turn. I remember very clearly my first orgasm: just a little exploratory 'fiddling around' while idly playing over a short snippet from a show I'd just watched in my mind. The link that had been forming since childhood was then fully consummated in the physical act of ejaculation. After that experience, just like any other male teenager, I began to fiddle around on a regular basis, all the while fantasizing about one person eating another. It wasn't long before I began to interject myself into these fantasies, allowing my imagination to fuel my masturbatory sessions with images and scenes of me eating another, usually some nondescript, unfamiliar person. This lasted me a while; I was content with a relatively limited repertoire of these situations for a couple of years. As they aged, though, I became cold to the old fantasies - and fantasies in general. For whatever the reason, they just felt stale and distant, and try as I might, I just couldn't climax on my own with them. My imagination wasn't good enough. After a few weeks of failure and under the pressure of my mounting sexual frustration, I finally realized I had to up the ante: I needed to actually experience the sensation of being a predator for myself.

It wasn't long afterwards that I convinced my parents to get me a small fish tank and some goldfish. 'It will be a good way to teach him responsibility,' they said. As soon as the tank was set up and the fish were blithely swimming about inside, my parents decided to leave me alone with my new pets, smiling as they shut the door behind them. My face was instantly glued to the cool glass, carefully watching the goldfish waggle their shimmering orange bodies back and forth as they swam about in their new home. Was I really going to do this? I didn't have any special attachment to fish, mind you, but they were still living, breathing creatures - living, breathing creatures whose lives I would personally end for my own gratification. I continued to stare at them, biting over my lower lip as I grew more and more uneasy with this whole experiment with each passing moment. Five minutes soon passed, and then ten. After a half hour had gone by and my neck was starting to get sore, I realized I had to make my decision. Either go through with it, or vow to table this fantasy and never revisit it again.

Fingers shaking, I slowly dipped my hand into the water; immediately the fish scattered, their tiny brains wracked with fear as they fled from the intruding paw. The act of actually catching one proved to be far more challenging than I had expected, but after a few minutes of persistent grabbing, I finally managed to corner one and pinch its tailfin between my thumb and index fingers. Slowly, I lifted my hand out of the bowl with my catch, which was flailing about wildly and trying with all its might to escape my grasp. Just the very sight of its squirms, knowing full well what I was planning to do, was causing my groin to stir and a prominent bulge to form in my shorts. As I raised the goldfish above my head and spread my jaws beneath it, I caught one last glimpse of its futilely gasping body and its unblinking, fretful eyes. That snapshot in time instantly imprinted itself in my mind, a permanent and ever-present remnant of the moments before and those destined to follow. I released my finger-hold, dropping the fish onto my tongue as I slowly closed my mouth. It didn't really taste like much, but the taste was irrelevant; it was alive and breathing, wiggling about over my tongue. My paw immediately drifted beneath the elastic band of my pants and grasped my stiffening manhood; finally ready and committed, I tossed my head back and gulped hard. Surprisingly, it went down easily, so easily that I didn't even feel it wriggle. I did feel it hit bottom, though, and instantly I lifted my shirt and pressed my other paw to my belly, looking down with bated breath. I didn't have to wait long: the fish soon resumed its fruitless efforts to find water, flopping about haphazardly within the confines of my stomach. I could feel it...I could actually feel it inside me. Eyelids fluttering shut in pure bliss, I allowed my one paw to lightly rub over my middle while the other continued to coax myself to climax. It didn't take long. It was the most beautiful orgasm I'd ever had. Legs collapsing beneath me as I succumbed to the euphoric feeling of afterglow, I sprawled out on my bed and tried to feel the goldfish's final, weak movements, my breathing heavy and labored. This was ecstasy. And I knew I needed to feel this again.

I had to space these personal sessions out considerably so as to not alert the suspicion of my parents (in fact, much of my allowance money was spent on replacements, as I didn't want them to see my tank with fish missing), but my lingering memories proved to be far better in the interim than the fantasies I used to invent. In the meantime, I had a relatively quiet and uneventful stint as a pre-teenager and started high school as an average student in every respect. School didn't have much to offer that interested me, but I still gave it its due attention, maintaining good behavior and decent relationships with my teachers if not going out of my way to stand out. Physical education was the only class I really enjoyed. Though team sports didn't appeal to me, I soon found my niche in weight training: I relished the opportunity to test and increase my strength and craved the sweet exhaustion following a difficult set. I'm a simple guy at heart, and the fact that I could actually track my progress on paper and in the mirror made much more of an impact on me than the esoteric concepts and dull, tedious assignments associated with the rest of my classes. After a tough hour of working out, I felt the warm glow of endorphins and self-satisfaction; after a tough hour of math problems, I just felt brain-dead.

My social life wasn't much to speak of either. That's not to say I didn't have friends; in fact, for a while, I actually floated in a pretty popular circle. Back in middle school and early high school, no one really paid much attention to me. As soon as I started using the weight room regularly, though, my social status 'mysteriously' began to rise, as sad a statement on life in high school (and life in general) as that is. Girls became coy when they'd been mostly indifferent before; guys became welcoming instead of exclusionary. I'd suddenly get regular invitations to join study groups, mall outings, private parties, etc. Looking back on it, I guess I enjoyed it well enough while it lasted, as having this many friends gave me something to do and kept me from being completely isolated. That said, it's hard to describe these people as my 'friends' without a couple of disclaimers. With few exceptions, all of these kids were spoiled and from well-to-do families, and, while not exactly rotten to the core, their superficiality and capriciousness could be downright cruel at times. It was frighteningly easy to fall out of favor with the group. Make one social faux pas and you could be permanently excommunicated, relegated to being the brunt of just another of their jokes for the rest of your scholastic career. I tried not to get very involved with the politics of it all, which was probably for the best. Unfortunately, it also left me feeling cold and distant from my peers, lonely despite the ample social interaction. The parties and such were fun and all, but there wasn't one person in the group that I felt I could rely on if I really needed someone. Even that, though, wasn't terribly disconcerting; I've always prided myself on being self-reliant and I try to avoid putting myself in positions of dependency at all costs.

There was something else, though: a more fundamental, and insidious, reason for my lack of connection. I distinctly remember the first time it surfaced: I was walking down the hall with a friend, just chatting about whatever, when one of the girls from our year - a shy-looking calico named Beth - passed us by, smiling and blushing as we briefly made eye contact. She quickly strode off, seemingly flustered, and I couldn't help but grin and glance over my shoulder to get another quick look at her. Once she was out of earshot, my friend elbowed me playfully and chuckled, "Heh heh, you know, she's got a nice body. I bet she'd be a good lay, eh Robbie?" For a moment I froze in place as I felt the leaden weight of a somber epiphany: I wasn't interested in having sex with girls. I'd spent so much time and energy towards my own twisted fantasies and rituals that I'd never addressed that most basic of desires. Sure, I could feel physical attraction, but usually it was just a vague sensation I felt towards girls (and admittedly sometimes boys) rather than the fully crystallized, seemingly inborn sex drive everyone else apparently had.

It did bother me for a while, though that mostly died down after I lost my virginity at the end of my sophomore year. It was at a party like any other: someone's parents were out of town for the weekend and everyone (in the elite caste, of course) was invited to come over, preferably with some snacks and booze. I usually brought some chips and dip or soda or something; like the many other things my peers seemed to like so much that held no interest for me, I never saw the appeal of drinking, nor did I feel it was worth the risk of getting caught. That risk, though, was apparently pretty low, because none of the parties I'd been to lacked for alcohol and yet no one ever seemed to have any difficulty getting their hands on some, nor did their parents pay enough attention (or care enough) to stop them from drinking at least once or twice a week. Even with it provided for me consequence-free, though, I didn't much care for alcohol or getting drunk. Of course, it was a necessary rite of passage for everyone to get plastered their first time coming to one of these parties, but I woke up the morning after my 'initiation' feeling pretty terrible. The hangover was bad enough on its own, but compounded on top of that was the deep loathing I had for the utter lack of control I'd felt the night before. Most frightening was my inability to remember almost anything late that night. For some, I guess, it's a way to let loose and escape from reality for a short while, and that's precisely why I hated it: alcohol made me weak, caused my mind go foggy, and placed me in a position of vulnerability.

Still, to fit in, I usually had one or two drinks over the course of the night, which at most gave me a bit of a buzz. Even that much loss of control usually made me feel unclean the morning after, but in the moment it admittedly felt nice and relaxing. It was that feeling that somehow landed me the host's parents' bedroom with Beth, our nude bodies entwined as I pressed myself into her. In the state I was in, the sight of her ample breasts and the warmth of her receptive body had perked my malehood up, and when I slipped it inside, the all-encompassing slick heat around my length caused it to instantly firm to the point of throbbing. Without even realizing it, I started to thrust in and out at a moderate, steady pace, my body guided by pure reproductive instinct. There were so many new and exciting things I was experiencing: the wonderful sound of her lustful moans, the intensity of her needy grinds into me, the hot, slippery bliss of her soft flower yielding to my hard shaft. And yet...it wasn't enough. As the novelty of the sensations waned, so too did the passion behind my thrusts, which became little more than lifeless, mechanical exertions. Far worse was when I felt my erection start to die down, a cold chill running down my spine as I imagined the ridicule from my peers if I couldn't 'finish the job.' Panic-stricken and desperate, I winced and tried think of something, anything about the last few minutes I could use to keep myself going. There was nothing.

Just as I started to feel Beth's still-unsatisfied body go limp beneath me and prepared myself for the worst, though, I got a singularly brilliant idea. Before she could get up, I let out a guttural growl and quickly pressed my mouth firmly against her neck, making a tight, wet seal. A normal enough gesture during sex, but for me, it was anything but: as I suckled on her neck, I began to imagine my mouth instead suckling over and engulfing her entire head. Immediately my slack member firmed up once again and was ready to slip between the fold of her vulva. With a grunt, I plunged it inside and began to thrust harder than ever - her shoulders slipped into my painfully stretched jaws and were smoothly tucked away in my welcoming gullet. Beneath me, Beth bucked against me and moaned, aroused - she squirmed and writhed in terror while her breasts passed impossibly through my jaws and were crammed into me as a huge neck-bulge. Both of us were being pushed closer and closer to climax, our tender bits ebbing pre - I suckled over her belly, slathering my slimy saliva to slicken her up for her passage into my growling stomach. Harder, harder...I pressed into her desperately, panting with the sheer intensity of my arousal - my member perked as her feminine bits oozed their musky flavors over my tongue. I was so close now, so close to finishing; I thrust as hard as I could into her - I allowed my head to naturally tip back to allow her tapered legs slide past my lips; only her feet remained. Letting out a loud groan, I pushed in one last time and came, splattering my load into the folds of her vagina - I took my final swallow and my jaws clicked shut, the last of Beth's body slipping down into my stomach as I let out a deep sigh of relief. In the aftermath, I panted heavily and, in a moment of tenderness, gave the calico a fond lick on her cheek - sated beyond satiety, I belched and gave my swollen middle a soothing rub to counteract the writhing of the feline within. We were done.

After a few minutes of recuperation time, both of us slipped into the nearby bathroom for a quick shower and reentered the party as clandestinely as possible. Fortunately, most of the other partiers were too wasted to even notice, though occasionally I'd see someone wink at me or give me a 'thumbs up' sign. Each one made me feel progressively dirtier; I'd allowed the alcohol to cloud my thinking to the point of putting myself in the most compromising of positions. Why did I have sex with her? More importantly, why didn't I feel anything but shame and disgust now that it's over? Was this really the thing that everyone was so obsessed with every waking minute of every day? I mean, the physical sensations were pleasant enough I guess, but something that apparently had so much importance should surely make me feel something more than what I could just as easily achieve on my own. I didn't make a personal connection; Beth meant nothing to me before tonight and she meant nothing to me now. Sex had been at the very least intriguing to me, but now that I'd experienced it firsthand, it only seemed to be vulgar and base.

I brooded in the corner of the main room for about half an hour with a half-filled cup of Coke before finally deciding to head home. I felt kind of bad about making, well, a 'mess' in someone else's bed, so I discreetly pulled Matt, the host, aside and hinted that he might want to change the sheets in his parents' room. The smirk on his face indicated that he caught my drift. Before I could walk out the door, though, Matt placed a firm paw on my shoulder. "Wait, with Beth?" I nodded. Smile fading, he said, "You'd better get yourself checked out, Robbie, if you didn't use protection. Beth's kinda loose. She might, ya know, have some kind of STDs or something." Great. As if I could feel any worse about the events of the evening. Sighing, I thanked him for the heads-up and began the long walk home, alone with my thoughts.

I didn't catch any STDs from Beth. Unfortunately, I did catch something of a bad rap from my parents when I had to explain to them why I wanted to go to see the doctor. It meant having to sit down with my dad and listen to that lecture: you know, the two-hour-long tirade about the dangers and consequences of sex and how it's meant to be a 'special' connection between a man and a woman. At least they both weren't so delusional as to try to shove the whole 'no sex before marriage' concept down my throat; I'd heard my friends endure far worse from their parents. As excruciating as it was to sit through, and even though I thought most of his ideas about sex were complete bullshit, I didn't mind the speech all that much. Frankly, I thought it was damn stupid of me and I was just upset about having unprotected sex with someone I didn't know very well as my parents were, if not more so. That's why the second half of my punishment - getting grounded for three weeks - really made my blood boil. I was never going to let that happen again, so why did I need to be so unnecessarily inconvenienced? No more hanging out, no more mall trips, no more parties...that kind of a dent in my socialization time could be enough to knock me down a peg in the school's social hierarchy. The worst, though, was that they didn't even permit me to stay after school to go to the gym and do my daily weight-training routine. I guess they saw it as a pleasurable activity they could strip from me, but it was something healthy for me to do. It was hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea that my parents would be so vindictive as to lower their son's physical well-being just to make a point.

Boy, did that punishment hurt. Luckily, my friends were surprisingly sympathetic to my plight, since many of them had been given the same treatment when their parents found out about their sexual exploits. Not only that, but apparently my miraculous save in bed was good for something, because for the first few days back at school after the party my performance with Beth was a significant topic of conversation amongst the students throughout the school. My social status was intact. I didn't fare so well when the final bell at 2:30 rang and my house arrest officially began, which was just when my body started to ache for the rush I got while lifting. Cooped up in my room with no exercise equipment aside from a makeshift pull-up bar I propped up in my doorframe (which often fell down mid-set), I quickly felt myself going insane after just a few days. I actually felt weaker, like my arms and legs were being made sluggish by invisible weights dragging them down, and when I looked in the mirror, I could almost see the loss in definition in my torso and the underlying atrophy of my chest and abdominal muscles. I tried doing push-ups and crunches on the hardwood flooring in my bedroom, but that was pretty uncomfortable and not nearly as thorough or as enjoyable as my full routine. It was psychological torture and it felt as though it would never end.

As painful as the ordeal was, though, it did give me time to really reflect on the encounter with Beth, which I suppose was my parents' intent all along. There were a lot of emotions, all of them negative, wrapped around the events of that night that resurfaced as I relived them in my mind. Guilt because I'd been such a freaking moron to get mixed up with her in the first place. Shame that for whatever reason I didn't feel or understand the pleasures of sex. Disgust for the way I'd turned into a mindless beast as my instincts took over when I started to fuck her. Disappointment with myself for being so unusual and so different from everyone else in such a significant way. Fear of the unknown and potentially bleak future this difference would effect. Most of all, though, I felt a deep-seated, overpowering resentment of sex and the culturally-imposed imperative that everyone should enjoy it. I didn't choose to be like this. Who would choose to be like this? Why would anyone want to feel the discomfort of finding attractive what everyone else found weird and grotesque? Why would anyone ask for that gut-wrenching feeling of awkwardness every time someone wanted to talk about sex? Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to a condition of perpetual sexual frustration that's relieved only by killing a pet? Being with Beth had done nothing less than bring to the forefront all of the self-loathing I'd suppressed and hidden away for years.

Then, in my darkest state, a moment of clarity came like a flash of divine light. Who was enforcing this 'culturally-imposed imperative?' My friends, my parents, the celebrities, the characters on TV...all of them were perpetuating it, but whose judgment was directly imposed upon me? Only mine. Instantly, everything fell into place for me: if I didn't want to have sex, why should I shackle myself with the idea that I needed to have sex? I'd given it a fair shot and I didn't like it. Why couldn't that be okay? And, if I couldn't relate to most other people and this issue kept me from feeling fully integrated, well, was that really so bad? None of my peers knew me, the real me, and I was never all that interested in getting to know them in the first place. That's how I felt before having sex and it's still how I felt afterwards. I'd always been alone. I could be happy with alone. Alone was familiar; alone was safe. In solitude or in a crowd, I would always be my own best friend.

This revelation (bleak as it was, from most perspectives) spurred me out of my depression and gave me a newfound motivation for moving forward. No longer would I merely work out to enjoy the mixture of self-satisfaction and endorphins afterwards, or so that I could admire my reflection in the mirror; it was a way to actively better Robbie by pushing him towards peak physical fitness. Grades I'd allowed to slip without a second thought were no longer acceptable. If someone could do something excellently, then I could too, even if it might take me longer to master. From a social perspective, I already knew how to communicate and interact with others, but I could continue to observe and learn how to best present myself in conversation. On all fronts, I became determined to steer myself towards a singular goal: becoming my own vision of the perfect being. If I could achieve something, that was a good enough reason to try to achieve it. And I believed I could achieve anything with enough time and effort.

I suspect that could have been the one and only formative moment in my life, putting me on a linear path towards success. Gradually I'd narrow my vision towards achievement in a specific career and I'd unfalteringly plow through every obstacle in my way to the top. Life is never that neat and clean, of course, but I think that mantra was powerful enough to sustain me for a lifetime. However, just as I had started at the early age of 15 to work towards that end - pulling my grades up, trying and fully embracing new hobbies like guitar-playing, becoming the school's model citizen - I was whirled around and shoved in a different direction. Another 'big' thing happened. Darryl happened.

Darryl was a student in my grade, but one year my junior. An otter like myself, though significantly shorter and slighter in build, he perfectly fit the model of the quiet, brilliant loner. You know, the type who sits in the back of the class, trying desperately to avoid drawing any sort of attention to himself, but invariably knows the answer to any question a teacher could ask - quite a feat for someone who'd already skipped a grade. But, despite (or perhaps because of) his giftedness, he wasn't a particularly good conversationalist, always stuttering and avoiding eye contact when approached. His appearance didn't help him much either. It's not that he wasn't cute in his way, but the way he presented himself: bespectacled, headfur parted down the middle, and always dressed up in a starched white shirt and pleated corduroys like some life-size doll...well, he was the brunt of a lot of jokes. I remember being indifferent to his plight, laughing at the cruel jokes made by my friends while never seeing a reason to pipe up with any of my own. He was just another geek: very bright, poor social skills, slightly effeminate, and certainly not the kind of kid I hung around. That all changed on one sultry afternoon in April of our junior year.

The day passed like any other, I suppose: the dry routine of shuffling from class to class was so stagnant and static that all the days just seemed to run together. The only reward I got for suffering through school all day was access to athletic equipment, and I continued to take advantage of that at every opportunity. Darryl also had his own after-school routine: there's this great oak tree right in the middle of my school's courtyard, and every day (weather-permitting) he'd just sit under the tree and read, basking in the shade. Even though I could see him through a huge window that faced the courtyard, I rarely paid him much heed, completely absorbed in what I was doing. Occasionally I'd catch him staring at me with a soft expression on his face, but as soon as we'd made eye contact he'd look away with a slight blush in his cheeks. I didn't pay that much heed either; if it meant he was gay, well, who was I to judge? At least he was interested in someone, and not going home and eating goldfish for sexual pleasure.

That day, it became clear that I was not the only one who suspected he was homosexual. Normally Darryl was left undisturbed by the athletes practicing their various sports on the fields beyond; perhaps he was looking at them as he looked at me, but none of them seemed to notice or care. However, that day there were a few baseball players loitering about after practice was over. Again, I wasn't really paying attention and it didn't seem that unusual. The last thing I saw before I turned my back to the window to use the leg press was the three of them approaching the tree, but by the time I'd finished my five sets and looked out on the courtyard again, Darryl was bloody and motionless, curled up in a fetal position as the three boys took turns kicking him. Given how much energy I'd spent trying to figure out how to read people, I really should have picked up on their intent based on their posture, the eager grins on their faces, the way the one kid was clutching that baseball bat...but I just didn't piece it together. It's amazing that in just a few minutes so much could go wrong.

Instinct took over at that point; before I could process what I was doing, I was shouting 'Stop!' and dashing out into the courtyard. Again, it was one of those life-defining moments you never forget.

As I got closer, I yelled, "Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Already the adrenaline was coursing through my veins, causing my muscles to stiffen and twitch as I stared them all down.

A cheetah boy I didn't recognize was the first to respond. "What's it to you, Robbie? This's between us and this creep" - he indicated Darryl with a head gesture - "and you ain't got nothin' to do with it."

Eyeing the feline with the most intense stare I could muster, I replied, "He's just a kid minding his own business. What'd he do to warrant a gang beating?"

The player holding the bat, a burly wolf I recognized simply as 'Brian from math class,' stepped forward, and my gaze turned to him. Ears folding back timidly and with a slight tremor in his voice, he said, "I-it's just that, well..." He took a hard swallow and looked up at me with a pleading expression on his face. "This kid...this kid, he, uh..."

" - he's a faggot!" The cheetah piped up again, his tail twitching in agitation. "This fuckin' twink's been ogling us every practice. I've seen 'im lookin' at us over that stupid book he's always readin'" - I looked down and saw the ruined book, an anthology of Shakespearian dramas, its pages strewn all over the ground and trampled on with cleats - "and I'm fuckin' sick of it. He makes me sick." Hocking up a loogie, he spat on Darryl; it splattered over his glasses, which were just as bent and broken as the otter wearing them.

I was ready to charge then and beat this kid's face in, but somehow I maintained my composure. "Even so, three-on-one is pretty low," I grunted. I had half a mind to quip, 'Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart,' but I kept that gem to myself.

The third player, a wiry fox, was starting to look very pale and antsy. "Come on, Charlie, let's just go..."

"No fuckin' way. No. Fuckin'. Way." Charlie paused momentarily, then turned to the wolf and snapped, "Give me that bat, Brian!" Before Brian could even react, though, the cheetah had already swiped it from him.

Even then, I managed to remain calm and collected, if a bit terse. I was pretty sure at that point that this cat wasn't going to back down, but I still didn't want to get into a fight if I could avoid it. "You should listen to him. I don't want to hurt you." That was a lie.

The cheetah just smirked and spat, "That's not how it's gonna go, asshole," He pointed the bat at me menacingly. "You're gonna just turn around and walk away before I bash your fuckin' brains in." He leered at me, a wide, sick grin on his face. "You're just gonna walk away and pretend like none of this ever happened."

He'd just thrown down the gauntlet, so I answered with a challenge of my own, "Give it a shot, fuckface. I'm not leaving 'till you agree to let Darryl alone."

With an adrenaline-fueled hypervigilance, I scanned him over, taking in all the information I could before Charlie lunged at me. I was still too slow, and I took a hard blow to the side. Wincing, I stumbled backward, trying to keep my balance while putting some space between us. I recovered just in time to see him come at me again, now holding the bat above his head and preparing to swing downwards. This time I was ready for him though, and I grabbed the bat as it descended upon me. That stung like hell, and if I'd not been in peak shape at the time it would have broken my wrist, but through a combination of luck and strength I was able to stop the attack and wrest the bat from him, tossing it off to the side.

He backed up half a step and I noticed him shiver slightly, as though his resolve was starting to break without his weapon. When our eyes met, though, Charlie let out a low snarl and yelled "Motherfucker!" before leaping forward again. He threw a wild punch, but I saw it coming and I grabbed his wrist before his fist connected. I twisted - a bone snapped. That was a surprise. I'd never been in a real fight before, so I'd had no idea that I was that strong. The cat squealed in pain, but that didn't stop me from taking the offensive. I swung in hard with my free hand and connected squarely with his jaw. I felt something give - it probably got dislocated - and Charlie was knocked flat on his back, eyes closed and lying completely still. For a few moments, he just lay there, motionless, while the three of us looked down at him breathlessly, no one sure what to do. Gradually, though, Charlie came to; coughing up some blood, he looked up at me with a dazed expression on his face. At first I thought I'd caused him brain damage, but the glazed-over look soon faded, replaced with a pained grimace. I continued to just stare at him blankly, chest heaving and paws clenched, until he looked up at me and let out a soft whimper; I took that as a sign of resignation.

When I looked up at Brian and the fox (fuck if I knew his name), they cowered and gazed back with fear. In a voice calmer and softer than I thought possible given all that had just happened in the last minute, I said, "Take him and go." They obliged all too eagerly; picking Charlie up and straddling him between them, the three hobbled off, leaving me alone with Darryl.

"Kid, you all right?" Just as it had left my lips, I knew that was a dumb question.

Darryl stirred; blinking a few times and slowly tilting his head up to look at me, he just uttered a low groan. Aside from a few cuts and a bloodied nose, his face didn't look so bad, though his glasses were broken beyond repair. "Hey, Darryl," I said, "do you think you can stand? I can help you up."

He nodded slowly; looking up at me dully, and with a soft groan, he struggled to get to his feet. Immediately I cupped my hands underneath his arms to support him. As he put weight on his feet, though, he winced and almost collapsed. It was very apparent that the damage to the rest of his body was more severe. I didn't know a thing about medicine, but the way his right elbow and forearm were positioned with respect to the rest of his arm was just wrong. Hoisting the small otter up and allowing him to swing his good arm over my shoulders, I got him in a stable, if tenuous, standing position. Still, with the way he was holding his leg, I'd never be able to get him to walk. I couldn't just leave him like this though, even to get help. "Oh, fuck this," I muttered to myself, and bent down so that I could support him behind his back and his knees. In one smooth motion, I hefted him up and made my way back into the school, Darryl's body limp and cradled in my arms.

The rest of it is mostly a blur. Loud voices, running, sirens - it was all very chaotic. I just remember seeing Darryl's face, pain-stricken and stained with tears, as the paramedics carefully placed him on a crash cart and gave him oxygen. He reached up and gripped my hand in his; his paw was so soft, a warm touch. Fighting back tears, I smiled at him and squeezed firmly.

"Everything will be okay..."

"...one of the most overplayed songs on the radio today, as performed by one Thadeus Jackson." My voice fades in as if I'd just been dreaming. Darryl's bloody face gradually fades out and is replaced by Thade's unblemished, smiling one. "To be honest, you're not half bad. A few lessons with me and some hardcore practicing would turn you into a shredder yet," I say, grinning widely. I push the blanket off, revealing my perfect body, nude and welcoming. I'm so used to this situation that my actions feel mechanical and dull, my body going through the motions soullessly. Thade didn't deserve this robot. No one deserved this robot.

Taken in by the cool, confident charm I've become so adept at showing, the fox just smiles back and sets his guitar down before climbing in bed with me. His body is so warm as he presses into me.

Am I really going to do this?