FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Aster

[*``]

"Do you know how a gun works? I mean, if I were ignorant, could you tell me how a bullet is fired--how it is sent on its way?"

"Sure, sure. The firing pin strikes the primer; the primer ignites the powder inside the casing. The resulting reaction creates heat and pressure, expelling the bullet from the casing and down the barrel. Rifling in the barrel puts spin on the bullet as it travels toward the muzzle--this improves accuracy. The bullet then exits the barrel and continues down range. The pressurized gases in the barrel work the action of the weapon, ejecting the spent casing and loading a new round into the firing chamber. The cycle repeats."

"Very good, except...you're forgetting something."

"What's that?"

"The trigger. You didn't fully explain the firing mechanism."

"Oh, of course! Sorry. The trigger releases tension in the firing mechanism or generates thenreleases said tension, depending on the action of the weapon. Of course, I'm glossing a few details. The hammer--or in many cases nowadays, the striker--is then sent forward to connect with the pri--"

"Stop. You're...you're missing it."

"Missing what?"

"Atticus, the trigger...the trigger must be pulled."

***

"Security." The word was emblazed in thick yellow lettering on the back of the equine's muscle-tight shirt. Atticus followed closely behind the horse, passing through a clear, glass door and up two flights of stairs. At the top, he was greeted by a golden, metallic door which stood before him much like a gate to heaven. A simple plaque next to the doorway read: "Solar: Main Offices"

"Right this way, sir; Ms.Lang will be pleased to hear your offer." The equine held the door as Atticus entered into a carpeted hallway with crimson wallpaper and dim lighting. It was lined with more glass doors, acting as physical barriers between the offices of employees and the foot traffic which no doubt flowed through the hallway during the work day.

"Ah, thank you." Atticus' voice was cheerful as he waited to be guided to the manager's office.

The rooms in this area were empty as most of the employees had either left for the day or were in the main club area enjoying themselves, and this lack of activity would be key for Atticus' plan. The white tiger had taken great care in painting on himself. Black, jagged stripes adorned his face, neck, and hands--the only exposed portions of his body. He dressed in a fine suit, a standard business attire, and his disguise, he knew, was paying off. The equine security guard had not noticed anything unnatural about his markings, and the four security cameras he had counted thus far would surely be too grainy to surpass the clarity of the biological eye. The lateness of the hour nearly guaranteed that there would be no unwanted interruptions. And, the crowded nature of the club coupled with the multiple locked doors leading to the manager's office made the need for only one security guard seem logical. Atticus' focus and patience would lead him to success.

As the two, equine and feline, neared the management suite of Club Solar, Atticus took note of two elements. First, there was a final security camera mounted within a black orb above the manager's office door; he would need to stand as close to the wall as possible to avoid this camera's close view of his face. Second, there was a door a few feet down the hallway labeled "Dance Floor." Atticus exhaled deeply and slowly; the audible nature of his breathing made the equine's ears flick.

"Are you alright, sir?" The tall mustang seemed genuinely concerned for Atticus, which was an emotion that the white tiger found endearing.

"I'm fine, it's just..." Atticus looked through a clear door and saw Lang, another tiger; she was staring at her computer on the great, exquisitely-crafted business desk before her. The management office was quite large. "It's just that...seeing her after this long has made me nervous." The white tiger sighed in false anxiety.

"I understand. Ms. Lang is quite powerful. She can be intimidating, but she will understand your hiatus considering Ivory's new product. I'm sure she'll be more than willing to hear you out, Mr. Callen." The equine seemed quite courteous for a guard.

The Ivory Group, a well-respected pharmaceutical company headquartered in Aster, was known for its advances in medical science since its founding 25 years ago. But what was not known about this company and what Atticus had discovered two months ago after killing an executive rep, was that Ivory supplied many clubs with psychoactive drugs to be sold in back rooms to needy patrons. This side of their business was booming. The representative, a Mr. "Alton Callen," was a white tiger with black striping, and he had been working with Solar "off-the-books" to supply the club with dubious chemical agents designed for the sole purpose of manufacturing a degree of artificially-induced euphoria.

When Atticus had first been contracted to kill the Ivory Group employee, he questioned why such a low-level target would be assigned to him, but after reading special instructions from the Bureau, he found that collecting Callen's ID card and phone would be critical to a future contract. While he knew little then, the past few weeks validated his faith in the Bureau's guidance. Solar's owner, Ms. Lang, was the ultimate target, and after two months of missing her favorite drug representative, she was desperate for a meeting. Having obtained Callen's phone, Atticus used the device to his advantage. He analyzed the Ivory Group representative's secured and covert communiques to Lang, responded with a day and a time, and proceeded to prepare for the meeting at Lang's main office--where he now stood. Looking back on the entire process, Atticus admired the Bureau's ability to move him where he needed to be, without ever sending anyone to speak with him in person and without ever revealing the entire plan to him until it was necessary.

"I'll need to pat you down, and I will also need to hang on to your briefcase until you need it in the meeting." The mustang's voice became slightly more stern; he was trying to be professional. Atticus played along.

"But, Ms. Lang knows me! Why should she have to have me frisked like this?" Atticus' wore a worried expression.

"I assure you this is all protocol. Ms. Lang has many enemies, and you said it yourself; you have not seen her in quite some time. Now, if you please?"

"Fine, but I'm letting her know about this. It's not like I have a bomb on me." At this, the security guard shot Atticus another stern glance but quickly dismissed the statement as some kind of cruel jest designed to frustrate him.

A mild, falsified frown formed on the white tiger's face as the horse stooped and patted him down. He was a big one, that was for sure, and even as Atticus began to focus on the job at hand, he could not help but admire this mustang's fine features. A sculpture formed from a regular routine of weight-lifting, the security guard filled the tight shirt he wore with lean, built muscle. His chest contrasted with his fit, thin waist which featured a holstered pistol clipped to a tightly-woven synthetic belt. To Atticus, however, the strongest feature of this horse was his powerful neck. It was just long enough to be admired but just short enough to be proportional; the white tiger could see a carotid artery just under the horse's fur pulse slowly and methodically, supplying his young, inspired mind with the elements necessary for operation.

"Alright, looks like you're clean. I can let you in to see her now, Mr. Callen." the horse smiled only out of professionalism as Atticus handed him the polished metal briefcase.

"Just be careful with that. There's lots of good product in there." The white tiger turned and entered the main office as the equine opened the door for him. The horse followed close behind.

As soon as he entered, he noticed that the room featured lavishly-decorated walls and floors. Several exquisite rugs lined the floors, and on the walls, tapestries hung next to valuable paintings from national artists. Atticus could not help but show his admiration for Lang's artistic tastes. He smiled as he walked toward a single chair facing her desk and seated himself.

"Good evening, Callen. It has been quite some time." Ms. Lang spoke in a sincere tone of voice as she turned from her laptop and faced Atticus.

"I apologize. But, if you'll allow me to show you what we've been developing...I'm sure you will find it was all worth the wait." Atticus motioned to the horse for his briefcase, but as the security guard walked toward him, Lang held out her hand to stop his advance.

"Not so fast there, Callen; the business can wait. Honestly, I'm wondering how your cubs have been. You had me worried sick the last time we talked."

"I suppose they've been fine." Atticus was caught off-guard by the odd question.

"Good, good. And the wife?"

"Well, now...you know how that has been."

"That I do..." Lang stood from her chair and began the long walk around her desk. She was a find feline form, exuding a powerful feminine aura; she strode with grace and professionalism, strength and beauty. Her short heels clacked against the tile and softened as she stepped upon the rug on which Atticus' chair was placed. She put her paw on his shoulder, and then ran her claw playfully through the fur on the back of his neck which sent a tingling sensation down his spine. She walked around him, paused for a moment where she stood, and then, without a word, strode back to her side of the desk. Atticus sat completely still

"Since when did you have a stripe on your left paw? Still growing fur like a cub are you?" Lang seemed genuinely confused as she seated herself.

"I suppose I am." Atticus' expression turned stern, and his voice became more intense. She had been toying with him, but her patience had run out rather quickly.

"Is that so? I guess that's fine. Most males your age would love to have that gift. And what about those cubs? Did you adopt? Last we met, you abhorred little ones."

"I still do, but sometimes the wife can be--"

"You don't have a wife. You two split when she found out you were fucking me, remember?" Lang's words cut down any further attempts by Atticus to speak.

She continued, "No, you don't remember; you don't because you died before she could end the marriage. But, what bothers me most is that I can't quite figure out how you managed to climb out of the casket and make it all the way here. I mean, I watched you get lowered into that grave. For fuck's sake, Callen, I ordered the hit on you! You must clean up pretty nicely! Sal, open the briefcase." The mustang smiled confidently as his boss pulled the disguise off of Atticus piece-by-piece; he opened the case which revealed Atticus' pistol laying atop a neatly folded t-shirt.

"Nice piece, cat. So nice I think I'll keep it. I like the suppressor; they're hard to find nowadays." The equine's deep voice taunted the white tiger as he proceeded to withdraw the firearm and close the briefcase.

"Help yourself. There's a t-shirt in there too, but I don't think it will fit you." Atticus' words filled the mostly quiet room, which featured sound-proofing insulation for absorbing the adjacent atmosphere of the dance floor. Though he had not anticipated that Ms. Lang was the one who ordered the death of Callen, this changed his original plan little.

Lang smiled and shook her head at Atticus. "Those stripes look pitiful. Callen would be insulted that you even tried the look-alike approach. And, really? You put your gun in your briefcase? Did you think we would pat you down and not check the case before you got in here? How did you think you would get out? I've had people try to double-cross me before, but never in my own club--I'll say, you're quite the amateur."

Atticus' voice lost it's mask; he transitioned from a cheerful imitation of Callen's tone to a deeper, more sinister timbre. "You've caught me; it seems. But, no matter."

"Oh? No matter at all?" Lang's eyebrow raised curiously and playfully.

"Not really. See, my stripes--they only needed to be good enough to get me past your security cameras, and since I now sit here in a room devoid of cameras, they have served their purpose nicely." Lang snorted at Atticus' remark, but her mood became more serious as he continued. She was no doubt silently cursing her decision to make her office "private."

"As for my gun," Atticus continued, "I was obviously correct in thinking that you would not check my briefcase until I entered your office--because it has only just now been opened. And, as for my escape...well," Atticus smiled deviously, "I'm going to walk out the front exit. Your...guard, here, was silly enough to wait until we had entered this room to check my case which means that now my weapon is drawn for me and is only a few feet away."

"Excellent. Seems you have done some planning." Lang's confidence was wounded, but only on its surface. "That doesn't change the fact that I'm going to have him kill you. But before we go through with that, I'm going to give you a chance to tell me who sent you, so I can kill them in your place. How does that sound?" Lang's sense of security was overwhelming. She imagined Atticus trembling in his seat, but the reality was that he remained utterly motionless.

"It sounds gracious of you, but I'm not finished. Because you look like a sanitary individual and because I'm now unarmed, I imagine you are most likely going to ask your equine friend to strong-arm me into a back room where he will strangle me under the cover of the ever-present and always vociferous dubstep which permeates this club--whether I tell you who sent me or not. He's certainly strong enough. However..." Atticus leaned forward and spoke softly as if to telling Lang a secret, "...you could have him shoot me with my own gun--that would be ironic." He sat back in his seat and raised his voice, "But, look at these paintings, tapestries, and this beautiful, exotic rug! It would be a shame to ruin them, and believe me when I say, I would bleed everywhere. I know firsthand: those blood stains just don't come out. You'd have to burn everything my fluids touched to cover any evidence."

"Come on, Ms. Lang; let's just kill him already!" The guard was getting frustrated with Atticus' banter, but Lang interjected.

"No, please, Mr. 'Callen,' continue. You are very entertaining."

"Thank you, Miss. As I said, I'm quite the bleeder, so that brings us back to strangulation. It's a damn good option. But, it's great for me too. See, I originally planned to have my weapon inaccessible..." The conceited smile on Lang's face now morphed into a stern frown.

Atticus continued, "I imagined this: I would walk in, kill your guard and then tear your supple throat out with my claws--I've actually sharpened them just for you, see here?" The white tiger slowly raised his paw and flexed his pointed claws outward.

"That would be a messy option, would it not?" Lang allowed some of her confidence to return.

"Yes, I would be covered in your blood, which with my white fur, would make it very hard to leave the club unnoticed unless I could wash it out. I would most likely have had to use air vents or something as equally unclean. But, once again, here I see my gun is within a few feet of me; this changes everything."

"Does it now?"

"Because I too am a sanitary person, I've decided that I'm now going to kill your guard, take my suppressed weapon from his lifeless corpse, and then kill you. Afterward, I'll pay a short visit to the office bathrooms, wash off these ridiculous stripes, and be on my way--but not before I've disabled the security cameras from your personal laptop, which I see is also unlocked for me."

"I'll be damned. You really think you've got the upper hand."

"Of course I do. At least--I now know I'll be much cleaner in the end, and I won't have to burn this suit when it's all over with. But, I suppose you could risk ruining all of these precious antiques, paintings, and rugs with my blood by having your guard simply shoot me in the skull. It would guarantee your safety and his...how does that sound?"

"You are quite the spectacle, but I think you've overlooked something..." Lang leaned back in her office chair.

"What's that?" Atticus smirked.

"I don't give a shit about any of these works of art, half of them are reproductions. These walls are sound-proofed, but because you were so kind as to suppress your weapon for me, I think I will indulge in the irony that is you dying by your own gun. We're through here. Kill him." Lang motioned to the horse who placed the 9mm pistol to Atticus' head--his finger on the trigger. The club owner wore a smug expression. She had been victorious, and she knew this.

"You chose the wrong line of work, pal." the horse muttered dubiously, racking the pistol's slide and loading a fresh round into the chamber. Atticus had to admit that he had not thought that Lang would be willing to create a mess in her own office. There was no use in his trying to move; the cold metal of the pistol's suppressor pressed into the side of his head and held him still. The white tiger could feel as the equine began slowly pulling the trigger; he could sense as the pistol's hammer lost tension. It paused momentarily and then flew upward sending the firing pin forward only to end with a resounding click. The sound echoed only momentarily in the large office, mostly padded with tapestries and rugs.

CLICK. The guard pulled the trigger once more.

There was utter silence in the manager's office. No bullet had been fired. No blood had been spilled. No death had occurred...yet.

The equine's expression turned to one of shock, "What the FUCK?! What is this shi--"

His words were cut off as Atticus moved in one swift motion. His right leg entwined with the horse's right leg; this brought the tall beast down to Atticus' level. The claws on his left paw pierced the equine's long neck, severing his major arteries. Atticus squeezed as hard as he could. His fingers and claws invaded the guard's throat, collapsing his windpipe.

Lang was still frozen in her seat, unsure of how to react to the present situation. Atticus' second movement was even faster. With his left paw still crushing the horse's trachea, the white tiger grabbed the guard's holstered gun and planted a foot on the equine's waste. In one quick motion he used the strength of his leg to push the horse away, at once dislodging the gun from the hip-holster and at the same time tearing out the throat of his victim--sending a spray of blood away from him and toward Lang's desk. Atticus turned to Lang, locking eyes with her. His pupils were wide just as hers, but for a completely different reason.

She was afraid.

He was alive.

"You honestly think I would put live ammunition in my own gun, and then just let your henchman shoot me?" Atticus' breathing was still strained.

"H--How?" Lang was frozen in terror.

"No powder. No primer. Someone must have really wanted you dead."

"Oh--oh, help me!" Lang's eye's widened. Atticus could tell her life was flashing before her. A rapid montage of silent moments filled with love, hate, torture, pleasure, failure, success, hopes, dreams, and existence was coalescing at unimaginable velocities into a single terrifying silhouette of a female, a grieving widow draped in mourner's clothing, standing solemnly on the other side of the eternal resting place of Mr. Alton Callen. The eyes of this widow were locked with Lang's own, and they were filled with anger and a lust for revenge.

"You--you can't do this!" She squealed, frantically struggling through her expensive handbag as she desperately searched for her phone--she was grasping at straws on the edge of eternity. It was unclear to Atticus whether she was talking to him or to her illusion. "I--I'm sorry! He was dead weight; he would have exposed everything! D--don't do this to me! I--I just--I don't deserve--I'm sorry...p--please forgive me! Oh, please don't! Why--"

BAM!

Her face did not twist into pain. Her jaw merely dropped open at the sight of blood flowing onto her shirt.

BAM!

The second bullet pierced her shoulder, snapping her collar bone and lodging in her back. This time, she held a paw over her wound.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Lang slumped in her chair. Two of the final three rounds had found her sternum. The last had passed through her neck, paralyzing her. She gurgled as air escaped her lungs and mixed with the warm blood now flowing into her throat.

Atticus reached for her laptop and quickly disabled the club's camera system, wiping the device down with a handkerchief from Lang's desk. She had left the security application open on her computer. The white tiger then noticed that, wherever he moved, Lang's eyes followed him. She was still alive, so Atticus took his time. First, he removed a lighter from his suit coat and ran the flame over the chair in which he had sat, removing loose follicles of fur as a precautionary measure. Then, he changed his shirt and suit coat, packing his blood-stained clothes into his briefcase after removing the extra t-shirt and putting it on. He then carefully wiped his prints from the equine's gun, and after stepping around the pool of blood surrounding the horse's head, he replaced the pistol in the hip-holster from whence it came. Finally, he picked up his own pistol and the round which the horse had ejected when initially operating the weapon's slide and placed both items into his briefcase, closing the container.

He turned to see that Lang was still gurgling, struggling in futility. Atticus stood in front of her and watched her die. He was not the sadistic type, but he had already cleaned the gun he had used and did not see the need to spread more prints around the scene. It was the most practical way to ensure his anonymity once the police came to investigate; this also allowed him to confirm her death. After a few minutes of staring into her eyes, Atticus finally saw the last inklings of life drain from them.

She was dead.

Atticus walked around the desk and examined her. She had no pulse, and her breathing had stopped. He reached down and tore a section of her business pants from her body, ran his eyes over her form one more time to ensure her termination, and left the office. He used the fine fabric from her pants to open and close doors. Once he left Lang's office, he visited the bathroom, where he washed the blood from his paw and freed his face from the stripes he had painted on his face, neck, and fur. He did not use a sink for this; instead, he used toilet water. While investigators would be willing to look in the bathroom for evidence, they might not so readily investigate a repeatedly flushed toilet for clues. It was simple risk mitigation, not risk elimination. Once he was clean, the white tiger strode down the crimson, carpeted hallway and entered the door designated "Dance Floor". In the stairwell leading down to the club area, Atticus stowed the fabric torn from Lang's body in his briefcase and promptly entered the club area through a door labeled "push"; he pressed his side up against the door, using the weight of his body to open it.

The club was dark and light at once. It's colorful hues disappeared and reappeared in sync with the sliced vocalizations of a purely electronic voice at the mercy of a cacophony of brutal, grinding rhythms and virtual instruments. The club was full of patrons, people nearly fusing with one another in an attempt to maximize body contact and energy derived from their euphoric sensory experience. The white tiger penetrated the crowd of people. He pushed his way past them and into the core of the mob. He felt paws stroke his fur and grab at him softly. He felt the heat from their bodies as though it were another layer of clothing on his own, and he saw their wild eyes and their open maws, some drooling in sheer pleasure.

Atticus passed through the other side of the crowd and left through the club's front exit; it was unguarded, as the bouncers found themselves preoccupied with admitting and turning away those trying to enter at beginning of the night. This made the white tiger's walk to the elevator and subsequent ride down seem simple. Once in the lobby of the J.M. Gregg tower, he navigated through the large atrium to the entrance of the building, being careful to prevent his face from being caught on camera. Finally, he was on the street.

The city was bustling as the night life of the weekend had only just begun. Taxi's and commuters jammed the streets, and the sidewalks were filled with people rushing to their respective weekend retreats. Atticus walked against many people, away from the core of the affluent central district and away from Solar, but he did not walk far. He found a bus stop three blocks away and waited.

At that bus stop, Atticus felt his mind begin to run wild with his surroundings again. He saw these people of Aster pass him by in a blur, but if he focused any measure past that of a normal anthro, he could see their faces amidst the crowds. This, to him, was one of the few unsettling realities of reality: understanding that every crowd was made up of numerous faces. And with that knowledge came the knowledge that every face was just like his. Behind those faces were minds, whirring and spinning in their own unique and wonderful way, but for what reason Atticus could not know. He could only be sure that he was somewhat like them. What unsettled him even more was that he could see these faces, watch them go, understand his comparison to them, and at the same time feel a lack of connection, a lack of sensation, generated by their presence. It seemed to him that he could recognize each anthro's unique characteristics and passions while simultaneously giving them a number and moving on. It was not this which unsettled him, it was that he could do this--strip people of their being after assigning it to them. Everywhere he went, he mentally created and subsequently killed every person he did not personally know. But as the bus arrived before him and he stepped aboard, he saw the faces of those sitting on the bus stare coldly back at him. They possessed the same ability he did, and they exercised it just as he did. They saw him. They judged him. They wrote a story for him. And then they moved on without a care in the world. Each face turned back upon itself or to another object.

And as Atticus took his seat next to a pregnant female, he smiled at this reminder of the unknown. He was like everyone, and in some ways at least, everyone was like him.

---

©"JazzTiger" 2015