Chapter 1: Introduction

>"Anon."

>"Talia," you reply with a nod.

>The she-wolf hardly looks up from her "SURVIVAL" magazine as you lug your gear by the little RSO shack.

>She is your "partner" after all,

>It's expected that she'd let you get away with some stuff.

>"I sent a newbie to your bay," she calls after you, "mind helping her out?"

>But she does ask favors of you to keep up the arrangement.

>"Sure thing."

>"Name's Rebecca. Oh, and watch out-- those yeens are back in bay 5."

>Great.

>One or two of them found out about the range a month ago, and now there's a pack of them.

>It's unclear which is louder-- their laughing, or the stubby AK's they have with breaks.

>Fuck, you can hear it from here, even with your ears on.

>The cougar (both in age and in species) in bay 1 certainly isn't making all that noise with her pinked-up poly-pistol

>Contrary to what you normally see, her pastel piece isn't just a fashion accessory to go with her similarly-colored compression outfit

>...that or she's shooting from the bench to try and catch the handful of humans that come to the shooting range.

>Like yourself.

>She sees you approach with your range bag and flashes a fang-filled smile, setting the gun on the bench.

>You give a little wave back and try to slip past her through the small shooting shelter, but she gets up.

>"Hey there, sweetie," she says, her rumbling voice cutting straight through your muffs, "Need a lane?"

>"Nah, wouldn't want to bother you," you say; you try again to slip on by, but she leans against the wall, completely blocking the pathway.

>"Don't say that! I'd love a little company," she says.

>She leans down, seeming to fill the tiny shelter even more.

>"I could spot you... you could... check my form..."

>You swear her purring rattles the casings on the floor as she looms even closer, partway over you now.

>"Maybe some other time," you say, avoiding her eyes as you freeze, "RSO wanted me to check on someone in bay 6..."

>The cougar's ears flatten, and she draws back-- letting you breathe again.

>"I didn't think they let humies work at ranges," she says, giving you a suspicious eye.

>"I don't. She does," you say, meeting her gaze, "And she's my partner."

>There's a small flicker in her eyes, but it's not disappointment.

>"So..."

>She doesn't move; her nostrils flare a little.

>fuckfuckfuck

>You stay still, not breaking the gaze-- and after a moment, she steps back.

>"Okay," she says, crossing her arms, "but I'm not letting you through without getting your name. I'm pretty new too."

>You doubt it

>"Anon."

>"Well, Anon, I'll be here a while," she says, finally stepping out of your way. "I'm Laura, by the way."

>"See you around, Laura," you say as you pass by, feeling her tail brush against you on the way.

>One of her big mitts wraps around your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

>"Offer still stands," she purrs, before letting you go.

>You get out of there, hearing her load up another magazine

>That was too close-- you're lucky you were handloading before you got here.

>If you didn't smell especially like gunpowder-- like you do most of the time-- you'd have been fucked

>either from your nervous sweat, or the lack of Talia's scent on you.

>All the more reason you're glad you're at the range.

>You pass by bay 2, not even giving a thought of stopping there.

>Not after what happened last time.

>You do pause, however, as you approach bay 3; Aki's there.

>You can tell from the sound of apparent autofire.

>The bench is covered with her toys when you arrive-- very expensive, tactical toys.

>You've never been able to pin down where she gets her cash from-- all you know is that she's not an ordinary university student.

>You set your bag down and watch as she finishes her drill, multiple targets and barricades filling the normally vacant bay.

>She's behind the one with angled cutouts, near the center.

>The awkward angles don't slow her down; the cheetah darts between them in a blur, sending bursts through each.

>Each one landing completely in the A-zone.

>And you know she's only using semi.

>The supersonic crack of her last shot is still ringing off the earthen walls of the bay when she checks her targets.

>She doesn't smile, like every single other time.

>"You know, I think there's no automatics allowed on this range," you say when she starts back for the bench, striding with those long legs of hers.

>"Ha-ha," Aki sighs, setting her MP5 down, "That's just as funny as the first 20 times you said it, Anon."

>She starts loading magazines, pausing to look at you watching her.

>"What? You finally get a sense of taste?"

>"You left the safety off," you point out.

>"Psh. They just--"

>"Slow me down," you say with her, "I know. But it's on the bench, Aki. You can be slow."

>She snorts, continuing to fill up various magazines with frightening speed.

>Probably to show off.

>"Just because you can't have fun doesn't mean I shouldn't," she says.

>"I'll have you know I like my guns better than yours," you shoot back, grabbing your bag.

>"Don't lie," she laughs, "If the state let you, you'd get something made in the last 50 years."

>"...wouldn't you?"

>You shrug, shaking your head. Aki sighs again, turning her attention back to her gear.

>"I guess that's why you haven't tied it off with Talia, huh?"

>"Yep," you say, moving away, "Gotta go, Aki."

>"Catch you later, slowpoke."

>You've always liked Aki.

>She's focused, fast-- and not quite as lusty as the rest of the clientele here.

>Even if she can't seem to appreciate historic pieces quite like you can.

>

>At least she seems to appreciate you.

>When you reach bay 4, you wonder if Talia screwed up where the newbie went.

> You've never seen the fox that's out on the range there before

>The way she's flinching with each shot persuades you to check.

>She at least looks normal as you approach, dressed casual but appropriate

>A nice middle ground between Aki's hyper-tactical 'high-speed no-drag' setup and the inevitable low-top booty-short combo the yeens the next bay over are going to flaunt at you

>Fucking yeens

>Can hear their cackling in high-def now.

>You wait for the fox to finish the mag on her Sig before getting her attention

>"Are you Rebecca?"

>"Uhh, no, my name's Jen," she says, the reflective shades she has on making it even harder to read her face.

>"Oh, sorry. RSO said there was someone new she wanted me to help out, and..."

>You trail off, gesticulating; Jen laughs a little, nodding as she takes off the glasses.

>Purple eyes.

>"Don't worry, I understand," she chuckles, "mister...?"

>"Anon."

>"Mister Anon," she nods, "I'm new to the area, but I've got a basic grasp on all... this."

>She does a bit of gesticulating herself, sharing a small laugh with you.

>"But, if you don't mind me asking," she says, "What are you doing here? I thought humans could only use fireams with their wife?"

>"Not quite," you say. "The law is a modified version of old human ones; they just don't talk about it. Humans can have 'curio and relic' pieces. Basically anything older than 75 years."

>You could go on-- and for once, the person you're giving the spiel too looks interested.

>"Ahh. So, you're not here with anyone?"

>Damn.

>"I'm partners with Talia," you say, spirit slightly diminished.

>"That explains it," Jen nods.

>The look on her face is still one of interest-- but not lust.

>"You know, I moved here for a managerial position at the New Apple Museum," she says

>Your ears perk up

>"One of the tasks I have is organizing our collection and figuring out what we have. I haven't gotten to know the staff there real well yet, but I doubt any would have a specialty in human gear."

>She pauses, catching the smile on your face and mirroring it

>"I take it you'd be interested?"

>You're not sure you believe it.

>"Hell yeah!"

>"Good!" she says, "If you want to swap numbers, we can set things up later. I know you've got a newbie to attend to."

>You pull out your phone and she pulls out hers, and begin rattling off numbers to each other

>That's when you start to feel like there's something familiar about her

>"Oh, wait a sec Anon," Jen says as you turn to leave, "You mind if I get a quick picture of you? For my contacts? It'll make you easier to find."

>When you nod, she pulls you in for a selfie

>She's strong for her (relatively) slight size-- you can feel it as she takes her time getting the right angle and getting you to smile with her

>"There," she says after the click, releasing you, "I'll send that to you when I'm finished up here."

>"Okay, thanks," you say smiling back at her before going back to get your gear from the bench.

>Your heart soars

>Previously, your chances of getting into a museum or historical center seemed to be near zero. And now, you might be working in your actual specific field of interest.

>No more dealing with buncels moping around the library and trying to catch you when security's on break.

>As you move on to bay 5, you realize what it was that seemed so familiar about Jen:

>Her... scent? perfume?

>What she smelled like.

>Like coffee.

>You hate the stuff, but love the smell.

>That was probably it.

>And speaking of smells, you're able to smell the yeens as you walk into bay 5.

>Your hopes of sneaking through are quickly dashed when you see the small fleet of rusty shitboxes filling the space between the back berm and shooting shelter

>...Which is of course occupied by three of them.

>Though one of them is oddly small-- like, your size small.

>You grit your teeth, grip your bag, and head in.

>Just gotta act harder than you feel.

>"Oooh, whada we got here?" one of them croons, leaning down to you along with the other big one.

>Aaand there are the too-small crop tops.

>"We got us a little humie, Shay," the other says, "What you doin' here all by yourself, little guy? You get lost?"

>They cackle, stepping in your way as you make an effort to get around them.

>"I just want to get to the next bay over," you sigh, "You've seen me before, now just let me through."

>"Ooh! Hear that, Kris? He's makin' demands!"

>This makes them cackle even more.

>As you wait for them to finish, you realize you can no longer hear the staccato of shitty AK knock-offs.

>Your heart sinks.

>You see the rest of them that were out shooting are coming back to the shelter, grinning faces all around.

>Soon you're surrounded, and you swear you can feel the temperature rise. There's gotta be at least ten of them packed in here

>"Look, I just--"

>"He's makin' demands," Kris says over you, "He wants ta get through! Whadya think, girls?"

>Cue a cacophony of laughing, the only thing stopping them from grabbing you the fact they're all trying to go for it at once.

>"Oh, we can make a deal, lil' man," one of them says, "But you gotta do it for each of us."

>They seem to all like that suggestion.

>"Look!" you shout, managing to get their attention, "I'm with Talia! The RSO! She wants me over in 6, and if I don't get there, she'll--"

>A hand covers your mouth from behind, and you're pulled back against a plush body

>There's an audible sniff as one of them smells you before shoving you with a laugh, another one grabbing you before doing the same.

>"Don't smell like you are, humie," the first one says as you're bounced from hyena to hyena, "Smells like you're loose."

>"And we like loose prey," the last one holding you growls in your ear.

>"Back off, Roxxi," a less growly voice says, cutting through the air of laughing

>Things go quiet as the small one from before pushes her way through, the attention of the pack on her now.

>"You know B gets first dibs."

>"She ain't here," one of the big ones barks, "She ain't gonna know if we have a bit a fun."

>"She will," the little hyena says, crossing her arms. "Let him go."

>Now growling fills the air rather than distorted, yipping laughs.

>It's bad enough you're going to get passed around like a pleasure toy

>now you're going to have to watch this poor girl get her shit pushed in, and--

>Roxxi drops you back to the ground

>...Or maybe not.

>"Fuck you, Jamie," the big hyena growls, breaking from the semi circle and snatching up an AK from the bench.

>The others all snarl similar expletive-laden threats, and follow Roxxi, letting out bellows and growls as they magdump into the trash they've put out on the range.

>You stay frozen up as Jamie approaches you, unsure what to do.

>"You can relax," she says, her voice somewhat softer than the others', "I'm not gonna fuck you."

>"...Didn't think I'd be happy to hear that 'till now," you manage.

>"Come on, you need to move," she says, grabbing your hand and yanking you along toward bay 6, "Once they've let off that steam, they're gonna be back for more."

>She pulls you at arms length-- not at all possessively.

>And unlike every one of the others, she's not wearing obnoxiously risque clothes.

>Strange.

>"Do I want to know what happened back there?" you ask her when the two of you are out of sight, between the two bays.

>"Probably not," Jamie sighs, glancing down for a moment, "But I feel like I need to tell you anyway. It's... kinda my fault."

>Stranger and stranger.

>"There's not really any good ranges in New Apple," she says, "So we-- our pack, I mean-- were just kind of doing it where we could. Places we probably shouldn't have."

>You swear you can see blush under her fur.

>"Anyway, I did a little looking around and found this place. I- I went on my own at first, but then the others found out, and now, well..."

>She sounds and looks guilty-- you get the sense that she's not happy with the others, but can't do much about it.

>But then what the hell happened earlier?

>"Who's B?" you ask. Though you're not sure you want to know.

>"She's... the queen," Jamie says, still not meeting your eyes, "She leads our little... pack. She didn't come today because she's taking care of some business, but she's gonna know that you come here now."

>Finally she looks up at you, apology written all over her face.

>"I'd stick close to Talia next time you're here."

>With that, she walks back to bay 5.

>Well, shit.

>You take out the can of spray deodorant from your bag and spritz yourself

>Ever since the pack of yeens started showing up, you figured carrying it wouldn't be a bad idea.

>You might need to add in a can of mace for next time.

>Once you feel like you don't quite smell like the set of a YEEN'D video, you go to the shelter in bay 6, setting down your gear.

>The fact that there's no other stuff there tells you Rebecca is indeed new.

>When you look out at the range, you realize she's really new:

>Five yards away from the target stands an enormous tiger in a sweatshirt and shorts, all bunched up and leaning back. She flinches when whatever she's holding goes of, sending a spray of dirt up on the berm.

>You approach cautiously, not trying to make any loud noises, but not trying to be absolutely quiet either.

>"Rebecca?"

>She starts to turn and face you, before pausing and pushing the pistol way out in front of her, keeping it pointed down range.

>"Yes?" she says, her voice surprisingly soft, "Are you Anon?"

>"Yeah," you say, just now getting a look at her pistol, "Good job being safe!"

>She smiles a little; the little sub-compact looks tiny in her huge paws.

>"...That doesn't exactly look comfortable," you say, doing your best not to sound insulting.

>When you hang around a range full of armed anthro women twice your size, you get good at that.

>"No," she sighs, "It's not. I can hardly use the controls."

>"Do you mind if I take a look?"

>Rebecca hands it over to you; the Glock 42 is still warm from her grip.

>"So, this is your first time?" you ask, clearing the gun.

>"Yes," she says, watching you with clasped hands.

>"Is this yours?"

>The range doesn't do rentals, but you never know.

>"Yes," she says again, "I got it and the box of 380 from a pawnshop."

>You sigh. You don't want to know how much they ripped her off for.

>"You might want to get something else, unless you want it for your husband," you say, handing it back. "I think it's a confiscated human piece."

>"Oh."

>Her ears prick, and she freezes a moment before her ears, tail, and face all droop.

>"You can still have it," you say, realizing how 'confiscated piece' sounds in the context of a pawn shop, "It's legal and everything. It's just--"

>"I'm just too big for it," she says, the gun disappearing in her grip.

>"No, there's nothing wrong with you," you soothe, "It's that the gun is too small."

>It doesn't appear to do much for her mood-- even with all the state propaganda, you don't think you've ever seen an anthro look so... human.

>"We can still make things work," you assure her, reaching for her arm.

>Rebecca pulls back in a flash and bares her teeth, her fur bristling. You scarcely have time to jump back yourself before her expression changes to one of great concern

>"Oh, god," she says, taking a step toward you, "I'm so, so sorry. I- I just--"

>"It's okay," you say, more for yourself than her. "If you're okay, I'm okay."

>She nods after a moment, doing her best to appear smaller than she is.

>"Let me go and grab my pistol," you say, "It's big enough that it'll be a bit easier for you to use."

>Rebecca nods, and you can feel her follow you back to the shelter a few steps behind.

>"So... humans can have guns?"

>"Yes," you say, "Just old ones. Which happen to be what I like."

>"Oh."

>"My turn; why did you decide to get a gun, Rebecca?"

>She's quiet.

>"You don't have to tell me, just curious. If you have a specific purpose in mind, we might want to work on specific things. And look for specific things in a new one."

>"Oh." she says again. "Can we just do the... general stuff?"

>"Sure."

>Just as the two of you arrive at the shelter, you're greeted by a familiar-- if unfriendly-- face.

>"Hi Pat!"

>The german shepard, as usual, just scowls at your false enthusiasm.

>"You address me as Agent Birch, you little shit."

>"Oh, but Patricia," you say as you dig around your range bag, "You always come to check on me! I figured we'd be on a first-name basis by now!"

>The ATF agent looms over you as you leisurely pull out your Tokarev and a box of ammo.

>"Rebecca, this is Patricia," you say as you slowly lay the pistol down, "She's upset that Talia has first dibs on me, so she's trying to bust me and get me put into corrections."

>Patricia lets loose a menacing growl.

>"You're living in a loophole, Anon. And when I find a way, I AM putting you away."

>Making sure the Tokarev is unloaded, you present it to Rebecca; it draws her bewildered expression back into focus.

>"It's safe. Give it a try, see how it feels in your hand."

>She does; it looks like a compact in her hands.

>"Better than the other one?"

>"Yes, much," she nods.

>"Lets go and have you try that, then. I can-- oh, wait."

>You grab your bag away from Patricia as she looks through it, earning another snarl.

>"Pat, in the interest of teaching safe weapons handling, I'm temporarily going to handle Rebecca's gun, which is a prohibited weapon," you say, being technical and legal in the most condescending way possible. "Is that okay?"

>"No."

>"What if it's unloaded?"

>"...yes..." she concedes, though the murderous glare doesn't leave her eyes.

>"Anon, quit poking the bitch and go and do what I told you!"

>You and Pat turn to see that Talia has arrived, and she looks pissed.

>Moreso than usual.

>"Yes ma'am," you say, dropping the cocky attitude.

>If Hollywood wasn't full of predators, (even more than before the state takeover), you'd consider acting.

>Patricia and Talia start arguing as you lead Rebecca back to the targets.

>"Does this happen often?" she asks.

>"Occasionally. Neither of them do their job and they know it, so they get like this."

>You and Rebecca trade guns, and you go through the basics. Once she has a handgun that actually fits her huge hands, she unsurprisingly does well.

>She looks happy when she's got the hang of it, not leaning back or trying to close herself up.

>"Thank you, Anon," she says when she hands the Tokarev back, "Really. I think I'm going to try a different shop and get something nicer."

>You give her a quick inhale, and say "Maybe try a proper gunshop. Or at least let me tag along."

>Her eyes go a little wide.

>"No, you don't have to. I wouldn't want to impose."

>"I want to," you say. "Whatever you're doing this for-- won't ask what-- is important. I wanna make sure that you're getting something that works."

>Rebecca stares at you a moment before grabbing you in a hug.

>You can't tell if the softness you're pressed against is from the sweatshirt or from her.

>"You're too sweet, Anon," she sighs after a moment, before letting you go with a slight "Eep!"

>You follow her gaze back to see Talia and Patricia coming out to meet the two of you.

>"I- I didn't mean anything by that!" she stammers at Talia, "I just--"

>"Don't bother," Patricia snorts, "It's a cover anyway. Isn't it, Talia?"

>"You'd like it to be, wouldn't you?" the she-wolf growls, getting one in response.

>"It's fine, Talia," you say "She was just a bit happy with her progress."

>Talia gives you a look before nodding.

>Fake relationship or not, it's nice having a she-wolf on your side.

>"You wanna see the gun I was talking about?" you ask, seizing the chance to legitimize things in front of Pat.

>Not that it'd do anything to convince her.

>"Sure," your 'partner' says, getting the game instantly.

>The three of them stare at you as you dig through the bag, finding the tiny box.

>Setting it down on the small field table, you feel them crowd around you as you open it up-- Talia for the act, Rebecca out of interest, and Patricia out of malice.

>Inside sits the glorious result of at least a year's worth of saving and searching:

>A Kolibri Model 2.

>The smallest centerfire handgun ever made.

>You hold the tiny piece aloft for the three of them to see, glowing with pride.

>"It's in 2.7mm," you say, "the size of a single grain of rice."

>Patricia just keeps up her scowl, while Talia and Rebecca at least indulge you with a closer look.

>"I definitely don't want to try handling that," the tiger says, while your 'partner' just scoffs and asks how much it cost.

>"Plenty," you say, beginning the delicate process of loading up the magazine, "But most was for the ammo. The gun itself was in need of repairs, so it was cheap."

>Patricia's ears perk up.

>"Are you saying you modified that gun?"

>"No," you sigh, "I repaired it. If I was going to convert a piece of history into a machine gun, Pat, it wouldn't be the gun smaller than my palm."

>For once, she doesn't growl.

>Delicately, you slide the magazine in and slide your thumb over the safety, feeling the mechanical parts revel in their first coat of oil in a century.

>You set your sights on the nearby cardboard, which will most likely stop the tiny bullet

>It's going to be going slower than a BB from a BB gun, after all.

>Here goes...

>SP-P-P-P-P-PK!

>...

>Slowly, you turn the gun; the slide is locked back, the chamber empty.

>Along with your previously topped-off magazine.

>"HAH!" Patricia suddenly laughs, louder than any of the yeens from the bay next door, "I FINALLY GOT YOU, YOU COCKY LITTLE ASSHOLE!"

>Your face turns red and your chest suddenly feels light and hollow as you crouch down, counting out six brass grains of rice in the sand while she continues gloating.

>"YOU JUST MADE AN ILLEGAL MACHINE GUN, AND LIED ABOUT IT TO AN OFFICER OF THE LAW!"

>She moves in to grab you, but to your relative surprise, Talia shoves her away.

>"Simmer down, Officer Bitch," the she-wolf growls, "I'm the RSO, and I determine if it was intentional or a mechanical failure!"

>"You're not protecting him this time, cunt!" Patricia laughs, not fazed by the shove, "Conflict of interest! Being his 'partner' doesn't work out so well now, does it?"

>Talia growls; you feel like curling into a ball.

>"That means you've got no say in the investigation! All you can do is be a character witness-- but, oh, wait, you two are a 'couple?' Sorry, conflict of interest again!"

>"What about me?"

>The three of you turn to look at Rebecca; she looks determined, if a little bit frightened.

>"Stay out of this," Patricia says, "I've been trying to catch these two for months. You don't know what they've been up to."

>"Exactly..." you say, gears turning in your head, "She doesn't. We just met today. No conflict of interest."

>Patricia growls, taking a step toward you but flinches; the regulator chip must have given her a shock.

>One of the few totalitarian decisions of the state you actually agree with.

>"Well, Rebecca," Talia sighs, "I guess it's up to you. If you make a statement, you're getting tangled up in this."

>The tiger nods, taking a deep breath.

>"I don't think Anon meant for it to do that," she says, "He likes older guns, and he made a good point-- I don't think something that tiny would be a good machine gun."

>Patricia is shaking with rage, and you watch her shake it off with a few breaths.

>You wish you could do the same for the anxiety gripping you.

>"What's your full name?"

>"Rebecca Maldovich."

>"Well, Ms. Maldovich," Patricia says in a controlled manner, "Be that as it may, Anon committed a firearms negligence offense. As such, this event must still be investigated."

>"Bull-fucking-shit!" Talia yells, "Mechanical failure doesn't count for that! And if you're so eager to actually enforce that, why don't you go the next bay over and deal with the fucking yeens that I reported about seven times already?"

>"Calm down, Ms. Grilliz," Patricia says with a savory smile, "The state's priority-- not my priority-- is human offenders. Now, Anon, do you have anything to say?"

>You've got about a thousand things, but you know none of them are gonna help.

>Most would probably hurt

>You shake your head.

>Patricia huffs, a little disappointed. "Apparently you know your rights. Come along."

>She reaches for you, and again Talia shoves her away.

>"You're not taking him away," she growls, "I know my rights too. Nonviolent violation, at my range, under my supervision; he only goes if I say, and I say he doesn't."

>Pat's smug look falters for a moment, but she laughs again.

>"Can't wait to take you down too, Talia."

>She walks backwards away from the two of you and Rebecca, making sure you get a good look at her smug mug.

>"You've got a week."

>Damn it all.

>"A week?"

>"Before trial," Talia says to Rebecca.

>"The show trial," you correct her, "You know the court system is rigged."

>"One week before my rights get stripped and they put me in mandatory assignment."

>She can't say much to that, and neither does Rebecca.

>Slowly, you pack your gear up back into your range bag.

>"What are you doing?" Rebecca asks, still in a daze.

>"Going home," you say.

>"Now?" Talia hisses, "I'm in this too!"

>"I know."

>"Then what are you running for?" She asks, grabbing your arm and getting in your face.

>"Right now, the only way we get out of this is if we get a civil union," you whisper through grit teeth.

>She pulls back slightly, locking eyes.

>"For both our sakes, I'm going to try and see if there's another way out."

>She lets you go, walking back off down the range.

>You're in it now.

Chapter 2: Anticipation

>You wake up for good to the 'ping!' of a text.

>All the other times were from the usual things: being too hot, too cold, your arm falling asleep over your head...

>...And the impending sense of doom that's been hanging over you since yesterday, invading even your sleep.

>Looking at your phone, you see it's actually an email. One with state priority.

>The subject line reads "Notification of Investigation for: Multiple Charges."

>"Dear ANON ANONERSON,

>"This email is to inform you that you are currently under investigation for the following charges: 1 count of Firearms Negligence (Negligent Discharge), 2 counts of Illicit Possession (Manufacture and Possession of an Illegal Machinegun), 1 count of Perjury (False Courtship Claims), and 2 counts of Non-violent Obstruction of Justice (1 count of Harassing an Officer; 1 count of Perjury during Investigation). This investigation began yesterday (Sunday, 7/XX/20XX), following events occurring at the Shoktan Shooting Club (WCS Sector 11)."

>"The potential consequences of these charges include: loss of firearms privileges and confiscation of any associated property, accelerated State Evaluation schedule, and mandatory enrollment into the Civil Matchmaking Services System (CMSS)."

>"The investigating Officer (ATF division) has also recommended you be classed for Special Assignment in the CMSS system: due to your charges being non-violent, normal immediate restraints/restrictions will not apply during the course of this investigation. However, should you be found guilty, all normal Special Assignment restrictions and procedures will apply."

>"The court date for this investigation is: Sunday 7/XX+7/20XX. Arrive at the New Apple Municipal Complex at 10am: you will be escorted to the lower court by on-premises staff. In accordance with the indigenous beliefs of your sector, you will be afforded a public defendant to speak on your behalf by the State, if you do not have a lawyer on retainer."

>"If you have entered into a Civil Union prior to this court date, it is important to bring a copy of your certificate and/or your application form, as well as your spouse. This would dismiss one or more of the charges against you (False Courtship Claims, Illicit Possession)."

>You skim over the next few lines, full of the stock-standard state assurances and reminders

>"Remember that access to firearms is a privilege, not a right"

>"The state allows for the preservation of some historic practices in your region, not all"

>And of course, the ever popular "The Anthrostate has only your best interests at heart."

>The last few lines at the bottom catch your eye:

>"The reporting officer (Patricia A. Birch, ATF) has elected to release her contact information to you and the immediate witnesses of this case (Talia W. Grilliz, Rebecca T. Maldovich). Note that any communications with Officer BIRCH will be monitored and may be used during trial due to one or more charges against you (Harassing an Officer)."

>"Have a pleasant day,"

>"WCS 11 Justice Division"

>You groan, tempted to throw the phone but settling for setting it on the bedside table. That bitch is taunting you.

>And you know that she has your information-- if you try blocking her number, you'll probably get another obstruction of justice charge.

>Your phone lets out another 'ping!'; you pick it up with hesitation, telling yourself not to respond to her when you see it's from Talia.

>'Bitch got started early-- it's fucking 8am'

>At least this bullshit hasn't gotten to her sense of humor.

>'thought your text was from her,' you reply back.

>'No such luck. Didn't come up with anything last night, either. You?'

>'No. Half worried they're gonna send someone down here based on my search history alone'

>'That's ripe for jokes, but I'm not in the mood,' she sends back after a minute, 'We gotta figure this out.'

>"No shit," you say to yourself, but resist the urge to snap at her via text.

>'I know,' you write instead, 'Are you actually being charged with anything?'

>'courtship claims, harassing and obstructing an officer.'

>'Same for me, but add firearms negligence and possession/manufacturing a machinegun.'

>'Makes things a little easier to cover,' she sends back.

>'We need a good fucking lawyer,' you respond.

>'More to it than that. Lawyer can argue all they want, but the state can throw it out if there's no good evidence or witnesses.'

>You groan, rubbing your eyes.

>'You make it sound so bright and cheery'

>She goes quiet for a while, giving you some time to make breakfast before your phone goes off again.

>'Lets make another deal. I'll find someone who can help with the firearms charges for you, and you find someone who can work the perjury and harassment ones for the both of us. I've got people I can ask from being an RSO.'

>'And I've got...?'

>'Work to do. Talk to legal people, witnesses, secure evidence-- whatever you can'

>'...You sure it wouldn't be easier to just get a CU?'

>'You can get one,' she sends, 'just not with me'

>You sigh. Was worth shot.

>'Keep in touch. I'll update you at the end of the day.'

>You close your phone and clean up; at least you started the day early. All the more time for you to use.

>And you're going to need as much as you can get.

Chapter 3: Something's Missing

>As you reread the email, you turn over a few lines in your head, an idea forming.

>'The reporting officer (Patricia A. Birch, ATF) has elected to release her contact information to you'

>'Note that any communications with Officer BIRCH will be monitored and may be used during trial'

>You fire up your computer, heading to the ATF website. One of the other 'historical traditions' the sector elected to keep was a level of transparency between state actors and the public: while you're sure they don't give the whole truth, the little details they probably didn't bother obfuscating.

>Like the 'duties and responsibilities' section, or the digital recruiting pamphlet. You scroll past the overly-happy golden retriever in tactical gear and look at the 'interactions with public' section.

>A plan begins to form: when they're not busy being dicks, the agency is meant to actually monitor the movements of firearms, legal or not.

>...And intentional, or not.

>You go back to the email and get Pat's number, writing up a text. Before you send it, though, you realize something, and make one out to Talia instead.

>'Hey, did you see the Kolibri after I left yesterday? I checked my car and the room, but I can't find it or it's little box.'

>It's a little bit before she responds, and not being in on the game, she sends a genuine response.

>'No. Fuckkk... and I'm at FF today, so I won't be able to check. I'll send Sally a text.'

>Perfect.

>Setting the phone down, you relax as much as you can, making some tea. Fuck it, you'll make some coffee too. You're sitting at the table, drinking the former and enjoying the smell of the latter when your phone 'ping's again.

>'Sally couldn't find it. Fuck, you're just getting shafted left and right.'

>You feel bad, not telling her the plan, but you'll tell her soon enough. Resisting the urge, you instead go back to Patricia's number and hit send.

>'Hi, Pat. I'm missing the Kolibri from yesterday; it doesn't seem to have gone home with me from the range.'

>You know she's got to be up, since that email was sent out. It takes her a mere minute to leap onto you via text.

>'You think that's going to change things? Losing your illegal machinegun means nothing, Anon. Ditching the evidence won't save you.'

>Typical Pat.

>'I just figured as an agent of the ATF, you might want to know about a missing gun, Patricia.'

>'You address me as Officer Birch; this is where those harassment charges are coming from.'

>You wait a bit for her to send something else, but she doesn't. Time to remind her about her job.

>'Well, Officer Birch, I was hoping you might be able to help me, you know, find my gun? Illegal machinegun or not. Even if you take it, it'd be better to have it off the street, right? Wouldn't want someone else to find it and use it.'

>The exasperation comes through clearly in her next message:

>'I will make an effort to locate the firearm, and will update you with the results.'

>It's not much, but it's a start. You screenshot the texts; this may take longer than you'd expected. But you're fairly confident that she'll slip up sooner or later, via text or something else.

>To be safe, you rummage around in the box of old electronics you picked up at that garage sale a few years ago-- came with the old audio equipment you got there as well. The old pocket tape-recorder is still there, and still functional. As you finish making sure it does still work and you've got a tape for it, your phone starts to ring.

>'Officer Bitch'

>You answer with a smile, hitting the speaker button and turning on the tape recorder.

>"Hello?"

>"Mr. Anonerson," Pat's grating voice calls out, "I called the Shoktan Shooting Club and notified them about your missing gun. They said that they weren't able to find it, but would keep an eye out for it."

>"Hold on a moment, Ms. Birch," you say preventing her from ending the call, "I--"

>"That's *Officer* Birch, asshole" she snarls. You have to suppress a snicker, the wheels in the tape still turning.

>"Right, my apologies, officer. I already contacted them about it-- that's why I messaged you earlier. I figured that they may not have done a thorough search, trying to run the place and all."

>"What is it you want, then? Are you trying to waste my time?"

>You smile, saying the keywords.

>"I just fear for the safety of the community, officer, having a lose gun out like that. I would feel much safer if there were a thorough search of the range where it was last seen."

>Pat groans loudly on the other end of the line, knowing what the words mean.

>"I will make an investigation into the missing firearm," she recites, grating her teeth. She wouldn't make for very good tech support.

>But it makes for great evidence on your part.

>"Thank you, Officer Birch," you say, "Hope you have a pleasant day."

>She mutters something with a few expletives, wonderfully amplified by the phone, then says "Same to you, Mr. Anonerson."

>The call ends, and you manage to suppress your joy until after you've clicked the recorder off as well. Your body of evidence is growing. Though, you realize you should probably make backups... and probably get it off the tech that's a few decades out of date.

>You wire up to the computer, doing the easy part first and making backups of your screenshots onto a flashdrive. Then comes the hard part: getting the recording off the tape recorder. You could just play it back and record it with your phone, but given how low-quality it is already, you don't want to lose any more. Judge could easily throw it out on the basis that it's not clear enough.

>After a little research, you find it might not be as difficult as you imagined: a quick run out to your truck later, you're connecting the recorder and the computer via your aux cord. A few windows pop up, and your computer drags its feet, but after a few more searches and some monkeying around with settings, you've got your digital copy of the tape. Finally, a win.

>You're unplugging everything and about to reward yourself with a doughnut when you hear a knock at the door. The sight that greets you at the peephole wasn't the one you were expecting, nor are you thrilled about it.

>"Open up, Anon," Patricia growls from the other side of the door, her fuzzy mug clearly visible as she stares back at you through the hole, "I can smell you in there."

>As calmly as you can manage, you undo the locks and try not to shit your pants.

>"Officer Pat," you say, opening the door for her, "What a pleasant surprise!"

>"Officer. Birch."

>She pushes you back into the room by stature alone-- that navy blue uniform is stretched tight, but the bulky belt on her waist and abundance of patches put a damper on her figure. She casts a nakedly investigative glance over your abode; the Kolibri and its box are fortunately stored away, out of sight.

>"Can I ask why you're here?" you say, doing your best to not sound guilty and not look at the cedar chest.

>"That little machinegun of yours isn't on any of our registers or in any of our databases," she says, looking down at you, "Which means I don't exactly know what it looks like. And since you were gloating about how you got it yesterday, I figured asking you for photos would be pointless. So you're coming with me."

>"G-going with you?" you stutter, "But I lost it! And the trial's not until next week!"

>"Oh, if that's what this was about, I wouldn't have knocked," the shepherdess says, the smile on her face not one you really want to see again. She grabs your hand anyway, pulling you out the door.

>"Come on, lock up. We're going to the range."

>...At least she has the decency to let you do that...

>When you do, she links arms with you and sets off down the stairs; you swear you can feel the circulation being cut off to your arm.

>"Do you really need to escort me so closely?"

>"You're under investigation, Mr. Anonerson," she snorts, yanking you along harder, "I don't want you running off."

>You decide not to point out that you had every opportunity to do so prior to her unwelcome arrival. Instead, you try to find the positives: if she's going to treat you like this the whole time, at least you'll have plenty more evidence. You'll need to wait until she's not attached you to her hip to pull out your phone, though.

>The vehicle she pulls you to isn't a squad car, but a large SUV-- sized for anthros of course, making it even larger. All black, windows tinted-- that's how you know it's a three-letter car.

>She lets you go finally, though she's escorted you right to the passenger door. You step up and in as she goes to the driver's side, using the moment to pull up the sound recorder on your phone.

>Thank god: it can run in the background.

>Patricia is silent as she gets in, turning on the radio before starting up the monster and pulling out from the lot.

>"I take it you know your way there?" you ask, politely as you can.

>"I'm an ATF agent, Anon," she snorts, "Of course I do."

>The golden lettering of her patch glitters in the passing beam of sunlight; a genuine question comes to mind.

>"Can I ask you something?"

>"What?" she says, on the edge of a growl.

>"How big is the ATF? Region-wide? State-wide? To my understanding, it was just part of one country prior to the uprisings."

>The shepherdess sighs.

>"All you need to know is that we're operating in this sector, Anon."

>You're somewhat surprised. Bringing up pre-state history doesn't generally go well with its agents, much less jackboots. But Pat seemed more exasperated than angry.

>"Do you actually go shooting at the Shoktan range? I don't know if I've ever seen you use a lane."

>"I do my job when I'm there, Anon," she growls, "You damn-well know that."

>"Just curious."

>She slams the breaks, lurching the two of you forward in your seats at the stoplight she barely missed.

>"Listen here, you little shit," she snarls, suddenly over the console and in your face, "I'm doing this because it is my job. I don't need any more stupid, inane questions from a perpetrator like y-"

>As she jabs you in the chest with a claw, she flinches, her near-feral expression distorting for a split-second. She stops, just staring you in the eyes, growling. Your heart's thudding when the honking from behind her brings her back to the wheel.

>"Just shut up," she grumbles, flooring the SUV.

>You didn't expect that passing phrase to be the one that set her regulator chip off. You decide that you've got enough evidence for the moment, and stay quiet the rest of the way.

>Sally greets you both with that cute, bucktooth smile. She's a much more pleasant RSO than Talia-- which is why you couldn't ever have her as your 'partner.'

>"Heya Anon!" she says, "You come to look for yer gun?"

>"Yeah," you say, Pat still leading you by the arm, "Any luck?"

>"Naw. We're pretty slow right now, though, so should be easy to look."

>Pat drags you on with a growl, barely giving you time to say goodbye.

>"Why isn't she getting defensive for Talia?"

>You turn to look up at your escort as you pass through the first bay, confused.

>"What?"

>"I said, why isn't she concerned?" the shepherdess says, "She's a friend of your 'partner,' right?"

>"Probably because you've got a shiny uniform and badge," you reply. "And... she's a little... you know... innocent?"

>Pat snorts, muttering under her breath "Unlike you..."

>You pray the phone caught that.

>The squirrel wasn't lying: the range seems empty except for you two, all the lanes quiet save the wind and wildlife. But being 11am on a Monday, you're not entirely surprised.

>"Alright," Patricia says, finally shoving you free of her, "Where'd you have it last?"

>You take a cursory glance around the shooting shelter of bay 6, pretending it could have ever just stayed there.

>"Well, you were there, Pa-- I mean, Officer Birch. Right over there, by the target."

>Despite your apparent save, she still gives you an ugly look. She nods that way, and follows behind you as you walk out. She watches as you search the area, though she doesn't do much herself.

>"Are you going to help look? I can't even find casings." you ask, mainly for the recording.

>"No. Because I know you're pulling my leg."

>For the second time today, you struggle not to shit your pants.

>"You handload, Mr. Anonerson. You stink of powder-- that's how you get by with your 'courtship.' You picked up those casings, didn't you?"

>"Y-yeah, I guess I did, but what's that prove?"

>"You just said you can't even find those," she sneers, stepping close to you, "You wouldn't bother to look for casings if you knew you picked them up, unless you were trying to deceive me."

>"O-or," you say, leaning back as she leans in, "I-it slipped my mind, because I had a certain officer screaming in my ear about how I'd be getting put away for something that's not a crime."

>"That remains to be seen," she growls, that grin turning predatory.

>"Going to be hard to pin those charges without the primary piece of evidence," you counter.

>The smile is gone, and she grunts as she backs off.

>"Well, it's obviously not up here," you say after your heart's had a minute to cool off, "It might be small, but not that small."

>"Fine. What happened then?"

>"It should have gotten packed up with my range gear, back at the shelter. I know the gear came with me back to the apartment, but when I searched it I couldn't find anything."

>She grunts, grabs your hand, and yanks you back to the shelter. This time she actually tries to help in your futile search, though you're not sure if helping you is exactly why she's doing it.

>As you're about to complain again, having searched on and under every bench, basket, and bucket, you hear a burst of fire, followed by laughter.

>"Not again..." you groan quietly.

>"I don't think it's here," Patricia says, ignoring your complaint, "We'll search the way back to the lot. Come on."

>Before you get a chance to protest, she grabs your hand again and pulls you along. You feel like you're being walked to the assignment center already, the shepherdess going slow as her eyes roam the ground for something that's not there. The yeens aren't at bay 5 this time, though the sounds of gunfire and laughter are closer than ever as Pat stops in the shelter, looking around.

>If she notices your discomfort, she doesn't say anything.

>You're more focused on what that little hyena told you yesterday; that you should stick close to Talia, now that their leader knew you were here. And Pat, while a dog, isn't quite like Talia.

>"Nothing here either. Let's move," the bitch says, reaching for your hand again.

>"It sounds like there's someone in the next bay," you say, pulling your hand away, "Maybe we should wait."

>She looks at you with that familiar, suspicion-tinged-with-anger look she has. Then she does something you haven't seen before: she leans in, sniffing your neck.

>"P-Pat, what the hell are you--"

>"You're afraid," she states, pulling back, "Not of me. What, then?"

>There's a hint of an unfamiliar emotion to her words: compassion.

>"You know those yeens Talia was complaining about?"

>"Yeah," she says, anger coming back, "What, you want to bitch about them too?"

>"Well, they harassed me yesterday, so yeah."

>"How so?"

>"Picking me up and passing me between them, smelling me, talking about how I smell like loose prey. Standard sort of thing for people like me."

>"Spare me the politics," she grunts. "Come on. They're not gonna fuck with you as long as you're with me."

>Reluctantly, you let her lead you along, still going slowly between the bays, giving you ample time to glance over the shitboxes again. There's not as many this time: hopefully, that means there won't be as many of them on the range.

>When you see the shelter, you find out you were right. But the four that are there more than make up for their small numbers by being absolutely enormous, barely fitting under the shelter. And these shelters were all raised after the Uprisings to accommodate a more Anthro-centric clientele.

>The biggest one-- Roxxi?-- spots you approaching and pauses, the AK in her hands stubby as her snout. She grins, setting it down on the bench with a suspicious amount of others, making the whole shelter creak as she leans against its support.

>"That's an ugly-looking wolf," she says, the others turning their attention toward the pair of you now.

>"Officer Patricia Birch," your escort says gruffly, whipping out her badge, "You lot see any small guns around this bay?"

>"Not other than the ones we got," the muscular-looking one says, before Roxxi hits her lightly.

>"What do you mean, officer? Small like that lil' cutie?" she asks, pointing to you.

>"Small enough for my perp to use, yeah," Pat growls.

>You realize you've never seen her anger pointed at anyone aside from you-- whenever it's at Talia it's always at you too. It's an odd feeling, seeing her bristle, growl, and scrunch up at someone else.

>"Oh, did he lose it?" the smallest of the bunch (though still about seven feet tall) asks, fortunately standing out of Roxxi's range.

>"That's the story," Patricia snorts. "I need to check around here, just to make sure. You four need to wait while I do."

>Roxxi snarls, but the tall, skinny one grabs her shoulder, something quiet going between them. The yeens back off at a grunt from their leader, their guns resting on the bench.

>Pat shoves you into the shelter, freshly bathed in their stink.

>"Get to work," she says, beginning to look herself. Then, more quietly: "And please, make it quick for my sake."

>No complaints there; you don't want to be near the yeens either, though likely for a very different reason than Pat. You stick close to her as the two of you investigate the shelter, and you wish desperately that she'd call it off. She's watching you closely, though, sneaking glances; clearly, she's not convinced that this isn't all an act.

>Time to really sell it, then.

>You mount the bench, going up on your toes to check the rafters, as if the gun had been stashed up there by some miracle.

>Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, though: you feel the normally-sturdy bench buckle beneath you, and you lose your balance. Your foot slips, and you tumble off the side toward the hard concrete--

>Only to land on something much more soft. And smelly.

>Roxxi can't resist belting out one of those yeeny laughs as she holds you to her spandex-clad chest, only squeezing tighter as you try to pull away.

>"Oh, don't worry, little man," she says, rubbing you in her stink, "I got you now, nothin' gonna hurt--"

>There's a smack, and she yips; you tumble to the ground. Strong arms yank you back, and you nearly do fall to the concrete as Patricia puts herself between you and the yeens.

>"Back off," she snaps, "I won't have you harassing my goddamn suspect!"

>Roxxi growls, rubbing a thigh; you notice then that Pat has a collapsible baton in hand. You can see her muscles tense as she grips it harder, her growl more in the back of the throat than the yeens'. You see her twitch, the chip going off, but she doesn't stop.

>"Go on..." she suddenly says, voice almost husky, "Give me an excuse..."

>The yeens are evidently just as disturbed as you-- they drag Roxxi back while she still growls, the smallest muscley one saying something about waiting by their cars. Patricia watches them go, fur still flared, still gripping the baton in a way that makes you reluctant to get her attention.

>"Uh... Pat? I-I think it's not here, either..."

>She turns her head slowly to look back at you, and it's now you notice the heaving breaths, her lips still curled back in a snarl.

>"Officer. Birch."

>"Y-Yeah, sorry. Seriously."

>She huffs for another moment, before letting it all out in a long sigh, closing her eyes. She stands, collapsing the baton, and lets her tail down.

>"Come on," she growls. You hop to it.

>The yeens are silent, letting the two of you by with stares-- this time, they're not mostly on you. You do your best not to stare at Patricia as the two of you search the rest of the way back to the parking lot, finding nothing of course.

>"No luck?" Sally asks with that dopey smile of hers when you pass the shack.

>"No," Pat grunts.

>"Oh, sorry. I hope everything works out!"

>You wave goodbye as Patricia drags you along, back to the glowie SUV. She lets you go to your door this time, though it's likely from exhaustion rather than trust.

>"So... what now?" you ask as she starts the vehicle, the radio softly coming to life.

>"I'm reporting it as stolen," she says, then after a moment adds "More evidence of negligence on your part."

>Ohh, you can't let that stand.

>"Might I remind you that you caused undo stress, which made me leave it? I was following all the proper safe transport laws, besides."

>She just growls a little. Evidently, that point has some water-- you'll be sure to tell the lawyer about it.

>An older song comes on the radio-- much, much older than what they'd normally play. There's not much else to focus on in the silence, and you hum along quietly to yourself.

>"...can't start a fire..."

>"...can't start-- without a spark..."

>"...this gun's for hire..."

>"...even if we're just dancing in the--"

>"You listen to oldies?" you ask the muttering mutt, not quite believing it.

>Pat jolts in her seat, suddenly gripping the steering wheel tight.

>"None of your business," she says; is that blush you see on her muzzle?

>"O-kay..." you say, letting it drop. You hadn't considered that she could be a person under all those layers of angry stereotype, but it almost seems like she doesn't want to be; she turns the radio off, the car filling with silence. Most anthro-sized cars like this have extra soundproofing, since road-noise is hell on their ears.

>But right now, this silence is hell on yours.

>"Hey Pat," you say, then quickly add "I-I mean, Officer Birch?"

>"What, Anon?" she sighs, not looking at you.

>"Thanks for what you did back there. Really."

>She huffs, but that's it.

>She stays quiet as you reach over and turn the radio on. But you can swear you hear her humming along.

>'What do you mean?'

>You groan, tapping away at your phone.

>'I mean what I said. I'm trying to see if we can't get everything thrown out since Pat's a bitch.'

>Talia is not happy that you're being vague. She was concerned about the gun, bless her heart, but when you told her that you spent the day trying to find something to use on Pat, she got a bit bitchy herself.

>The difference is that she doesn't want to get you put in Special Assignment.

>'And? What'd you find?'

>You look at the folder of screenshots and recordings, all cut, organized, and backed-up onto the flashdrive along with the master files.

>'Enough. Hopefully.'

Chapter 4: More than Words

>You groan for what must be the hundredth time this morning: you forgot there's a goddamn water pipe up here.

>You get down from the chair and drag it back out from your bedroom, slumping down in it and setting the small box on the table. You really thought that the top of your closet would be a good place for it, but you don't want it anywhere near the pipes. Sure, they'll probably never burst while you're here-- well, maybe not never-- but they can get sweaty. Moisture is the last thing you need near your baby.

>Your illegal baby.

>It's a strange feeling for you; ever since you started getting into this hobby a few years ago, you've always followed the State's stupid laws to the letter. You were just fortunate enough to have a weird taste in guns, so they didn't affect you too much. But keeping the Kolibri after claiming it as stolen, even if it's not an actual machine gun, is crossing that line.

>Pat told you yesterday that aside from being 'evidence' of your evil intent to make a devastating automatic weapon smaller than your palm, finding it now would be evidence of negligence on your part. So 'finding' it in your stuff is out.

>But there's no way in hell you're going to get rid of it: even if you were to find a black market to sell it on, you doubt anyone would want to buy it-- they'd be more interested in you; donating it to a museum would be ideal for it, but you know for a fact they'd notify the State in one way or another that you did. And you wouldn't task anyone else with caring for it, as low maintenance as it would be, since they'd likely be considered the thief if the State ever caught wind of them possessing it.

>And there's no fucking way you're going to throw it in a ditch.

>So you've spent the entire morning trying to find a suitable place for it in your already-cluttered apartment. Somewhere hidden enough that it'd pass a police search, should Pat be a real bitch, while also being as close to a stable environment as you can get.

>And so far, everywhere you've looked in the small 3-room flat has either been too obvious or too damp, dark, or otherwise hazardous. Enough that even putting the gun and its box inside another box with desiccant packets doesn't put your mind at ease.

>You rack your brain again, trying to come at the issue from another angle: where do you put stuff that needs this kind of treatment right now?

>No, the cedar chest won't work, there's already enough gun stuff in there. Though you suppose that you'll get in trouble for having an unsecured space for them anyway.

>The boxes of old books from your father won't do either: you packed the banker's boxes to the seams, so there'd be no room. And setting it atop them won't really help, since they're just in your closet.

>Think, anon, think; what other shit do you have that you need dry, stable, and won't be of too much interest to a stuck-up bitch with her panties in a twist?

>Your eyes catch on your computer, and you think back to when you built it. You look at the small box in your hand, and shake your head. There's no way... right?

>You open the case; a hard drive and optical drive sit there, filling all but one expansion slot. You take another look at the Kolibri's box, then at the open space: carefully, you slide the box into the case.

>Holy shit, it fits.

>You slide the box in and shut the case, filled with an absurd pride. It'll stay nice and dry there, and you doubt you'll get the computer hot enough to be a problem. And since it's a modest model, mostly scavenged from inexpensive old parts, there's no l33t gamer glass to check out your sick RGB setup-- or the box.

>Not that you have RGB anything... seemed a bit tacky to you, even if you were to have a whole set of gear all synced up.

>You break for lunch, feeling accomplished for the day. Moreso than you do when getting back from work, actually; your position at the library is interesting, to say the least, but not exactly fulfilling. Doing completely different tasks from one day to the next keeps things fresh, but at the end of the day it's all a bit soul-crushing.

>Plenty of time to think about it while you make your extravagant meal of an egg sandwich and veggies.

>On the back end, there's an infinite pile of books that need cataloging, repair, and inspection for state approval-- though you don't exactly follow the guidelines for that one-- and on the front end you get to deal with people. It's like retail, except the quiet makes the weird occurrences all the more loud.

>And unfortunately for you, most of it is related to species. And not just the fact that you're a human, though those buncels are really annoying. Human supremacists like to donate 'books,' usually on printer paper. 'You're a human,' they say, 'You get me, right?'

>Thank god Pete is there most of the time. Humans don't seem too superior when they try to stare down a retired panther-cop doing security work.

>He's the reason why you don't get those supremacists, too; he's just a guy. Big and furry, sure, but he's got his wants and needs. He's doing this work mainly to support his mother during her sunset years; he's got grandkids that are just beginning preschool; he likes going bowling with old buddies from the force after work.

>And more than that, he's got his own issues with the State-- and he worked for it.

>...So do you, technically. Now that you think about it, the library is a State institution.

>Though you won't be working there this week: once they heard you were charged, they gave you the week off.

>Whether you'll be able to return to it next week is still up in the air.

>Or, you know, if your newly assigned wife will let you.

>Before you can fall too deep into that depressive prospect, your phone rings. You don't recognize the number, but pick up anyway as you clean up the table.

>"Hello?"

>"Hello. Is this Mr. Anon Anonerson?"

>The voice on the other end is professional and most certainly male.

>"Yes," you say, mirroring his tone, "Who's this?"

>"Steve Lyons, your attorney."

>"Oh!" you say, dropping your dishes in the sink and hastily cleaning your hands, "Well, good to meet you! Anything specific you need from me right away?"

>"If you're not busy, I would appreciate going over the basics of your case, and setting up a time to meet and discuss it more fully in-person."

>An in-person meeting: the perfect way to provide your evidence on Pat without a fear of it getting caught up by a bug or other monitor.

>"Certainly!" you say, doing your best not to sound too excited, "I guess the basics of it are that the gun had a malfunction on the range, so Officer Birch took the opportunity to swing her weight around. She's never exactly liked me, I think-- ask any of the people at the range, they'll be able to tell you."

>"I intend to," Lyons says, "starting with Ms. Maldovich. It would be best to go over the details of your history in person, however. For now, I take it that you're pleading innocent?"

>"Correct. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention: Talia-- my partner-- she knows some gun-law experts, and was going to get them in on the case."

>"I'll be sure to mention that when I contact her," the lawyer says, pen scratching audible in the background, "On the topic, do either of you have plans to make a civil union soon, considering the charges?"

>"No, not right now."

>"Alright," he sighs, "Well, my next opening for a meeting between the three of us will be 6pm tomorrow. Will that work for you?"

>"Yes, that works."

>"Excellent. I'll send both you and Talia a copy of my CV when I've called her as well. Do you have any questions before I get to it, or anything I should know?"

>"Well..." you start-- telling him about interacting with Pat will likely get you an ass-chewing, but it'll explain how exactly you got the evidence you did.

>"I may have interacted with Officer Birch recently... like, yesterday."

>The line is quiet for a moment; when Lyons speaks next, it's in a very measured tone.

>"I assume you did so because you had to?"

>"The gun that started all this got stolen at the range, so yeah. She is ATF, after all."

>Lyons sighs heavily on the other end; "Well, it seems we'll have a lot to discuss tomorrow. Please refrain from interacting with Officer Birch, since you're under investigation for harassment..."

>"Believe me, I tried that before this came up."

>"Good," the lawyer replies without even a chuckle, "I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Anonerson."

>"See you then," you say.

>You get back to cleaning as the call ends-- you're actually humming a tune as you do it. Lyons seems capable enough, and with the evidence you've got, it'll be easy even if he isn't.

>At least, you hope so.

>A few hours later, you're lounging around, trying to distract yourself from your anxieties when there's a knock at the door. A forceful, semi-familiar knock.

>Shuffling over, you groan internally as you look through the peephole: Patricia is staring back at you, arms crossed.

>"Is this necessary?" you ask through the door, getting your phone ready to record, "My lawyer said I shouldn't interact with you unless I really have to..."

>"You think I'd come knocking if it wasn't?"

>Great. She's angry already.

>You open the door, and again she nearly tramples you on her way in. She snarls a little as her tail brushes you on the way, and you flatten even further against the wall. She's looking around the room again, though this time it's a bit more than just a suspicious glance.

>"What part of this is necessary?" you ask as she begins to rummage through the drawers of your coffee table.

>"You'll address me by my title, you little shit," Patricia says, but straightens up anyway, looking down at you with hands on her hips, a smile on her lips.

>You really don't like it when she does that.

>"As an officer of the ATF, I'm here for the safety of the community," she recites, "This investigation is just me doing my best to ensure your missing firearm is found, and not left out on the street where it might get up to no good."

>You're stunned for a moment as she goes back to her search, her tail wagging just a tiny bit, poking out from those tight pants: she just threw legalese at you.

>That bitch! You're the one that does that!

>"Well, Ms. Birch, I already--"

>"Officer," she growls, tossing the cushions off your couch.

>"Officer Birch, I already told you, I looked for it in my bag when I returned and it wasn't there. And I doubt it fell between my couch cushions."

>"Oh, but we need to be sure," she hums on the edge of a growl, standing and giving you that evil smile again, "Have to do a thorough search, don't we? Just in case?"

>"Don't you think I have already?" you ask, starting to lose composure as she walks into the next room and begins raiding your fridge. She doesn't respond, just yanking out the brittle plastic drawers of the poor icebox.

>At least the loud cracking will get picked up on the phone...

>"In there? Really?" you ask as she opens the freezer and tosses things out, probably cracking tiles, "You know I wouldn't put it there!"

>"Can't be too careful," she says, leaving you to clean up the mess. You're not going to right now, even if it means the bags of minestrone melt a bit: you want photographic evidence of what she's done, which is pure intimidation.

>But more than that, she's going into your bedroom now-- which is where your PC is.

>You find her sniffing your pillow, straightening up with a smug look when you enter.

>"Small bed for you and Talia to share."

>"We've got separate places, Officer Bit--irch," you say, catching yourself, "Besides, you're looking for a gun here, right?"

>She leans down close to you, lips curled in a smile.

>"And anything else that might be of interest, perpetrator..."

>She stays there staring at you just long enough to be awkward before turning abruptly, tearing the sheets off your bed and searching your mattress.

>"W-wouldn't that be a bit... illegal, since you don't have a warrant?" you ask, sliding yourself between her and your desktop.

>Patricia's ears perk up at the tremor in your voice, and she looks at you again.

>"You're under investigation, Anon," she hums, taking two long strides to press your ass against the desk, making you lean back over it as she towers over you. She leans in sniffing your neck again; you freeze, fingers gripping the wood.

>"You're so pitiful when you're scared," she growls in your ear, pulling back-- gotta keep your eyes on hers, even if your heart's pounding.

>Her gaze slips to the left, over your computer, then to the right, over a small bookcase. She sneers at you, then goes to--

>The bookcase. You don't let out the sigh of relief that waits in your lungs; as wired as you are, you know it'd tell her she chose wrong. Instead you stay frozen where you are, looking at her examine the books while you try and think of a way to spin this. The fact that there's nothing too spicy there might work against you...

>Patricia pulls out one of the bigger volumes you have-- Encyclopedia of Small Arms Vol. 1-- presumably to see if it's hollow, when something clatters around at the back. You hold your breath again as her ears perk up and she crouches down, tail wagging a little as she tears out all the books in that section to get at whatever it was.

>Her tail stills when she grabs it; after a moment, she stands up, a mixed look on her face. There's disappointment there, along with disbelief as she holds up a magazine.

>"Babes and Bullets...?" she asks, flicking it at you; the slutty panther dressed in tattered, completely impractical tactical gear stares at you lustfully from the cover, licking the barrel of the Barrett pressed between her generous breasts.

>You completely forgot that you had it; Talia got it for you as a gag gift a while back, enjoying how flustered you got. At least it means there's a little truth to the blush in your face, right now.

>"Move, you horny little perv," Patricia grunts as she shoves past you, "If I'd known that's what you were worried about, I wouldn't have wasted my time."

>You don't say anything as she steps out of the danger zone, headed instead toward the shelves of various shit along the far wall. About the worst thing she'll find in there would be a suspect piece of pre-state surplus or two-- though the slutty panther's stare suggests otherwise.

>To keep up the act, you hastily shove the magazine back in the shelf while you eye your uninvited guest. She's busy looking through the shelves, pulling out the occasional drawer or box and rummaging through the contents, tossing them carelessly on the bed. Her tail's not wagging anymore, though her ass sways a little, crouched down like she is.

>Man... those pants are tight...

>You stiffen, realizing that you're stiffening down below.

>Fuck you, slutty panther.

>Actually, no: fuck you, Talia.

>Your thoughts on who to blame for your stiffie are interrupted when Patricia makes a soft noise of surprise and satisfaction; she pulls back from the shelves, holding the box of old audio equipment.

>"Don't think I have any Springsteen tapes," you say quietly; her ears flatten slightly, but she doesn't snap at you. She's too focused on the other box near there, setting the one full of cassettes aside for the one full of records.

>"You really must fancy yourself a museum," she snorts, opening the box, "No one makes players for these anymore."

>Something tells you there's an opportunity here; you'll take a risk.

>You'll get close to her.

>You walk around the bed, making plenty of noise as you do: she turns and snarls at you, but backs down a little when she sees you're still coming. And that you don't exactly look threatening. You crouch down next to her, and pull out the old, textured plastic case. She's still growling low when you set it on the bed, only stopping when you open it up to reveal that it's a record player.

>The shepherdess stares at you, expression guarded; you stare back. After a moment, you get up and walk out of the room.

>You're not quite sure what just happened, but your gut is telling you it went alright. Regardless, she appears to have passed over the dangerous part of the room anyway-- and from the sound of vinyl against cardstock, she's done searching anyway.

>That or she's putting on music to fuck you to.

>--Metaphorically, of course.

>...Fucking slutty Barrett panther...

>You decide to leave Patricia be for the time being; maybe she'll think you're not scared and will give up. Maybe she'll get bored and come harass you more for the phone.

>Still, the longer she's here, the more chance there is that something will go sideways. She's an angry bitch, and you're her favorite target; the less time she's here, the better, evidence be damned.

>She seems to not like being a person, so treating her like one sounds like the best way to get her to leave. You think, pretending for the moment that she's an invited guest-- and a good one at that.

>Food! That's what you need. And you won't just offer it to her-- you'll insist. You go back into the kitchen, avoiding the various leftovers and frozen dinners strewn on the floor, and take out a large plate. At least she didn't decide to tear through your cabinets...

>A quick look around the floor gives you all the hors d'oeuvre you need: slices of cheese, hard sausage, some bits of melon, and olives. For a brief moment you consider pulling out some crackers, but decide against it. That'd detract from the fact everything there is from the floor, from her doing.

>As you're slicing things up and arranging them all nice, you hear the soft sounds of a guitar from the bedroom.

>At least it sounds like she decided not to break that thing too...

>Speaking of, you take the moment to document the mess that is your kitchen, pausing the sound recording in favor of video. You survey Patricia's path of destruction through your apartment as the vocals come in on whatever song it is she's put on, soft as the guitar. When you hear them, as you approach the bedroom door, you slow.

>"...More than wo-ords... is all you have to do to make it real,"

>"...Then you wou-ldn't have to sa-ay,"

>"that you love meeee..."

>"...Cause I'-d al, -read-y,"

>"...Knoow..."

>Carefully, quietly, you slide the phone away, turning off the recorder; she's sitting there on your bed, her foot tapping in time, her eyes closed and her head in the air as she moves on to the final chorus.

>The voice coming out of Pat doesn't seem like her own, not a rough, growling thing. It's sonorous, every syllable and every pitch perfect. It's not soft, but it's not harsh: she sounds good.

>Like, real good.

>And maybe it's just the words of the song, but she also sounds... sad.

>She lowers her head as the record tries to glide to the next track, stopped by a single tap of her finger. When she opens them, her eyes immediately dart to you as you lean there in the doorway.

>Her ears instantly flatten, and you start like you've been shot at.

>"You, uh, wouldn't want a--" you begin, but she's already up and growling, bowling you over on her way past.

>"Search is done," she snarls back to you as you're picking yourself up. The door slams hard enough to shake the building; that's when you realize she crossed the entire apartment in only a second or two.

>Your heart begins to slow as you survey the carnage, someone peeling out in the lot outside. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, and start up the record again as you start cleaning up.

>'I'm not fucking with you, she really did.'

>Talia doesn't believe what happened.

>Not the singing part, anyway-- she was, probably still is worried about you when you said Pat came over. She told you your luck would only go so far.

>'And you're sure the worst thing she found was your porno-mag? Nothing else she slipped away from you?'

>'YOUR mag,' you correct her, then add 'She left in a hurry, so I don't think so. Besides, it's Pat-- you think she'd pass up a chance to gloat?'

>'True' Talia sends back. Then, a few minutes later, 'Did you catch her in the act?'

>You're not sure what exactly the she-wolf is talking about, given all the shit Pat did, so you just reply with a simple 'yes.'

>'Make sure to bring it tomorrow, I bet Lyons will want to see it'

>You chuckle to yourself, again looking at your digital handiwork of sorted files, freshly updated for the day's events.

>'Of course,' you send-- but something feels off.

>You close the window with the flashdrive's contents, going to a folder hidden on your disk.

>It's not like you live with anyone, but it's not anyone else you're hiding it from. Kinda like the 'Babes and Bullets.'

>You click on the one audio file there, the name still a string of seemingly-random numbers.

>Her voice flows through your headphones, the chorus rising as the guitar begins to die:

>"Wha-at, wo-uld, yo-u do..."

>"If my heart was torn in two,"

>"More than words to show you fe-el,"

>"That your love for me is re-al..."

>"Wha-at wo-uld yo-u say,"

>"If I took those words away,"

>"Then you couldn't make things new,"

>"Just by saying, I love-"

>"Yoou..."

Chapter 5: Under Pressure

>When the phone rings, you find yourself oddly relieved that the caller ID reads 'Officer Bitch.'

>For a moment, you were worried that it would be Lyons, delaying the meeting or informing you of some sort of complication.

>But you can deal with one more dose of Pat's bullshit-- just as long as you can meet with the DA come 6pm.

>"Officer Pat!" you answer, moving away from your running microwave as it heats up lunch, "Calling me on your lunch break?"

>"Officer. Birch," she growls through the phone, but moves on quickly. Oddly quickly.

>"I'm informing you that I sent out a notice to all SFLs-- State Firearms Licensees-- that your gun was reported missing. If anyone tries to sell it, the SFL will contact us, and we'll deal with the situation accordingly."

>She pauses, and something in her tone changes.

>"Normally, I would do a search of our confiscated inventory for this Sector-- but since your little machine gun is a curio piece, it's not in our database. I'd need to go down to Evidence and physically look through what we have-- and since I'm not familiar with what exactly yours looks like, that wouldn't go very well."

>"Ah. Well, that's unfortuna-"

>"I wasn't finished, prick," she says, "I'm offering you the chance to come down here and look through things with me."

>You're quiet for a moment, and she sighs.

>"I've got to search the whole thing anyway as part of standard procedure. Having you there would turn it from a day-long experience to a few hours at most. So just do me a favor and say yes, alright?"

>Despite everything that she's done, despite her abrasive tone, the way she asks isn't... completely off-putting. But you're not an idiot: this could easily be a trap, the only question being what kind.

>"Is it... normal for some outsider to be brought in to look at confiscated weapons?"

>"No," she snorts, "Consider it a special treat, perp."

>Not a clear answer. Maybe you should just ask?

>"And I'm not going to get in trouble?"

>"Oh, you will. But that's not until Sunday. Really, Anon, you should be thanking me-- this'll probably be the last chance you have to look at rusty old guns before you'll be barred from having them."

>There's that wonderful gloating. It sounds like she's still confident about the charges and how skewed the court will be, but you're still on edge. And yet, you find yourself wanting to go, DA's orders be damned. It may be a chance to get more evidence against her.

>And hey, trying to work with the system and be a good citizen will probably help out in court, right?

>You nearly laugh.

>"Sure, Pat, I'm game. Always willing to help out the State when its employees can't measure up to the task."

>Then she does the most unusual thing: she laughs.

>"I'll send you the address," she says, regaining her composure, "wait for me in the lobby."

>The call ends, and you're not sure how to feel: her laughing was almost worse than her spraying spittle at you through the receiver. Is she so pissed she can't help but laugh, like you are when you read the headlines? Is she going to teach you a lesson along with the entire ATF department? Or did you fall for a trap?

>The 'ping' of a text interrupts your thoughts, her speed at odds with her department. It has the address, along with a little message:

>'Come as soon as you can-- if you're not here within the hour, you'll get another obstruction of justice charge. :)'

>...State officers sending emojis on duty has to be illegal, right?

>You're tempted to ask the dismissive secretary you find at the lobby, but think better of it. She appears far too interested in whatever's on her computer (not likely work) and her bag of chips than you, and you're not about to interrupt a boar in the middle of eating. It was scary enough asking her to let Pat know that you're here sitting in one of the few cheap, plastic chairs.

>The room is like the building itself: deceptively small, and very utilitarian. All straight lines and crisp angles, few spare chairs, and no art adorning the concrete-colored walls. It's a state building through and through, but you imagine deeper within you'll find the remnants of old architecture. Why bother making new secure storage vaults when the old system left some ready-made?

>A loud buzzer noise jolts you from your daydreams about what lies beneath, a familiar form sauntering out from the one door past the desk.

>"You're awful prompt," Patricia snorts, standing with her hands on her hips, "Eager to come here, are we?"

>"When you threaten me with another charge, yeah, I am," you say, getting up. She leads you back behind the desk without a word, the boar giving neither of you any attention.

>At least, until another screeching alarm goes off as you try and pass through the doorway; her bag of chips goes flying. She squeals, and Patricia grabs you in a flash, her arm wrapped across your chest and pulling you to her, lifting your feet off the floor.

>"Quit fumbling for your gun, Posie, I got him!" she yells at the boar; the secretary doesn't stop trying to pull out the shotgun from under the desk until Pat barks again, literally this time. You can't tell if you're going to be dismembered now or not, but the fact her arm is across your chest rather than your neck gives you hope.

>"Let me guess," she growls in your ear, "You didn't search him."

>"I-I did," the hog says, as you realize Pat isn't threatening you for once, "I gave him a visual inspection!"

>The rumble in the shepherdess' chest vibrates the back of your head, and only now do you realize what the soft padding behind you is. Before you can question whether or not liking it is a sin or not, she lets you down, turning you around and looking you in the eye.

>"You're not stupid enough to carry here, Anon. What metal do you have on you?"

>"Umm... my phone, keys... pocket-- er, utility knife..."

>She glares at you for that last one, but evidently it's not enough to warrant assault.

>"Alright," she sighs, crossing her arms, "Spread your arms. I gotta pat you down."

>...You spoke too soon, as per usual.

>"D-don't suppose that's a play on your name, is it?" you mutter, complying.

>"You're the only one that calls me that," she growls, moving in.

>Her hands are strong and firm, feeling your chest and under your arms. It's almost like a massage when she moves to your shoulders, though you don't let her know that. It almost feels like a nuru one when she does your back, not bothering to turn you around: you now know for sure that her uniform is too tight in the chest. The stretched fabric stares you in the face, straining buttons inches away.

>You notice the boar looking on as Pat crouches down and does your legs, doing the outsides first. It's a leering look, and it only makes things more uncomfortable when the shepherdess works her way up the back of your legs.

>"Fuck off, Posie," the dog growls, making you tense with how close and low she is, "You can get off on your own time."

>The boar snorts, but the continuing low growl convinces her to turn away. You relax slightly for a second, but then Pat gets to your butt. You don't dare look down as her fingers grip you there, firm as she gropes, soft as she checks your pockets, then firm again as she tugs your waistband.

>You stay tense as she does your front and insides, closing your eyes as she reaches your upper thighs. The last thing you need is her strong hands near your balls: this is the bitch that's had a hateboner for you practically since you met.

>But instead of crushing you in her fist like a pair of ripe grapes, she just feels gently with the back of her hand.

>Don't get stiff. Don't get stiff, don'tgetstiffdon'tgetstiff...

>"Alright," she says, standing up, "Let's go."

>You let out a quiet sigh of relief, and follow her through the metal detector again, seeing her twitch as it goes off. You note that unlike the range, she's not insistent on keeping you at arm's length-- not that you're going to try straying too far away.

>The hallway is tight and constrained, enough that even for you it'd be single-file. Despite the utilitarian dressing, you think that your hunch of a pre-state building being back here was right. The doorways you see were clearly made larger, though.

>After a few turns, things open up considerably; it looks like a stereotypical office you'd see in one of those pre-state movies. Like, the really old ones, with corded phones and big tube TVs. Cubicles cover the whole of the room save for a main pathway that leads down the center, smaller corridors navigating the maze.

>But the occupants of the brightly-lit office are anything but small, most at least a head or two taller than the cubicle walls. Clearly, the equipment they're using was meant for human-sized workers. You can hear the sounds of fabric-on-fabric as Patricia leads you through.

>You note her pace has sped up-- and that her tail is much more stiff than earlier.

>A living boulder steps out into the hallway, and you realize that fabric-on-fabric noise wasn't from mere office work: the workers were scraping against the padded walls of the cubicles, their clothes stuffed like sausage casings. A quick glance makes you feel very, very vulnerable, finding that Patricia is the only one here with a weight below 400 pounds.

>...And she's seven feet fucking tall and stacked.

>Waitwhat?

>You'll deal with that later, the fat rat is talking.

>"Sergeant Birch," the rotund rat says with a mocking salute, "Bringing back a trophy from your one-woman war on crime?"

>"It's called doing my job, Ronda," Pat says with more control than you've ever seen, "I'm just going to Evidence to look for a missing gun."

>"And what, you can't identify it yourself, oh former Mistress of Arms?" someone calls, making a ripple of laughter. You can feel their eyes on you, and unconsciously you shift a little closer to Patricia.

>The shepherdess shoots a glare at whoever it was that threw out that last comment-- a king-size kangaroo, by the looks of it.

>"Can you tell me what piece you have tucked under all those folds, Tiana?"

>The roo snarls-- they can do that?-- but doesn't answer.

>"That's what I thought," your escort says, turning to the rat that's blocking the way. "Now move, Ronda. I've got shit to do."

>The rat snorts.

>"Don't act like you're better than any of us, Birch," she says, crossing her flabby arms, "You do the grunt work, sure-- that don't make you better than any of us."

>Pat's hands clench, and her tail and ears dip. Something's beginning to smell foul.

>"Move."

>"Just doing my job, ensuring security," Ronda says with a smirk, "You brought in a visitor, had to check in. In fact, we may need to perform a more thorough search-- eh, Cas-"

>Pat suddenly whirls around, baton in hand, and swings at your head with ferocity, already striking home by the time you yelp and try to dodge. But the loud crack that echoes through the office isn't your head-- its the paw of a hulking skunk, one that somehow snuck up behind you.

>Said skunk screeches and recoils, the whole office taking a collective gasp. Ronda lurches forward toward Patricia but stops short at the high-pitched whine of a taser.

>"Your ass is so--"

>"Everyone stand the fuck back!" Patricia shouts over the rat, trembling like she did at the range yesterday. "Section 3672: all suspects not detailed will be afforded respect and remain unmolested!"

>A few of the agents in the cubicles still grunt and search around for their guns, but most either gave up or heard the words Pat said.

>"You and Cassie ought to be investigated," the shepherdess says to Ronda, voice low.

>"And you should be getting sentenced for attacking an officer, you unstable, chipped bitch," the rat replies, voice just as low.

>But more controlled.

>"Go on to Evidence with your little boy-toy," she says, stepping aside, "and we'll all pretend this didn't happen."

>Patricia's ears are flat against her skull now, her lips curled and a growl emanating from her throat as she keeps her eyes on Ronda. But eventually she reaches back and taps you with the baton, motioning for you to follow.

>The looks as the two of you move on are a mix of leers at you and mean looks at Patricia, many jowls hanging ever lower and foreheads furrowed. Your escort looks over her shoulder the whole time, fur still on end.

>You can hear whispers of "crazy-ass bitch," "brown-snouter," and "goddamn vet," along with light snickering.

>And if you can hear it, there's no doubt that Pat can hear even more.

>Only when you both round another corner and begin going down a slope does she put away her tools.

>"Does stuff like that happen every day?"

>Patricia looks back at you, and you can't tell if she's mad at you or just mad in general.

>"It should," she says, "Those idiots read the benefits section of their contracts and nothing else."

>"What do they even do? It doesn't look like field work."

>The shepherdess snorts, loosening a little.

>"Hell no. They stay here and do the important things, like digitizing old records, making internet bait, or harassing the PD."

>You see her twitch slightly, and she grunts.

>"At least, that's what they're supposed to do. The IT guy is in on it, so nothing happens when they don't, which is every day."

>You can see her getting tense again as she begins to mutter.

>"State fucking wonders why we're doing so poorly, got rid of all the fucking standards. None of these asshats could pass a physical, half don't know what a receiver is, and--"

>The next shock is much more substantial, and she has to pause for a second, clenching and releasing her fist. You decide to stay quiet as the two of you move on, more convinced that this isn't some elaborate act to try and bait you. That, and you don't want her turning her anger at you.

>The doors to evidence storage aren't nearly as impressive as you imagined, looking more like jail cell doors than those in a bank.

>"Aren't you worried about someone breaking in?" you ask as Patricia thumbs a finger reader.

>"What kind of dumbass would try and raid the local ATF office?" she counters. You open your mouth to mention her coworkers, then think better of it.

>The inside is also unimpressive, looking more like a morgue or safe-deposit room than what you imagined. You can feel the moisture in the air, and shudder a little; you can almost smell the rust already.

>"So, how is this place organized, exactly?" you ask.

>"It's not," she says, passing by a metal cart and grabbing a clipboard, "We fill from the back to the front, then liquidate inventory."

>You shudder again-- at least the majority of stuff here is probably still in production.

>...right?

>"I-is most of the stuff here modern?" you ask as she looks at a list.

>"What's it to you?" she asks, her ears perking a little.

>"Just that... you know... I'd hate for it to all be old pre-State stuff that's getting destroyed. Being a history nerd and all."

>She doesn't say anything, her ears staying pricked. She wades into the forest of standing drawers, leaving you to follow. You nearly bump into her when she stops abruptly, checking the inventory sheet to one of the labels on the rows.

>"Alright, first half of this row is everything we have from the date that you lost your gun," she says, heading in and pulling a key from her obnoxious belt, "This'll be really simple: I'll open the drawers, and you give it a look. Don't touch anything, don't try anything, or I'll put you on the ground before you can say 'bitch.' Got it?"

>"Yeah."

>"Good."

>She opens the first drawer as curtly as she speaks; it's just as much of a horror show as you imagined when you step into the room. The guns lay uncovered on bare metal, the drawers not at all sealed from the outside air. There's nothing to reduce the moisture in the air, and rape-marks of an electropen scar all you can see. The only saving grace is the lights are bright enough for you to make out everything there easily enough. Or perhaps that's a curse.

>"Can't you at least put in desiccant packets or something?" you ask, getting a growl.

>"Don't waste my time, Anon. Is it there or not?"

>"No, but these other ones are gonna rust."

>"And life goes on," she says, slamming the drawer shut, "They'll just end up in the crusher anyway."

>You're tempted to voice your displeasure about that as well, but decide against it as she opens the next drawer. She doesn't prompt you this time, just waiting for you to shake your head or go 'no.' The contents are just as exciting as the first drawer, a mix of modern and near-modern long arms and small arms crammed together, rattling around in pain as Pat slams it shut.

>"Where do you get all these? Raids?" you ask while she opens the next drawer; you get a laugh in response.

>"We pick up more from people being careless than we do from actually acting," she says, "For every raid, there's 100 confiscation warrants because people can't fucking renew licenses or realize they can't have what they just threw up on the web."

>"...So, yeah, raids."

>"If that's what you call 'em, perp," she sighs.

>The two of you get through the bottom set of shelves before she says something to you next.

>"What's this one?" she asks, pointing to some kind of Kalashnikov.

>"What's it to you?" you mock, scanning the rest of the drawer for a gun you know won't be there.

>"Marking info was scratched off, and it doesn't take normal 7.62 mags," she growls, "You're a gun nut. Tell me."

>You glance at it: short barrel, picatinny dust cover, folding stock-- modern production of some sort. You reach out to grab it but stop, looking up at Pat. She's a little disappointed to see you hesitate.

>"Can I handle it?" you sigh.

>"Yes," she concedes, defeated. She's not gonna trick you this time.

>You pick it up along with the magazine, a matching code scratched into both; it's got no caliber markings on it, but you can tell it's bigger than 10mm by a little. And as Patricia said, the serial and manufacturing marks are all scratched out. Easiest way to figure it out is giving the action a run.

>The bolt's gritty, but that doesn't tell you much. You slide the mag in slow, making sure you keep your eyes on Pat as you do: she's tense, waiting for you to give her an excuse. Pointing the muzzle down, you slide the bolt back again; it locks open, narrowing down your options. Only thing left is to figure out if it's open-bolt or not.

>You squeeze the trigger, and Pat jumps as the bolt slams home.

>"Open-bolt AK clone in .50AE; most likely a Decade Arms," you say, taking the mag back out and putting everything back in the drawer, "Probably made a decade ago or so, ironically."

>The shepherdess grumbles, slamming the drawer shut; then a smile creeps across her face.

>"How do you know so much about modern arms, Anon?" she asks in a saccharine voice, "You can't have those remember?"

>You roll your eyes; she's really reaching now.

>"Don't bother, Pat," you sigh, "You saw my book collection. Encyclopedia of Small Arms, Volumes 1-8. Think that one's in book 6 or 7."

>She grumbles again, her face falling. She opens the next drawer violently, and you find yourself unable to resist.

>"You can give it a read the next time you stop by for tea."

>That earns a growl.

>"Maybe I'll take a look at that Babes and Bullets issue too."

>Her smile comes back for a moment as you blush, but it's not there for long. Her tail droops lower and lower as the two of you work your way through the drawers; she seems drained. Given her surroundings, though, you can see why.

>"So, you were in the service?" you ask, trying to alleviate some of the boredom. You'll be 'searching' every single drawer here and finding nothing, after all.

>"Focus on looking for your gun, perp," she says. But then, after a moment: "Yes."

>"Being Mistress of Arms must have helped getting into the ATF."

>"I like to think it was my service record."

>A thought strikes you as she moves onto the next drawer, letting out a sigh.

>It's your turn to try and catch her.

>"How come you couldn't ID that Decade Arms, then?" you ask, "Seems like a former armorer shouldn't have an issue doing that..."

>She gives you a look, though it's not as harsh as you had expected.

>"That's civvie equipment-- we didn't deal with that," she says, crossing her arms and watching you look through the drawer.

>"Any stolen equipment we recaptured I dealt with, but civilian gear got the grinder."

>You pause, your blood running cold.

>...G-g-grinder?

>All of the resistance arms got thrown in a grinder?

>"...Seemed like a waste, really," she sighs heavily.

>You look up at her, her eyes closed.

>"All because people were taking men as trophies instead, and they needed a way to break them."

>You quickly turn back to the drawer, finishing up. Evidently, the horror stories you've read about how the state dealt-- deals with?-- organized resistances are true. At least to an extent. But the more interesting thing is that the way Patricia said it, she didn't sound proud.

>"Did you take a trophy?" you ask, stepping back from the drawer.

>"No," she growls, slamming the drawer shut. "I did my job."

>She pulls out the next drawer before crossing her arms, looking through you at someone else.

>"We all did, in my unit."

>As you go through the evidence guns, finding nothing but more modern offerings, you try and judge her age. The shepherdess isn't young, but she's not ancient either. You're wondering if she was born into the service, or conscripted before she'd even hit double digits. She fits all the other criteria: martial training, a focus on duty, and anger issues.

>Not to mention a regulator chip.

>And if that's the case, whoever was in her unit would be close to her.

>"What happened to them?" you ask.

>She's quiet for a few seconds, and you almost look up at her to see if she's going to kill you when she speaks.

>"Some-- died. Part of the job. But the others-- we ended up like me, scattered around the State when it came time to downsize."

>She's looking somewhere else again, and you see her nails digging into her arms, looking like she's clutching them rather than crossing them nonchalantly.

>"We were told to forget that life. Leave it behind. So I did. Don't know where any of them are, just that they're alive."

>She turns to you then, and you don't look away.

>"I've got a job to do, now. Now keep looking for your gun so I can get on with it."

>"Alright," she announces after what feels like hours, slamming the last drawer shut, "That's everything that's come in since Sunday. Looks like your piece isn't here."

>You're glad too-- not because your time with Pat for the day will be over, but because it's edging close to your 6 o'clock meeting with Lyons. Patricia was... less of a bitch than you expected, more pissed in general than vindictive.

>You let her lead the way out, her tail swinging limply along. It straightens out when you pass through the office again, now much less populated. The few people left are crowded around one person's screen, the noises of some movie or video obvious; you're fairly sure Patricia is growling as she stares daggers, lips curled back. Her fellow feds don't care; her tail seems to hang even lower when the two of you are through, back into the tight corridors toward the front of the building.

>She gives you plenty of warning when she stops this time, her pace slowing gradually before she turns to you, expression neutral.

>"It's the end of the day, actually; we could check what just came in. Come on."

>She grabs your hand, yanking you along the hall to one of the doors.

>"Jeez, Pat!" you say as she drags you inside, "I get you've had a long day, but--"

>Then your feet are off the floor and your back's against the wall, her claws dug into your shoulders. She's already lunged in before you have time to say your prayers, her maw racing to your--

>Lips.

>She's... she's not mauling you.

>You feel her against you, her entire body tense against yours, her lips drawn taunt as her tongue pokes tentatively at yours.

>Neither of you breathe; her eyes are closed, while yours are wide open as she pushes insistently. Her tongue snakes between your lips, sliding along your teeth as her grip on your shoulders tightens.

>You feel yourself squeezing back, and realize you're cupping her tits. Her big, firm, squished-up-against-you tits.

>They squish against you harder when she drops a hand from your shoulder, a faint noise coming from her throat. Her fingers trail down along your side, gentle, like that last moment of the pat down.

>But it gets firm when she reaches her destination, gripping you hard between the legs-- and finding an embarrassing amount of hardness back.

>Her lips stifle your noise-- a whimper, a moan, you're not sure-- and you find your hands drifting down to her hips, to that bulky belt. They don't know what to do when you feel the back of your head hit the wall, Patricia letting out a soft moan through your lips.

>She breaks for a second, her breath coating your face before she goes deeper, your jaws making way for an insistent tongue.

>You stay frozen as she nuzzles against your lips, her teeth gently grazing your cheeks as she pulps you down below; you don't know what to do.

>More importantly, you don't know how to feel.

>When she finally pulls away for good, a string of saliva breaking between you, she opens her eyes.

>They're soft, locked on yours, for once those of a dog rather than a bitch.

>Those of a person rather than an angry machine.

>But her ears soon go flat.

>She shoves away from you with a growl, the door shaking on its hinges when she rips it open and stalks through, moving quick as she did yesterday when she fled the apartment. The thud of her boots on the carpet matches the thudding of your heart as you sit there against the wall.

>...Fuck.

>She didn't yell at you for calling her 'Pat.'

>The flashdrive is burning a hole in your pocket, but Talia and Lyons don't know that. They're too busy tearing you a new one for accepting her invitation to the station. Lyons is doing most of the work, while Talia just gives you the evil eye; you wonder if you're the first client to make the lion lose his composure.

>When you saw that Lyons was in fact a lion, you almost laughed. Shame he was working for a larger firm-- if he had his own practice, he could come up with some pretty good ads. He's got the sharp suit and the sharp mane. Though you're not sure if being one of the rare male anthros would help him or hurt him. The fact that he's not one of those enormous ones would certainly be in his favor, though.

>His latest shout brings you back to the present.

>"...And that is why, Mr. Anonerson, your astoundingly stupid actions may have just cost us the trial. All she has to do is get the judge to find an inkling of anti-state rhetoric in you, and every little interaction with her suddenly becomes evidence of contempt for the state."

>He sits back in his chair, having been leaning over the table for the past five minutes since you told them you went to the armory with the shepherdess.

>"And we all know what a futile battle that will be."

>You sigh; focus, Anon. This is important. What happened in that armory can wait.

>"Obviously sorry won't cut it," you say, "but sorry anyway. Like I said, I had thought it might be able to prove I was working with the system. But I see that interacting with Pat counteracts that; what can I do moving forward to fix things?"

>"Just sit there, shut up, and wait," Talia growls, "The Kolibri is gone, Anon. Let it go! Focus on finding it after we're out of this."

>Lyons nods in approval, squeezing his foam stress-gavel with the firm's logo on it.

>"At least it seems that we're set on that front: your associates know their specialty, Ms. Grilliz. Even without the gun here, the firearm charges should be easy to beat."

>"Good. What about the courtship charges?"

>The lawyer looks less pleased at Talia's latest interjection.

>"You two have no concrete mementos, no other signs of commitment such as temporary markings or cohabitation, not even a co-owned car. And with a lack of evidence, it'll likely be ruled guilty. Unless you two tie the knot, the best shot you have at dodging those charges would be to have the whole case be thrown out."

>"And how would we do that?" Talia asks, not needing to say a CU is not an option.

>"Prove that Ms. Birch has it out for the two of you," Lyons says, looking to you, "Ms. Maldovich has provided suitable eyewitness testimony, but that won't be enough. We need more substantial evidence to turn this around on her. The only good news is that we may have an easier time, given her regulator chip."

>The way Lyons is looking at you feels expectant, almost, as if he knew about what's in your pocket. You knew that you should say something, pull it out-- but you can't. You can't condemn her to whatever punishment the State would have in store.

>Because what if it isn't actual hate?

>"Would recording my future interactions with her be a good idea?" you ask instead.

>"Yes," Lyons says, his brow furrowed, "Recording her as she comes to arrest you would be brilliant. You are not to interact with her further, Mr. Anonerson."

>"What about me?" Talia asks, "I haven't heard a peep from her this whole time. Hasn't even come by the range-- if something does come up, how fucked would I be?"

>"You've got more leeway," Lyons sighs, "But that's not an invitation to seek her out. Any meetings the two of you have need to be natural, and not contrived as a way to gather evidence."

>Your gut feels worse, and you pray you're not blushing.

>"Given what you've described, I'll attempt to find out if she violated any of the agency's rules," Lyons says, standing, "Ms. Grilliz, you make sure that if she comes to the range, whether you're there or not, you've got evidence of her actions. Something she may say or do could be enough, with that chip she has."

>He turns to you with purpose, and you feel an inkling of fear from the look on his face.

>"And you, Mr. Anonerson, are to not interact with Ms. Birch at all costs. You sit in your apartment, go to a prior commitment, catch a stomach bug, whatever it is that you need to avoid her. Understand?"

>"Yes."

>"Good. And on the off chance that your gun resurfaces-- well, I hope that it does after the trial rather than before."

>He gives the two of you a nod, dismissing you. As you do, you realize the gravitas of his final instructions for you. He's willing to go to some lengths for you, and it makes the indecision in your gut all the more frustrating and the drive in your pocket burn al the much more.

>Talia, for her part, is quiet. You know she's pissed at you, more than usual. The silent elevator ride is more than enough of an indicator.

>"Where was the recording of yesterday's shitshow?" she finally asks as the two of you step out into the underground parking lot.

>"Didn't exactly have time to go back and get it," you lie. You avoid her eyes, but know she can smell that something's up.

>"Why did you even go in the first place?" she asks, struggling not to growl at you, "She wrecked your place yesterday! You think she's got any goodwill toward you?"

>"I- I thought I could get evidence," you say, realizing that you totally forgot to do so, "And like I said, I thought working with the system would be points in my favor."

>"And you didn't share that evidence with us because...?"

>"It wasn't good enough. Too low quality," you say quickly, "Didn't want to get caught recording inside the ATF office."

>Talia grabs your shoulder, stopping you in place, and turns you to face her. Her eyes search yours, the frown on her face deepening.

>"God, you'd be bad at poker," she sighs, letting you go and pinching between her eyes.

>"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, knowing damn well what she's thinking.

>"Look, Anon. You're lucky. You've been very lucky," she says, spreading her arms wide, "We've made it this far without issues. And so far, Pat hasn't decided to really throw that badge around. But that luck is gonna run out. Don't be an idiot-- don't waste it on her."

>She leaves you there in the lot without another word; the way she said it made it clear to you what's at stake.

>You sigh. It's going to be a long night.

>Because that feeling is still in your gut.

Chapter 6: To God You Hope

>You pull yourself out of bed with a groan. The clock reads 9:30-- you've been awake since 7, tired the whole time. Laying in bed waiting for sleep to return clearly won't work, so you may as well get up.

>Falling asleep in the first place didn't go well either, last night: you felt drained the whole evening and hit the hay early, but it must have been well past midnight when you finally slipped away. No surprise that you're not feeling much different now.

>You shuffle over to the kitchen and make some coffee. You're actually going to drink it, which is how you know things are really bad. Though there's no question of why: that bad feeling is still in your gut, resting there like a stone since the meeting yesterday.

>It'd all be so much easier if Pat just stayed like the grumpy, mean stereotype that she was. Hell, she probably wishes that too. But there's a person under there somewhere, you saw it. And you can't help but feel for her.

>The thought enters your mind that it's all an elaborate trap she made, Talia's words of warning ringing in your ears-- and maybe she's right. Maybe the pissed-off pooch went through your search history, got herself a singing voice, and took some acting lessons.

>But what she did in that little room, that wasn't an act. You saw it in her eyes.

>You laugh a little to yourself and pull off the coffee pot: god, you sound like some naive, melodramatic airhead. But somehow, you know it's true.

>Maybe it was the sadness there that convinces you. You never considered that grown anthros could still whip out those puppy-dog eyes.

>The coffee is too hot and tears you from your thoughts, making you curse.

>"This is why you don't drink the coffee," you scold yourself, getting some water to recover from scalding yourself.

>It cleared your head, at least. Now you're definitely awake. It's time to focus on the important stuff, like the trial.

>...oh. Right.

>You groan again; you were told to essentially sit on your hands for the next four days, and should Patricia try and contact you at all, you're to run like a little bitch.

>It's not just what she did that's making things difficult for you, what Lyons told you to do doesn't help either. You can't just sit here and do nothing!

>The flash drive glints at you from your desk, tempting you.

>Oh, you sure as hell could do something. Get that bitch back for all this, get her case thrown out, get her a punishment, get yourself a nice settlement from the State, get--

>Get those sad eyes out of your head. And that voice, sad and sonorous.

>Heh. If only you could.

>You force down the rest of the coffee, grimacing as the bitter taste coats your tongue, the scalded spots burning anew. There's nothing you can do to help on the gun front; pulling the Kolibri out would only make things worse for you. And the rest all involve courtship claims, which both Talia and Lyons told you to *stop* trying to help with.

>As you think about how easily the gun issue was resolved by disappearing the evidence, a thought enters your mind; a quick search on the Union Affairs website makes you hopeful. You need a bit of a push, and call on an old friend from your small liquor stash.

>The whiskey burns a little, but soon soothes the spots on your tongue. You pull out your phone, and hit the call button.

>Her phone rings,

>and rings,

>and rings,

>But she doesn't pick up. The voicemail message is standard, a robot asking you to leave a message after the tone.

>You oblige.

>"Hey, Pat. I, uh, know this might be strange, but would you be available a little later for... I don't know, lunch? Something happened that might change your little investigation. Nothing that's dangerous, but-- I'll just explain there. Let me know."

>She doesn't do a good job at hiding the fact she ignored the call so she could just listen to the message, texting you back only a minute or two later.

>'The Garden. 12pm.'

>...At least she didn't threaten you with a charge for being late this time...

>The Garden, as the name would imply, is a garden-themed restaurant. There's still meat on the menu, given that you're in the Anthrostate, but a Yeenburger joint it ain't. At the same time, it's not fancy enough to be like the Crystal Grill or anything.

>And there's outdoor seating, in a space more akin to a flower garden than the more produce-focused theming would suggest.

>That's where you sit, waiting in plain sight for the shepherdess to appear. You wish it was a little more hidden, honestly-- so you could sneak another shot. You're still a bit jittery, to be honest. Your gut tells you, though, that it won't be as much a problem as you think.

>You don't recognize Patricia until she slides into the seat across from you, though in your defense, you've never seen her out of uniform. She looks like she raided a surplus store, the worn camo pants and OD green tank top not exactly what you expected-- but they work.

>You can't help but see she also wears her normal clothes tight...

>"Glad I didn't overdress..." you say when she comes to a rest, waiting for her aviators to come off. They don't.

>"You have the day off or something?"

>"I'm off duty," she says, her voice quiet, "But I don't get days off."

>You don't know if you like it.

>You're about to speak again when a chipmunk zips up to your table, menus in hand.

>"Hi folks how you doing? I'm Brittany here's the menus our specials are broccoli soup and chicken-dumpling can I start you off with drinks?"

>"Water," Pat grunts, and you ask for the same, still reeling from the high-speed, high-pitched assault on your ears.

>"Okay sounds good get that right out for you!"

>She zips away with a smile, leaving the two of you alone again. Pat mumbles something about being ready and picks up a menu-- you do the same, not exactly eager for small talk.

>As you're looking through the lists of different sandwiches, salads, and specials, you're scolding yourself in your head. What the hell were you thinking? Asking her out to lunch, saying what you're about to say, with what happened yesterday? Are you really so easily swayed by booze, breasts, and uncertainty?

>Before you're made to answer, your waitress returns. By some miracle, the waters she's holding are still mostly full.

>"Okay here you are have you decided on your order or do you need more time?"

>You and Pat look at each other, things made extra awkward by her dark shades. Inevitably, you still both try and start at the same time; you're surprised for a moment or two when she isn't a bitch about it, but you suppose this isn't much better for her.

>"Carnivore club, side of hides," she orders, tone still gruff. The rodent bobs her head and scritches at the paper before turning to you.

>"I'll do the chicken marsala. Fries please."

>"Okay sounds good I'll get right on that for you!"

>When she zips away this time, there's nothing for you or Pat to distract yourselves with.

>"So why here?" you ask, tired of just staring at your reflection in her glasses, "Can't say it's the first place I thought you'd choose."

>"They've got good chow," she says with a shrug.

>The two of you sit there for a while, looking anywhere but at each other, taking sips of water, before Pat growls quietly and takes the shades off.

>"Look, this isn't about yesterday, is it?"

>She stares at you, her eyes full of paradox: she's threatening, but at the same time you see a hint of fear, of panic.

>"No, not exactly," you say, not daring to look away. "Though, I..."

>"You what?"

>...Looking at her now, asking for an explanation might not be a good idea. Even if you're in public.

>"Never mind."

>She stares at you a little longer, before looking away with a huff. She's still tense, agitated-- clearly you didn't soothe her fears all that much. That or it's something else that's bothering her.

>"So... are you the only one that ever goes on patrol?" you ask. She turns back to you, still tense.

>"It's just that, well, you're the only one I see at the range. And that little tour yesterday might have explained why."

>"ATF agents don't 'go on patrol,'" she snorts, "We've got the PD for that. We got records to keep and inadvertent perps to catch."

>"That why you're always at Shoktan?"

>"I go to other ranges too," she growls, "You and your 'girlfriend' aren't the center of my world. Plenty of other people at other ranges showing off stuff that they shouldn't."

>You sincerely doubt it.

>"Well, you're the only agent I see there. I think I'd recognize it if the other ones came by..."

>She growls a little, then seems to catch the meaning of your words, and laughs quietly.

>"Oh, they do range visits. Just once a year, as is mandatory. Usually to the indoor ones."

>"Really? I couldn't tell at all from looking at them."

>"They're perfectly suited to their jobs," Patricia groans, "they can read the rules and requirements of it down to a T. And that's what they do all day, sit in that office and check photos and forms against the list."

>"Speaking of, why'd you choose this, Pat?"

>You tense up for a moment, expecting a growl or worse, but all she gives you is a stern look.

>"Patricia," she warns, then continues, "Agency paid more than standard police work-- and being small-arms repair for my unit did help."

>"Surprised they don't have you in evidence storage more often," you say, "Especially since it sounds like the rest of the agency doesn't interact with the stuff they're meant to regulate at all."

>"I spent the first few weeks just doing that," she says, looking back to you, "And it's how I spend most of my Friday nights, making sure everything from the week is entered in."

>You take a long drink, making her wait, then ask: "So what happens when you can't ID something?"

>"Either I research it, or it gets marked down as 'unknown,'" she says, "Can't spent too long on one piece, since there's always more coming in."

>She leans in with a huff, resting her chin on a covered fist.

>"What is it you do, Anon? You work at the library, right?"

>"Yeah. That affect your investigation at all?"

>"You asked me some personal questions. Figure it's only fair that you answer some of mine."

>The way she says it leaves little room for argument.

>"How'd you learn so much about firearms? Didn't see any service history in your record."

>Ahh... more probing.

>"Books, mostly," you say, "Though some of it was from forums and the like. Actually handling them helps a lot, too."

>"You go to a rental range, then?"

>"I did once," you say, the unpleasant memory surfacing, "Handling modern productions wasn't worth it."

>Patricia softens a little, making it feel like less of an informal interrogation.

>"Why not?"

>"Well, aside from it being expensive and the RSO's being extra grabby," you chuckle, "All I got to do was shoot."

>Confusion is written plainly on her face.

>"What did you expect?"

>"Not much," you sigh, "I think I've told you before, Patricia; I like more than just shooting the gun. I like caring for them, knowing their history. I just figured I'd try it, see if I really wanted to push Talia."

>You shake your head-- it's now or never.

>"Though, given that--"

>"Food's ready!"

>Brittany has returned with a pair of plates larger than her head hoisted up high, the contents somehow not spilling off the sight when she comes screeching to a halt.

>"Club for you," she squeaks, sliding a massive sandwich to Pat, "and pasta for you! Enjoy!"

>The chicken on top barely has time to settle before she's off again. Patricia looks at you expectantly, and you can't help but push. Feelings or not, she's a bitch.

>"Well? Given what?" she asks angrily after only a few seconds of you sampling your chicken.

>Pretty good, btw.

>You sigh, taking your time with another drink, watching her only get more frustrated.

>"Talia and I have... decided to call things off," you say. The difficulty with which you do isn't an act, either.

>Patricia looks at you in disbelief, brow furrowed.

>"You... what?"

>"We talked about it a lot; just wouldn't work in the long term." you lie, starting on your fries. "That's what I had to tell you."

>She's quiet, just watching you eat with piercing eyes. You focus on the fries, crispy and warm, not giving her anything to go on.

>"I assume this changes your little investigation?" you ask after a while, the stare getting to you.

>"Yeah, it does," she says, voice still tense as she picks up the sandwich, "Makes things a whole lot more complicated."

>You give her a slight grunt, moving on to your pasta and chicken. You had a feeling that would be the response, and it was exactly what you were hoping for. With any luck, it'll mean the whole thing is thrown out, if not just the courtship charges. And if it comes down to it, well, hopefully the onus will be just on you and not Talia.

>Patricia keeps staring at you, chewing slowly on her meat-heavy sandwich; this whole thing is your fault. Well, it shouldn't have been an issue in the first place, but you're the reason she's been roped into court. You're the one that should be worried about assignment, not her. All you've done so far is make things worse for the both of you, and you figure this might be a way to make it easier.

>"Any reason?"

>You look back to the bitch that started it all, who's currently gnawing on her side of hides.

>"What?"

>"Any specific reason you two decided to split?"

>"Well... let's just say all the stress of the past few days has... exposed the cracks in our relationship," you say quickly, the fact that you'll need to inform Talia of this just now dawning on you for real.

>Patricia still studies you, slowly gnawing on a rough piece of hide; there's no remorse there, but you do think you see something else. Something soft.

>"Any ideas on how it'll change the case?" you ask, wanting to call her out but not having the heart.

>"Not exactly," she says, crunching the hide in her teeth before sighing.

>"I can't tell you this minute, but I'm sure your lawyer would have a better idea."

>You manage to disguise your gulp as being from the mouthful of food you've got. Forget telling Talia, telling Lyons about this won't be a pleasant process. So much so that you'd almost rather stay here with Pat.

>Even if it does mean more awkward conversations that remind you of a first date.

>...Fuck, you just used that word, didn't you?

>You sigh again, internally and not. You've got to do something about it. Here and now.

>"Patri--"

>"Was it good?"

>Brittany stands there, apron still swaying slightly in the wind. She doesn't want for an answer before setting down the check, saying "Here's the bill take it up front when you're ready have a nice day!"

>"Sheesh," Patricia snorts, "Seems better suited to a fast-food diner. One of those ones with roller-blades."

>You chuckle a little, but then notice the chipmunk left only one check for the two of you.

>Pat notices it too, and pulls out her wallet with a sigh.

>"No, don't," you say, reaching for the paper, "I--"

>Her grip is firm as she grabs your wrist, pinning it gently to the table.

>"I've got it," she says, not as growly as you expected, "Government salary."

>"I asked you here," you counter, "And I got a government job too."

>She chuckles again, shaking her head, her eyes never leaving yours.

>"I suggested this place," she says, an edge to her voice, "Let me do it."

>You try and push your hand ahead anyway, but her grip tightens; the growl is vocal now, if quiet. Though the look on her face isn't exactly one of anger.

>"Will you at least split it?"

>The growl deepens in tenor, and Patricia slowly shakes her head. She stops after a moment, keeping you pinned with her glare when she lets you go and grabs the check. Her eyes only leave yours to help her pull a card out from her wallet, spartan like the rest of her outfit. She stands, the chair sliding back with a grating noise, getting her to wince.

>"Come on," she says, face still wrinkly but not snarly, "We'll pay up front."

>You get up with a sigh to join her, expecting her to lead the way. And she does-- but not before grabbing your hand, leading you along like at the range.

>A chill runs down your spine, and you try not to let her feel it when the two of you arrive at the front desk. She's walking fast, she's been sort of quiet-- it all seems like yesterday, just before she kissed you. You're on edge, thinking she might pull something like that again.

>...And some part of you wouldn't mind if she did.

>A gentle tug brings you back to The Garden; Patricia has paid, giving you a little nod toward the exit. Her hand does not release yours; her look doesn't make it seem like she will any time soon.

>You let her lead you out front, where your Toyota does its best to look big next to her three-letter SUV. While you're sure it inconvenienced more than a few people trying to park on the street, you don't think it's succeeding.

>"Anon."

>Patricia pulls you in front of her, the sunglasses back on; she looks down at you, running a hand through her hair.

>"I'll keep you informed about the charges. Since you told me, I'll have to submit an addendum-- charges might be changed, might not."

>You just nod up at her, unsure what else to do or say.

>"Thanks. Well, guess I'll see you in--"

>She doesn't let you go when you try and pull your hand free.

>"Anon--" she starts, her grip tightening and tone deepening, but she stops herself. It's not a twitch, not an activation of that chip; she takes a breath, exhaling slowly, relaxing her grip on your wrist.

>"I just-- yesterday, when I--" she starts, but stops herself with something between a groan and a whine. Is she trembling?

>"Just let me know if everything is okay." she finally manages, adding "Between you and Talia," before letting you go.

>She walks to the SUV, and for a moment you're confused. But as she clambers in, you realize what she meant: if the break-up was going poorly, call for her rather than the PD.

>Whether it's because the standard officer would side with the anthro in almost all cases, regardless of what'd been done, or because she wants a chance to tear into your ex, you don't know.

>You sigh when that phrase runs through your mind, and twist the key. She's not your ex quite yet, but all the same, you hope it doesn't come to that.

>"You WHAT?"

>Christ. You've never seen her snarl like that.

>Or seen her eyes go that wide.

>Or heard her voice crack.

>And certainly not at the range, while she's 'working.'

>"I- I told Patricia that we broke up. She believed me, so now we've got to act like it."

>Talia stares at you for a moment, in shock, and pinches between her eyes.

>"We don't have to act bad about it, we can still be--"

>"Did you tell Lyons?" she asks, voice gravelly and tail swishing with anxiety.

>"Yes."

>She opens one eye, staring daggers at you-- she knows that 'yes' wasn't the whole truth.

>"...I sent him a text and haven't looked for a response..." you admit.

>Talia groans, her face wrinkling as she goes back to pinching between her eyes.

>"Talia, I told you, it might mean you get off the case! This shit is my fault, and--"

>"And you're only making it worse!"

>Her shout was louder than whoever's sighting in the hunting rifle down on Bay 4.

>"Talia, I'm--"

>"You're nothing!" she shouts over you again, her form suddenly filling her shitty little RSO shack, "You're doing exactly what you were told not to fucking do, and to top it all off, you went over my head! Now instead of the two of us having a slim, tiny, possibility of getting through this with our sweet little deal intact, you just made it so that we're both up for assignment!"

>"I told you Talia, you're an anthro. You've got more control over--"

>"I don't fucking care!" she yells, her entire body shaking from the force of it, "I don't care if you think you're getting the shit end of the stick and that you're being all selfless, Anon! You went and made a big-ass decision for the both of us, and the first person you fucking told was that bitch that got us in this mess in the first place!"

>You blurt something out: you're not sure why. Anger and a little fear, certainly, but at what you're not sure.

>That Talia's being unappreciative that you're still trying to fix things, and at a great personal risk? Maybe.

>...That she keeps calling Pat a Bitch, even if it's a name you like to give her...?

>You hope not.

>"If I didn't know better, Talia, I'd say you were jealous!"

>It gets her to pause, and you can't help but go on.

>"Almost as if we really were in a relationship. You afraid I'm giving Pat too much attention, Talia? Afraid she'll steal me away?"

>For a moment, you think you see blush; then you see stars.

>You just barely manage to keep your feet, reeling from the slap: her claws are blunt, but you still feel a series of burning lines across your face.

>She shoves you into the wall of the shack, making it buckle when she presses against you. Her claws dig into your shoulders as one arm bars your neck, her breath hot on your ear as the rumble in her chest gets dangerously close.

>"I liked you, Anon," she whispers, deadly quiet, "That's why I agreed to this arrangement in the first place. You weren't needy, you weren't scared. You were smart. You were confident."

>You try and struggle, pushing at her shoulders; she just grabs your wrists and slams them against the wall with more fervor, pinning you in place with a knee that makes you almost throw up.

>"But you're dumb," she growls in your ear, her claws digging into your wrists.

>"This trial changed you. It's not that you were trying to help, Anon. It's that you did it without talking to me."

>She grinds her knee into your groin, making you writhe against her and groan in pain.

>"You put yourself over me, Anon. You thought about you, you, you; how you could take assignment, how you could help, without ever considering anyone else. And our agreement was not about just one party."

>All at once she withdraws from you, letting you fall face-first into the dust.

>"Real or not, Anon, we had a relationship. Had. But you went and fucked it up."

>When you manage to get to your hands and knees, she's there, staring down at you with a snarl on her face.

>"Get out of my range. And don't ever come back."

>You sit there for a moment, staring up at her, trying to get your breath back.

>"Get." she says, closing her eyes, fists trembling at her sides, "Before I change my mind and really show you how I feel."

>For a moment, you almost want to. You deserve it.

>But then you crawl away, like the frightened coward you are.

>'...In the mo-ornin' when I----I woke up...

>'...I used to, pra-ay...'

>'An' in the eve-ening when I---I broke up,'

>'I'd have tooo pa-ay...'

>'There's no doubt about it,'

>'We each have gone o-our separate, wa-ays...'

>'An' though yo-ou live, without i-it,'

>'Don't you think that somethin',

>'Sta-ays?'

>You'd sing the chorus, but your throat feels like tenderized chicken.

>Another swig of bourbon makes it no better as you sit there, slumped on the couch.

>To say you're a wreck would be an understatement.

>You'd hoped the booze would dull the emotions, but all it's done has made you even more tired, and even more stuck with them as they flow through your head like a string of floss.

>Anger: at Patricia, for starting all this; at Talia, for kicking your ass and kicking you out; at yourself, for screwing it all up.

>Sadness: for Talia, unsure if there really was something between the two of you she was hoping would come to light; for Patricia, for seeing her struggle with herself; for yourself, for screwing it all up, sitting here wallowing.

>Uncertainty: about what the hell happens now.

>Your phone 'ping's, the bright sound of the enbloc a sore contrast to your mood. You pick it up with dread, under no impression that the message will be good.

>It's an email from Lyons, sporting a hefty attachment.

>'Mr. Anonerson,'

>'I hope that you are bearing this break-up well. Due to the charges against you, this may change your case. Assuming you still intend to plead innocent on the charges of false courtship, the marginal level of evidence you have may now prove sufficient to clear you of said charges, as the courtship is no longer ongoing."

>'However, this will mean that regardless of the outcome of the trial, you will be considered for Mandatory Assignment. While you may appeal, I must inform you that not many are granted.'

>'With that in mind, I have attached the necessary paperwork for a CU; I understand that freedom of action is important to you, Mr. Anonerson. Applying for a CU up to the day prior to your hearing (Sunday) would nullify most of these charges against you. Please notify me if you are fortunate enough to find someone of your own choosing, rather than the State's.'

>'-Steven Lyons, Attorney At Law'

>The needle comes to a rest as you finish reading, the record still spinning. You get up and set it back to that last track, wanting to hear it again; you don't know how many times you've reset it, and you don't care.

>The vocals are just beginning to come in when you hear a knock at the door, firm and business-like. Who it is, you don't care-- you're just going to sit on the couch.

>"Anon?" a canine voice calls, "Anon, get-- Come open the door. I've got news."

>The pit in your stomach delays you for a moment, but something pulls you up all the same. You go to the door and open it a crack; Patricia stands there, still out of uniform. She looks down at you with pricked ears, the look on her face one of suspicion.

>"What is it?" you force out, seeing her flinch at your voice.

>"Christ, Anon, what happened?" she asks, leaning down toward you with a twitching nose, growling when you begin to close the door. "Open up. Now."

>"No. Sorry," you say, laughing to yourself, “I'm sick! Got a stomach bug."

>Her hand hits the wood with an audible 'thunk;' you don't stand a chance, though she didn't knock it off its hinges like you expected. In fact, she was pretty gentle.

>Patricia's eyes go wide when she sees the state of you; you didn't bother cleaning up. Her look is one of concern, the song drifting through your apartment making sense to her now.

>"Go lay down on the couch," she says, pushing past you, "Now."

>It's quiet, but firm. If you weren't like you were, you might tell her to leave-- but laying down doesn't sound like a bad idea. You don't really pay attention to her raiding your kitchen once more as you lay on the couch, closing your eyes and mentally accepting whatever the hell's about to happen.

>"Ugh," you hear her grunt when she returns, something hitting your coffee table before she grabs your arms.

>"Sit up if you don't want blood on your couch, dumbass," she says, pulling your shirt off over your head. You wince, the scabs on your shoulders partially coming off. Patricia's hands are firm as she sits there on the table and holds you up, leaning down with a stained towel. She dabs at the two dots on your shoulder, and you hiss.

>"Should've done it earlier, dipshit," she mumbles, rubbing the wounds with the bourbon-soaked kitchen towel. The gouges from Talia's fingers are worse on your back. Patricia grabs your leg and turns you to face her when they're done, grabbing your chin and tilting your face.

>"Talia?" she asks, eyes full of anger. You don't give her an answer. She growls quietly, dabbing the towel at your cheek.

>"There," she says when she's finished, leaning back with a frown. "You should be fine. And don't you dare ask for a band aid, smart-ass."

>She knows you well. But not well enough.

>"Thought--" you cough a little, your voice still ragged-- "it's kisses that make things better?"

>Her ears go flat, her brow furrowing as she stares at you for a moment. She grabs the bourbon and takes a swig straight from the bottle, closing her eyes as she sets it down.

>The breath she lets out is nearly as ragged as yours; she opens her eyes.

>"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

>You laugh. It hurts.

>"Yeah."

>You go to lay back down but she stops you, grabbing you by the shoulder, then by the arm.

>"Tell me, Anon."

>Her tone makes it an order, but it's one you can refuse. Her eyes, though, those are harder to ignore. Regardless of what it is she's referring to.

>You shake your head and look away, trying to lay down again. She stands with a sigh, letting your hand go.

>"I'm going to have to detain you until you tell me what happened," she says, "Stay right there."

>You watch her as she walks over to the record player, resetting it-- you're not sure if she's serious.

>When she returns and climbs on top of you, you realize she is, in a much, much different way.

>Patricia lays on top of you, stretching herself out; despite the tone she's got, there's still a softness to certain parts of her form. Your hands glide to the twin orbs of it pressing against your chest; she growls quietly, grabbing your hands and sliding them by your head.

>"Bad perps don't get those," she hums in your ear, pressing her muzzle close as the now-familiar vocals of the song kick in, "Cooperate."

>You shiver as her tongue snakes out, running over your ear.

>"Maybe I'll even give you that kiss."

>This is bad. Bad for her. Sexual assault isn't taken lightly in the courts, and from an officer-- oh, she's done for.

>Or she would be, if she wasn't so soft in all the right places. If she didn't squeeze your hands gently, her fingers threaded with yours. If she wasn't an intriguing person underneath that veneer, one that you wanted to know more about.

>If you didn't like her.

>Your body shakes beneath hers, your throat becoming more raw as something wells up inside you; she pulls back, confusion then surprise on her face as she looks down at your red one.

>"Anon," she says, letting your hands go, "Are you--?"

>You pull her back down, wrapping your arms around her and burying your face in her shoulder. She freezes for a second-- then snakes a hand behind your head to hold you there as you shake, turning the two of you to your sides. You keep your face in her shoulder, the fur soft, soaking up your tears. Though it can't completely muffle your croaking gasps as her fingers stroke your hair.

>You want to give up. You want to give in. It's all been too much, too much to process, to decide, to deal with.

>You're a coward, a fool, an idiot that's made things worse for everyone around you, most of all yourself.

>And you've fucking earned it.

>"Anon," she says quietly, after a silence all too long and short as the music swells, "Anon, will you tell me?"

>You rub your face against her, too busy trying to hold what little composure you have together.

>She sighs against you, and clutches your head tighter to her, a leg draping over yours and pulling the rest of you close. You feel her take a breath, and then--

>'There's a shepherd, in the-e dark,'

>'She stands fo-or Lord...'

>'Can she see me, in the-e stark, and nakid morni--ing?'

>'Though your flock has gone astra-ay,'

>'they'll be home sooon...'

>'An' fall down in the ha---ay,'

>'Yes, and sleep till noo-oon...'

>'With the morning dawnin', can't you see, the first one's coming, hoo-oome?'

>'One byyy one,'

>'One by o-o-one,'

>'One by o-hun...'

>Pat sings the rest quietly, her pseudo-howls on the 'o's making you tear up even more. She notices, and growls a little as the music slowly fades.

>"Fuck," she snorts, "I didn't mean to make it worse,"

>"No," you manage, finally; she lets you pull away to look up at her, her fur imprinted with your face.

>"You didn't. It was beautiful."

>You find yourself lost in her eyes until you hear a whapping sound-- her ears perk up when she hears it, then flatten when she sees it's her own tail against your couch. You catch yourself stroking her arm, and stop. She doesn't like that: she growls softly, twisting atop you again and pinning your hands over your head with one of hers, running a thumb along your scratched cheek.

>"Alright, perp," she says, voice tender, quiet again, "I played nice with you. If you don't tell me now, I'll have to resort to... more extreme methods to get your testimony out."

>"Is... that a smile?"

>"You gonna tell me or not?" she asks, the slight grin only getting bigger.

>One part of you wants to ask what the methods are. But the conscience in you recognizes this chance to come clean.

>You sigh, and begin.

>"Talia and I broke up. I told her after I told you."

>Patricia's grin shrinks.

>"Wasn't happy that I told you first, but what she really was furious about was that I did it without telling her. I did it to try and help her, Pat. To get her out of the courtroom. Because it was my fault we were there, and she's an Anthro. She'll have better chances at assignment."

>There's a look of slight concern and confusion on the shepherdess' face.

>"But she pointed out how selfish I was being. How afraid I was. And she knew that I liked, you, Pat. She could see it, smell it, I don't know."

>She just keeps staring at you, ears slowly going down.

>"And she got jealous."

>You take a ragged breath, as it finally comes out:

>"We did have a relationship, Patricia. I just didn't know it."

>She stares down at you for a long while, the soft, mechanical whirr of the idle record player the only sound.

>"Anything... else... you're hiding from me?" she asks, her voice shaking. In rage? In sadness? In fear? You don't know.

>You swallow again, the pain in your throat coming anew.

>"Yeah. But-- But I need a promise."

>"A... promise?" the shepherdess asks, her grip on your wrists tightening, her breaths strained.

>"Talia doesn't get charged," you say. "I was the one that thought it wasn't real."

>Her lip twitches, wanting to curl in anger.

>"You... You really, are a piece of work."

>The dull nail on her thumb scrapes against your wound now, making you hiss.

>"I could book you here and now, and you've got the balls to try and bargain with--"

>"Plead," you choke out. For a moment that thumb scrapes harder as her ears flatten, her tone almost turning to a growl. But she stops.

>"What is it?"

>"I-- need a promise."

>"How about I promise not to beat it out of you?" she snarls, her claws digging into your wrists. But you hold, breathing through your nose and not looking away from those eyes.

>She snarls, and after a moment shakes her head, getting off of you with haste. If you weren't trying to negotiate with a glowie, you might have focused a little more on the tent you're pitching.

>"Fine," she huffs, arms crossed and tail tense, "You have my word. Now what is it?"

>You pull yourself up and walk slowly, as the condemned do. But you deserve it.

>Pat follows close behind as you shuffle across the living room, through the kitchen, and into the bedroom, stifling nervous panting. She says nothing as you move to your computer and open up the case, letting the side-panel clatter away.

>Her eyes widen and her ears slowly flatten as the cardboard box comes sliding out from the expansion slot, the scraping the only noise in the apartment save her breaths. She takes it from you when you offer it, opening the lid and starting to go through the padding you put there.

>"I didn't lose it," you say as she pulls out the familiar, insidious tiny case, "I pretended to so I could see you."

>The shepherdess' breath catches as she opens it, the tiny gun gleaming in the half-light flowing in from the kitchen. You see her neck and shoulders twitch, the small case snapping shut as the spasms travel down to her hands. The case falls to the ground as she turns to you.

>Before you can react, she's lifted you up by the shirt collar, air whooshing past you as you're spiked onto the bed. It creaks as she jumps on over you, a rising cross between a growl and a scream escaping her maw. The regulator chip works overtime, and she suddenly rears back, fists raised. You protect your face reflexively; there's a sickening *crack.*

>Opening an eye, you find yourself still alive, with her heaving over you. She lets out another roar and leaps off you, crashing into a shelf before righting herself. You stay frozen there as she moves swiftly, to the doorway, claws puncturing the drywall as she leans against it. She looks over her shoulder at you, snarling, and opens her mouth when another shock rings through her. She screams, smashing a fist against the wall, and leaves, your front door slamming hard enough to rattle the lights.

>Only when her thudding footfalls are completely gone, and the soft noise of the clicking player is again all you hear echoing through your apartment, do you dare sit up.

>The headboard is what cracked.

>Heh. Who are you kidding?

>You did.

Chapter 7: Heart Torn in Two

>You fucked up.

>You really, really fucked up.

>You've been sitting in your living room ever since you woke up-- and that was early, thanks to a wonderful hangover.

>It's understandable that you didn't get the best of sleep last night, you think.

>Your cereal bowl lies before you on the coffee table, long empty. Getting up and eating was the one temporary distraction you could muster. You've been stuck in your head since, just like you were prior.

>Talia was right. About everything.

>You were a dumbass, you were a coward, you piddled away whatever supernatural protection you seemed to have. Now you've decided to take Lyons' advice, two days too late. You'll just sit in your apartment for a while, until they come to take you away.

>As much as the busted door will allow, anyway. It won't quite close or lock right anymore.

>Lyons won't help you, since it'll only seem even more like you're throwing the case now. Pleading with Pat sounds like a good way to get yourself killed, and Talia might do the same.

>You try to think of anyone that could help you out, anyone that owes you a favor, but come up empty. There's no one that can help you out in the courtroom, no one that could sway the judge and jury, no one that could help you just disappear.

>The closest option you can think of is running back home to mom, but that'd only mean you're spreading your disaster to her, too.

>The Kolibri sits there on the table in front of you, thankfully unharmed by Pat's freakout.

>Six thousand dollars.

>Six thousand dollars, you spent, and you got the crowning jewel of your collection. The description said nothing about it ruining your life.

>Well, that's fair. You did most of it yourself. Though you're pretty sure the source of that pounding coming from the stairwell had a hand in it too.

>The image of that scream-- that howl-- sticks in your mind, and you briefly wonder if it'd be better to try and use the glorified bb gun on her or yourself.

>Patricia doesn't bother knocking, just pushing aside your injured door. She's actually in uniform today, black pants and navy-blue button-up tight as ever.

>She's hiding behind dark shades again, though it doesn't mask the expression on her face.

>It worries you, because she only looks as pissed as normal.

>You notice that she's closed the door behind her by the time she reaches you, bending down and picking up the Kolibri in its case.

>"Here's what's going to happen," she says in a low, even tone.

>"I am going to do my weekly entry for evidence."

>She pulls out a ziploc bag, sliding the case in it.

>"You are going to give me this gun, and I'm going to take care of it."

>She zips up the bag, and puts it in some magic pouch on that ungodly duty belt. She walks back around the coffee table, bending down and looming over you. Her glasses slip a little, and you can see that her eyes are just a little puffy.

>"You are going to come with me, and do exactly what I say. One step out of line, and I'll make sure you get whatever monster's at the very bottom of the Special Assignment list."

>She straightens up, pushing her glasses back in place.

>"Got a problem with that perp?" she asks, only a slight growl in her voice.

>She doesn't appear to be giving you much choice-- but that's fine. You've got no other choice.

>There's no other way out.

>There's nothing you can do.

>You bow your head, nodding just a little.

>"I want to hear you say it, Anon," she says, a claw tipping your chin back up to her, "Do you have a problem with that?"

>You see yourself in those shades. You're barely dressed, your hair disheveled, and there's bags under your eyes.

>You look a lot better than you feel.

>"No."

>Her lips curl slightly despite your answer; she pulls her finger away, letting your head drop.

>"Get up," she says, "I've got work to do."

>You pull yourself up, and open your mouth to complain about your state of dress-- but one glare from those dark shades shuts you up. You at least manage to slip on sandals before following her out-- she clamps a hand on your shoulder as she does her best to close your poor door, keeping you close. She lets you lead the way out of the apartment, but the claws are there the whole time.

>You should wince, the scabs from Talia-- the wounds that she cleaned-- are in her grip. But you just don't.

>Patricia doesn't let you get into the glowie SUV yourself, escorting you to the passenger side and opening it for you. She even buckles you in.

>But her face is still that normal look of contempt. The gesture isn't one of concern, or care, the belt not being there for safety. You don't need her to say anything to know it, to know what you've gotten yourself into; she's locked you into your seat, into her van. Into whatever bullshit she has planned.

>She says nothing when she gets in and starts the engine. She doesn't have to. She doesn't even need to look at you. She knows she's won, that she's got you. And there's nothing you can--

>"I want you to know," Patricia says, with that same low, even tone, "that you should be in a holding cell. That you should be waiting for special assignment. That I am breaking oaths and risking my job-- the one tangible thing I have-- for you. For that--"

>You see her twitch in the corner of your eye, the leather on the wheel creaking a little as the chip goes off.

>"For that bitch that should be in cuffs."

>You don't look up. You don't dare.

>"Don't make me regret it."

>The ATF office is much less populated than it was Wednesday, the lot being nearly empty when Pat pulls in.

>That doesn't make you any more thrilled about being brought here, though. Much less dressed like you are-- barely dressed, that is. At least you were wearing some actual shorts instead of just boxers.

>...and that's all you've got on down there.

>Patricia hasn't figured that out yet, though you have no doubt that she'll find out.

>You know her. You know her kind.

>At the end of the day, no matter what she'll say about duty, about her job, she's more like her coworkers than she wants to admit.

>"Stay quiet." she says as she parks, "You're my 'intern.'"

>You let her exit, not even taking off your belt. She does it for you, and that hand is right back on your shoulder.

>"The office usually takes the day off," she tells you as she pushes you along towards the front, "but they've got to keep a few people on site to make it look like everything's running."

>As you walk in the front door, you see that one such person is the secretary. It's not a boar, this time, but a cat of some kind.

>You don't know if the splotches on the fur are from her being a jaguar, or if it's an indicator her hygiene habits are about as good as her eating ones.

>You know you'd be another meal for her if it weren't for Patricia, the feline's eyes growing wide after her double take.

>"New intern," Pat grunts, swiping a card before going through the metal detector, "He'll be within arm's reach."

>"Oh-uhh, okay," the feline says, staring as the two of you go down the hall.

>You hear something coming from the shepherdess, not quite a growl, the sound lighter. Almost happier.

>The way she grips your shoulders harder makes you think it might be, though.

>As you go through the winding hallways, you begin to hear a beeping sound. It's faint and electronic, though not the ear-piercing type like you'd hear from a fire alarm or pager. Pat seems unperturbed, even as it gets louder and louder as you draw near.

>The source is revealed when you again find yourself in the large, open office area, the lights dimmed. Something that looks like an answering machine is blinking red in time with the beeps. No one appears to be concerned with checking it-- the few ATF agents that there are. Looking around, you see a few heads poking over the cubicles, the clacking of keyboards filling the air-- and then there's a loud smashing sound.

>"Fuck you, Wendy!" someone shouts as someone else laughs, "Quit using tripmines, you dyke!"

>That's when you realize the heads you're seeing all have earpieces on, and that the flashing red light isn't the only thing glowing on the ceiling of the darkened room. Wednesday was movie night, and evidently Friday is gaming day.

>You're very glad that all your tax money is going to these people, though at least they're not actively ruining anyone's lives.

>Patricia doesn't seem to think the same, a quiet groan coming from her. She stoops down slightly, her arm going around your neck and pressing you to her. She's not choking you, but it's a firm enough grip that you're not leaving until she wants you to.

>Really, you're just happy she didn't announce your presence-- guess she doesn't want to share her toy.

>"Fucking fatasses," she mutters, her words vibrating against your head, "Can't even answer the goddamn request machine..."

>The words sink in, and suddenly, the fact that every time you picked a new gun up on a Friday it took forever makes perfect sense.

>For a moment, the haze is lifted, and you find the courage to speak.

>"Answer it," you whisper. She looks down at you, those furious eyes no longer hidden by the shades.

>She double times it through the rest of the office, your sandals scraping along the carpet before she rams you up against a wall.

>"What part of quiet didn't you understand, perp?" she snarls as quiet as one can snarl, her snapping jaws inches from your face.

>"And you do *not* tell me how to do my job."

>Despite the bared fangs, the tight grip, and the show of force, you take a chance.

>Not like that's ever gone poorly before, but what the hell. You're nearly nude in the ATF office, getting led around by the bitch that's had it out for you-- in more ways than one, you now suspect. There's not much that could go worse.

>And this isn't about you.

>"So you admit it's part of your job?"

>Her ears prick straight up, and you can feel her pause for a moment, her tail going still and her grip loosening.

>Then it tightens again, and she throws you to the floor with a growl.

>"It is," she says slowly, waiting for you to get up, "But we've got to do inventory first."

>She grabs you when you do, feeling you twitch as her claws once again dig into old wounds.

>"I'll be sure to take you through that process."

>...Man, you've really gotta stop having ideas and taking chances.

>Perhaps it's that pain, or perhaps it's that sudden flash of courage, but your head is no longer empty when the doors to Evidence Storage draw near; you wonder what it is she'll do to you.

>What it is she'll make you do.

>Something exploitative, humiliating, and likely painful, clearly.

>But will she still do her job-- and will she spare you after it's all said and done?

>Patricia moves you aside like an object when she unlocks the door, pushing you through.

>Those claws finally leave your flesh when the two of you are inside, the door closing and relocking with a clang. You look down, spotting small dots of red through the new holes in your shirt. A little has spread to the pale fabric.

>"Here's what we're doing," the shepherdess says, shoving a tablet into your arms, "You do what I say, when I say it. Talk when I tell you, and only about what I tell you."

>"...And don't touch a single fucking thing unless I tell you to," she growls, leaning in before grabbing your arm and pulling you along between the stacks of shelves.

>Strangely, she's also dragging along a rolling chair with her, a thick clipboard sitting on it. She pulls it and you into one of the rows, pushing it all the way to the end before letting you both go.

>"Aright, here's the start," she says, spinning the chair around and taking a seat, clipboard and tablet in hand.

>...No handcuffs? No baton? No other implement of misery she keeps on that belt?

>"Open up that drawer," she orders, pointing to one around head-high while tapping at the screen, "And call out what's in it for me."

>Slowly, very slowly, you do as she says. She doesn't hit you when you pull it back, nor when you begin calling out the different models you see, your voice still rough from Talia's arm.

>You begin to think there's no trick, that she's actually going to have you just sit there and do work. Maybe you were just being paranoid, on edge. Your nerves are shot, so that look she has could just be--

>A hand smacks your ass, making you jump.

>"Come on, 'intern,'" Pat says, sounding annoyed as she begins to squeeze, "What's in the drawer?"

>You take a breath, and continue choking out the different models you see, twitching as her grip shifts around your cheek.

>"Go down next," she orders when you finish, her hand snaking around your hip.

>"You feeling uncomfortable, perp?"

>Her voice drips with malice when her hand settles on the inside of your thigh as you get to the next drawer, wedging in bit by bit and spreading your legs ever so slightly.

>"W-what sec--" you begin, but quickly end in a squeak when she squeezes your sack through the shorts. You think you hear a soft chuckle through the blood pumping in your ears.

>"Quiet. I want gun names, now."

>You comply, trying and failing to keep your voice from trembling as she squeezes with each model you name.

>"Good," she says when you finish, letting off a little, "What did you want to say, perp?"

>"W-what section was it that s-said something about 'suspects shall not be molested?"

>She laughs; it starts out quiet, reaching a rumbling crescendo. You're just relieved that her paw is slipping away from your nethers.

>"You're not my suspect anymore, Anon," she says, her paw clapping back onto your crotch, "You're my 'intern.'"

>You blush as her fingers wrap around your cock-- and find it to be firm.

>"Nice try, though," she adds quietly. Then, with that same severe tone as before: "Continue."

>You do, calling out the various Saturday-night-specials and bubba-ed up wartime guns with a tremor in your voice, Patricia's paws still firmly wrapped around your member. The slightest movement makes your whole body twitch, your knees almost buckling a few times. She doesn't let up when you finish with that drawer or the next, continuing to squeeze as she nods for you to move onto the next.

>When her hand leaves, it does quickly; you find yourself rocking in its absence, and there's no doubt that Patricia caught it too. You don't dare look over, clenching your hands on the drawer.

>"Finished, perp?"

>"No thanks to you," you manage, emboldened by hormones whether you want to be or not. You look over at her, expecting a strike, but she just glares back at you.

>"Is that how you feel?" she says slowly, crossing her legs. "Then by all means, I'll do the next ones."

>You step back to make room, but she doesn't make to stand. She looks at you with a frown, crossing her arms and pushing up that chest on purpose.

>"Down," she orders, pointing without uncrossing her arms.

>"Wha--"

>"Hands and knees, perp."

>You don't break her gaze as you go down to a knee, refusing to go down further. Then she begins a growl, and you give in.

>"Good," she sighs. She reaches over and opens a drawer. "Come give me a foot massage."

>She waves you over with her boot, and again you find yourself off-balance. She was feeling you up just a moment ago, but now she's making you do the mundane again?

>...wait, she's not into feet or something, is she?

>"Move, Anon," she orders as she catalogs the guns, "Don't make me say it again."

>You slide hesitantly to her raised foot carefully, removing the boot.

>"Socks too," she grunts when you start to massage her paw. You obey, and she smirks in satisfaction. You're not sure how to give a foot massage-- much less one for non-human feet-- but you don't think that really matters. In fact, you know it doesn't; Pat's just happy you're in your place.

>Or just that you're touching her, but bringing that up wouldn't end well.

>You think you hear her sigh in satisfaction as she sits there, tapping away as you rub your thumbs on her pads, between them, your fingers feeling the bones of her paw tentatively.

>You didn't think the fur down here would be soft, but it is.

>"It's really a shame a gun nerd like you doesn't get to handle these things, Anon," she says, pulling out a Stag Sidekick-- the standard 12-gauge, by the look of it-- and looking over the length of it, "You'd really like them."

>More teasing-- at least this time it's just verbal. You ignore her, not even looking up as you switch to rubbing your thumbs into the top of her foot, gripping her pads. You hear a low grunt of dissatisfaction; you hear her set the gun back down and go quiet for a while, before she pulls her foot from you.

>"Other paw, perp," she orders, crossing her legs the other way. You get to work, but pause when you hear metallic clicking and the noise of springs.

>Looking up, you see Patricia holding a half-disassembled HK V77, the slide and striker assembly separated from the frame.

>"Oh, don't mind me, Anon," she says, not looking down at you, "Just had to check this one-- notes say it might be damaged."

>It's bullshit and you know it.

>"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this modern handgun," she asks, looking down at you as she holds the last two words.

>"...Would you?"

>You know it's ugly. It's an HK, which means there's an extra zero on the price tag for whichever part of the State they're selling them to. And it's striker-fired. Gross.

>...But god, does it have a cool mechanism for cocking that striker...

>"Yeah," you say, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

>"Do you want to see it?"

>"Yes," you say, reaching up for it. She pushes you back down, her paw in your face.

>"Uh-uh," she says, reassembling it as you splutter and pull her foot off your face, letting it fall back when she growls.

> "You've been mouthing off, 'Intern.' Get back to work."

>You stare up at her for a moment, then resume rubbing her paw with a groan, trying not to breathe between her digits; you feel her squeeze your face with them.

>"Maybe, if you behave, I'll let you see it before we leave."

>You squeeze her paw with fingers and thumbs.

>"--And if you kiss my foot."

>You pause, and you feel her do the same, do doubt looking down at you past the digits that cover your face.

>...And then you kiss her pad, pulling your lips away and finding them salty.

>Damn gun better be worth it...

>Officer Birch made good on her promise, letting you finger-fuck the HK. Though doing so meant enduring quite a bit of touching yourself.

>And not just from her-- she did it the other way around as well, grabbing your hands and pressing them to herself. The instant you got over the fucking whiplash of being made to grope the longstanding bane of your existence, though, she pushed you away, ordering you to take over using the tablet.

>...And then, of course, she'd sway her fucking hips in your face, brushing your face with that tail every so often.

>Her tone never shifted from that even, controlled one. You made sure not to give her a reason to, controlling yourself as best you could, not speaking unless she wanted you to, doing whatever it is she asked.

>You were relieved when the two of you finished cataloging it all-- and you still are, ready to head home as you let her lead you out. The big office is completely empty now, all of the Absolutely Terrible Fatasses having gone home for the day.

>The request machine still beeps in the corner, its red light reflected on the popcorn panels of the ceiling. You hesitate, almost letting the two of you walk past, before your conscience gets the better of you.

>"Patricia," you say, "What about the answering machine?"

>The shepherdess turns, ears pricked, before the promise she made earlier comes to mind.

>"Oh, right," she says, steering the two of you towards it, "Come along, 'intern.'"

>You get a slightly better look at the machine as she lets you go in front of it; it's another fine example of the frankenstein creations that the State likes to employ, cobbling together tech from before the Uprisings with a bit of their own adjustments. In this case, there's elements of a fax machine, a small computer, and a telephone, all resized for extra-large hands and claws.

>...You also notice a spray bottle and wipe, a faded sheet of paper reading 'Wipe down after each use.'

>The various bits of orange, cheesy dust on the white plastic make you think that not everyone heeds that rule.

>"The problem with going through these things is that they take too fucking long, and there's never a chair over here," Patricia says, hitting a few of the faded buttons and then tapping the screen. "There, 47 fucking requests."

>She looks down at you, nodding slightly.

>"Now, hands and knees."

>"Why?"

>"Don't ask me why, prick," she says, shoving you down "Just do it!"

>...hands and knees... ...no chairs...

>Oh, fuck no.

>You don't think you can handle being a chair for an ass that big.

>Well, it's going to happen whether you like it or not, so you may as well make sure it's not for naught.

>"You even going to approve any of them?"

>"None of your fucking business, perp," she growls, staring you down.

>You hesitate for a moment, somehow managing to hold her gaze, but again you're driven to act for the many, rather than just for you.

>"Approve them all."

>The snarl drops, just her brow furrowing.

>"What?" she asks, slowly and roughly.

>"Approve them all," you repeat.

>"Do you understand that I swore an oath when I took this job?" she asks, lowering herself down to eye level with you, tone still threatening.

>"Then why the fuck aren't I in a cell?"

>That gives her pause, which gives you worry. She closes her eyes, and stands back to her full height, fists clenched as she takes a few breaths.

>"Fine," she whispers, "I'll approve as many as you can last for."

>When she opens her eyes, you don't like the look on her face.

>"Sound fair?"

>...John owes you big time...

>"Fine," you say, getting down to your knees. But the shepherdess grabs you shoulder as you bend over to go on your hands.

>"Lean back," she says, "Hands this way."

>She crouches down, planting your hands on the floor slightly behind you.

>"Aren't you using me as a chair?" you ask as she stands.

>"Don't put it that way," she says, smiling down at you before turning back to the machine, planting her legs in front of you as she grabs the edges of it.

>And that's when it hits you:

>You're staring right up at the bottom of those tight, blank uniform pants.

>"...Think of it as supporting your local state official."

>She sits back, giving you no time to react before her ass is planted firmly on your face, making your arms bend as her weight sinks in. You can hear-- no, feel-- her grunt in satisfaction as you sink between her cheeks, helped along by a few shifts of her hips.

>"Now, let's see how long you can last..." she mutters, the machine starting up.

>The words bring a little clarity to you, calming you slightly. You're pretty sure she's not going to break your neck-- most of her weight is on your shoulders-- and you can just barely breathe through your mouth. But you're torn, your arms already trembling, and your mouth already salivating at the soft globes pressed against your face. The fabric of her pants is worn enough that it's almost soft, and it smells like her.

>Fuck, you just want to...

>NO! No, no, you're not.

>You won't.

>She's not gonna win.

>You're gonna get the people their rights back.

>But god, is she heavy...

>And god, is her ass soft...

>You hear a chime, and Patricia shifts above you.

>"That's one done," she hums, "Just 46 more to go. Think you can last that long, perp?"

>You attempt to reply, but all that comes out is a wheeze, and your arms nearly give out. She lets out a grunt of satisfaction.

>The happy chime urges you on as you gasp below her, any pleasure you might have taken from that fat sheppy ass on your face countered by the strain on your arms. You quickly lose track of how long you're there, how many beeps the machine puts out, but eventually you let out a stifled grunt and collapse back.

>"15," Patricia says, staying on you, "Not bad, perp. Now, come--"

>"Keep-- going--" you manage.

>You feel the shepherdess spread her legs slightly, looking down at you between them; you're on your elbows now, but you're not done yet.

>You can hear her lick her chops.

>"You don't quit, do you, perp?"

>She saves you from having to answer by starting the machine up again.

>You manage to last for another five requests before your arms slip out to the sides. Thankfully it's slow, giving Patricia plenty of time to catch herself before crushing your head. She snickers at you as you lay there, groaning.

>"Didn't think you'd last that long." She says, pulling you up. "Enough fun. Let's go."

>You press at your nose, finding that it seems to still be intact. Patricia doesn't seem concerned, grabbing your hand and yanking you along toward the front. You stumble along, trying to ignore the fact you can still smell her, somehow made worse when you climb into the SUV; a shower back home should fix you up, clear your nose and soothe your arm. At least the day is over, and you're headed home.

>The car-ride is quiet-- until you notice that she takes a wrong turn on South 12th.

>"Patricia, where are we going?" you ask, looking over to her.

>"Quiet," she says, not looking back.

>Bolstered again by that burst of courage, hormones, or the fact that you made things up to her already, you say something defiant.

>"What, you stopping for doughnuts? I thought we were done."

>That gets her to look over, lips curled.

>"We're not done," she snarls, quickly turning back to the road, "That was just the beginning, perp. And that last comment earns you no favors."

>You take a look at the setting sun, off in the distance with a gulp; this might be the last time you see it.

>Patricia's apartment is startlingly familiar, though she has a working front door. It's slightly smaller than yours, only a 2-room, but it's furnished much the same. She doesn't have bunches of pre-State junk lining her walls, instead a few pieces of workout gear and a training target, one that reacts to lasers. The furnishings are much more bare and essential; there is no couch, only a set of what look like camp chairs, a small folding table set between them. After a moment, you realize they're surplus.

>"Alright, perp," she says, flopping down into one of them just as you spot a boombox in the corner, surrounded by CD's and cassettes as well as a picture frame, "Time for part two."

>She spreads her legs wide, beckoning you with a finger. You can't deny the arousal you feel when you comply, kneeling down for her. You notice a slightly darker spot on her uniform pants before she grabs the back of your head, pressing your face into it.

>There's no question about what it's from as her thighs tighten around your ears, something between a sigh and a groan reaching you through them.

>"Nuzzle. I want to feel it through these pants," you hear Patricia order when she's pulled you far enough in, the smell of her engrained in your nose once more, a little bit of dampness there as well. You press into it without pause, your hands drifting up to clutch her legs.

>She likes that, letting out another satisfied noise as you nod into her, again just able to breathe through your mouth. She strokes your hair, trying to remain nonchalant, but the way her legs press against your back tells you she's holding herself back.

>You press in harder, nodding your face up to use your mouth, searching the fabric for a taste of her.

>She's broken you, sure, but the smell of her kindled something in you; you want her to break, too.

>You move your hands up her thighs, grabbing at her bulky duty belt, trying to pull it off.

>"No," you make out from between her thighs, feeling them squeeze. Pat grabs your hands, pressing them to her legs. She's panting now.

>You feel her hands leave yours, feel her shifting above you. Then she grabs your hair, shoving you back as her legs unclamp, the wet spot larger now. She's taken off her top, a tight OD-green sports bra keeping her puppies in place.

>She stares at you, stifling her panting as she takes off her boots, then her belt, then her pants. A pair of panties, also black, stare you in the face as she sits back down.

>"Smell it," she says, only a slight tremble to her voice, "But don't touch."

>You've no doubt that your shorts have a wet spot of their own as you crawl back to her, feeling the heat from her legs, her scent already strong before you're past her knees. Her fingers thread into your hair as you pant between her thighs, fighting the urge to press yourself against her soft fur.

>"That's right," Patricia says, voice barely even as you sit there, her fingers scratching at your scalp now, "You sit there and pant, perp. Look at it. Smell it. You don't get it. Not until I say so."

>Despite yourself, you whimper.

>She growls.

>In a flash, you're up on your feet, pulled up by the shoulders; then you're slung over her shoulders; then you're on your back, the cot underneath you made tolerable by a well-worn woobie. Though that doesn't dull the impact of a 300-pound shepherd pouncing on top of you.

>Your hands go straight for her breasts, feeling them squeeze against your hands moments before she grabs your arms and pins them over your head, growling roughly. She grabs the side of your face, holding you in place for her tongue as she kisses you deep, turning sideways to get her muzzle further into your lips. Your hips twitch below her, and you again whimper into her lips.

>She snorts, pulling away for a moment before diving in again, her teeth grazing your cheeks this time as her free hand rips at your shorts, her heat on your bare groin like nothing you've ever felt before. She pauses for a second, her hand wrapping around your member almost tentatively. You moan when she pulls away, looking down at you with a wrinkled muzzle.

>"Going commando, perp? You knew this was coming, didn't you?"

>"-I-- No--"

>"Shut up," Patricia snarls, pressing a hand over your mouth.

>You whimper into it as she presses down on you, stroking you with her slit. Her eyes are closed, her head up to the sky as she drags her hips along you slowly, feeling you press up against her uncontrollably. She's growling, her strokes growing longer, more drawn out, harder, as she slowly looks down at you, staring into your eyes.

>"Fuck!" she shouts, voice rough as she rips her hands away from you, darting down to her dark panties. You can't help yourself, and grab at her big, soft sheppies again, squeezing them before trying to pull her down.

>"No!"

>The snarl in Pat's voiced makes you freeze, though the way she's gripping your dick helps. She looks down at you, lips curled as her panties are moved aside. She leans in, that growl never stopping as her muzzle reaches your ear.

>"You lie there," she whispers-- you twitch, feeling your head press up against her entrance-- "And you take it."

>With that, she thrusts herself down on you, making the cot creak as you're engulfed.

>She's hot.

>She's tight.

>She's pounding your fucking pelvis to dust.

>You reach up to grab her back as she crushes you, but her wild eyes catch your movement; she pauses just long enough to snarl and grab your hands, pinning them next to your head.

>Her panting and growling gets louder, her thrusts more rapid as you lay there, unable to stifle the sounds anymore.

>Moaning.

>Wheezing.

>Whimpering.

>"That's it, you prick," Patricia snarls, her claws digging into your wrists now, "Break. Submit. Know your fucking place."

>You can't respond as she looks down at you, drool dripping from her muzzle as she bounces, twitching.

>"This is where you belonged since day one, Anon. Whimpering, squirming, like the insignificant little--"

>Everything stops. Just for a second.

>You felt the electric shock this time-- enough to make her stop, her eyes wrinkling. When they open, she looks down at you, both of you holding your breath.

>Then she screams, her fist a blur; the canvas of the cot tears right next to your head.

>She clutches her face, something like a strangled groan coming from her.

>"It can't go my fucking way!" she shouts, coming to a rest, "It caAan't!"

>"I'm never going to be a wife! I'm never going to be a mother!"

>"I'm never going to be anything but a-- a fucking monster! Made to kill, to fucking HATE!"

>She sits there on top of you, breathing for a few moments, before her hands slowly start to fall. Her glistening eyes meet yours for a single second, before she scrambles off you, falling on her ass off the cot.

>It's not like the other times she's ran; she's uncoordinated this time, getting to her feet a challenge. You're halfway off the bed when she does.

>She stops in the living room, some six steps away. It seems to occur to her that there's nowhere to run to, now. That she's already home. She moves anyway, panting and whining coming from her.

>When you reach the doorway, Patricia is curled up in the corner. You didn't think she could be so small.

>"I can't--" she whispers, breath hitching-- "can't be happy with someone."

>You stand there in the doorway, your soft member still smelling like her. Her taste still on your lips, engrained in your nose. Slowly, you walk over to the boombox, pick out a CD, and slide it in; the photograph from earlier is gone.

>You punch in a few commands, the plastic keys doing about as good as Pat at stifling the heaving breaths from the corner.

>She freezes when the guitar starts to strum, though she doesn't look up.

>You walk over to her, about to crouch down, but pull up your shorts before you do.

>She still doesn't move when you hold her from behind, your arms around hers, your face in neck, as the lyrics begin to come in.

>"Saying 'I love you,'"

>"Is not the words I, want to hear from yo-ou"

>"It's not that I wa-ant you,"

>"Not to say, but if you only knew..."

>"Ho-ow e-sa-A-ay, it would be to show me how you feel,"

>A hand touches yours as the beginning of the chorus plays, her voice mixing with yours, barely more than a whisper.

>"...More than wo-ords... is all you have to do to make it real,"

>"...Then you wou-ldn't have to sa-ay,"

>"that you love meeee..."

>"...Cause I'-d al, -read-y,"

>"...Knoow..."

>Patricia turns around, silent once more. That photograph-- one of soldiers, you now see-- is in her hands, a scrap of fabric with a patch there as well.

>She glances between them and you, her eyes still damp; she squeezes them shut, and sets the items down before grabbing you in a full-body hug, her head in your neck.

>She tries to sing, her throat catching-- you shush her quietly, stroking her back.

>The two of you sit there for a few more lines before she stands, your legs dangling off the floor. The two of you return to her cot as the song goes on, both of you squeezing the other tight when the line 'hold me close' comes on.

>She sets you down much more gently this time, shifting onto her side. The cot isn't quite big enough for the two of you, but you don't mind, holding her close.

>Patricia makes to move when the final drawn-out 'you' of the song plays, but you shake your head, grunting.

>After a short silence, and a mechanical noise, the song begins again.

>She sighs into you, relaxing.

>"Was I a good intern?"

>She sighs.

>"Shut up, perp."

Chapter 8: Crime of the Century

>Geez... why'd they put the heat on? It's the middle of summer...

>And why do you have your comforter on? Must have tossed and turned something good, the way it's wrapped around you.

>You try to push it off, but it doesn't budge. In fact, it lets out a grunt.

>You open your eyes as you feel the soft fabric wrap around you, and realize it's not faux fur that's pressing against you. It's real, a cream-white color, soft, and smells familiar. You look up slowly, feeling it brush against your face and limbs keep pressure on your back, holding you to your bedfellow; there's a brown muzzle tucked against the top of your head, the peaceful expression making it hard to recognize her for a moment, but soon you do.

>You're sleeping with Patricia fucking Birch.

>You stiffen for a moment, finding your limbs as wrapped around her as hers are wrapped around you. Fuck, how come you can't feel the handcuffs?

>There's no way you'd be in her arms barely dressed like this willingly, no wa--

>Wait... that weird dream...

>Above you, she stirs, squeezing you against her softness for a moment as she shifts, looking down. Her eyes, though sleep-heavy, are wide.

>"Fuck me," she says, "It wasn't a dream..."

>"No," you say, last night dawning on you too, "i-it wasn't..."

>She grabs the back of your head, pressing it into her neck as her tail whaps against the cot. Your hands clutch at her back, stroking her gently as she holds you ever tighter, her muzzle tipped over your shoulder. She stifles a whine as her claws poke you a little, making sure that you're not going anywhere but into her embrace.

>"You meant it, right?" she whispers, voice trembling. You nod against her, stroking her fur. She can't stifle the next whine of happiness, her tail picking up in tempo against the cot.

>"Good," she whispers in your ear, her tongue darting out against it, "Because if you didn't, I-- I'd fucking kill you."

>Somehow, you don't believe her. You sit there for a moment, not quite believing it all.

>You're in bed with an ATF agent.

>Not just any, but the one that hates you.

>--maybe 'hated' is a better descriptor--

>The one that turned your life upside down in the past week.

>And... you're glad.

>Patricia might be a bitch, but it seems like she really does like you. And you won't deny that some parts of her are attractive as well. The dedication she throws at her job-- terrible as it may be-- is admirable, and you get the sense that that's the same way she'd feel about friends, if she let herself have any.

>You suppose you're the first one.

>Your hand wanders down to her gently wagging tail, cupping the ample cheeks below it.

>...she's not that bad looking, either.

>She soon wises up and realizes it's not just petting you're doing down there. With a grunt, she grabs your hand and pulls it between the two of you, trapping it when she re-wraps her arm around you.

>"No," she says, a slight bit of that familiar annoyance there, "Not now, perp."

>She just sits there a while, her fingers running through your hair as she breathes against you. A deep-set hum comes from her chest, the best word for it you have being 'contentment' as she rubs her cheek against you.

>Patricia, however, is on top of you. Your arm, at least, and even while you're both laying sideways, it's not exactly comfortable.

>"Pat," you say into her neck, "My arm's going numb."

>"That a weight joke, perp?" she mumbles in your ear.

>When you move as an answer, she takes it as a no. Both of you let out sighs as you draw apart, though she doesn't let you go completely. You don't mind, considering you're hanging halfway off the cot. The two of you look at each other, those brown eyes softer than you've ever seen them, her muzzle not blemished by its usual scowl, frown, or snarl.

>She leans in and kisses you gently, only nipping your lip once.

>"Go put something on, make it quiet," she says against your mouth, "And then come right back here. We need to talk."

>The shepherdess releases you then, making sure you don't tumble to the floor uncontrolled. You hear her shifting around behind you as you get up, shivering slightly from the cold, hardwood floor. Somehow, you know she meant music and not clothes.

>The picture and the piece of cloth still sit in the far corner of the main room, abandoned on the floor. For a moment you consider taking them-- to look at them, to move them, to destroy them, you're not sure-- but then think better of it.

>Patricia's collection of music is thankfully somewhat organized, the cases for CDs and cassettes organized vaguely by artist and year. You'll need to ask why she insists only on those formats; some of what she has might not be available anymore thanks to the State, but most of it is kosher.

>For a moment you're stuck, trying to pick something that might fit, when the perfect cassette catches your eye. You pop out 'Pornograffitti' and swap in a Supertramp album, easing the volume down a little as the opening harmonica of 'School' begins to play.

>Patricia is laying on her back when you round the corner, the cream fur of her belly and inner legs golden in the sunlight, her dark panties as much of a contrast as the brown fur of her limbs and head.

>"Come here," she says, spreading her legs wide. You climb on a little hesitantly at first between her legs; she grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you up, grunting a little as she puts you exactly where she wants. She lets out a large breath when you're in place, her legs firmly around your hips, a hand on your back and a hand on your head.

>You find your face in the worn OD-green of her sports bra, your arms naturally sliding behind her shoulders. When she doesn't growl at your slight nuzzles into her soft sheppies, you groan and press your face in harder.

>She chuckles slightly, squeezing them up around your face.

>"You're so easy to control," she sighs, scratching the back of your head as you feel her chest press up against your face. She makes a grunt as the lyrics from the song come in from the next room over, and then growls slightly.

>"That's a sense of humor you've got, Anon."

>Your face is pulled up from its little green slice of heaven, and she pulls you up closer to her muzzle. She's not angry, you don't think.

>"It seemed appropriate."

>"You're lucky you're cute," she says, her tongue flicking against your face.

>"What happens now?"

>"Depends. Do you like me?"

>"Do you?"

>She growls slightly.

>"I just pulled your face into my boobs, you prick."

>She dunks your face back in them to prove her point.

>"Now, do you like me?"

>Her claws are digging into your scalp, forcing you to look up at her. There is no escape-- not from her legs around your hips, her hands on your back and head, from her eyes, the fire there tempered by something other than hate now.

>Come on, Anon, they're just words.

>"Y-yeah."

>"Enough that you won't leave?" she asks, her claws scraping ever tighter, "I'm planning on... 'detaining' you for a while, perp."

>"Ye--I--"

>You swallow, a knot in your throat having appeared from nowhere.

>Well, probably not nowhere.

>You've had this coming since Wednesday, at least. It was inevitable.

>"Pat, I think I L--"

>"Don't you fucking say it..." she growls low, shoving a hand over your mouth. "That's the point of that song, dumbass."

>She swaps her hand out for her mouth, parting your lips for her tongue for a brief swirl inside your mouth.

>"...And besides, don't you hate ATF agents?"

>All this has made you even more flustered, something you couldn't have imagined laying in her embrace like you are.

>And Patricia seems to enjoy that greatly.

>"I- I do," you say tentatively, "But that doesn't mean I have to hate the people they are. Just their job."

>She snorts, brushing your hair.

>"You're not going to get me to quit, Anon," she says with a smile, "It's what I do."

>The thought hadn't crossed your mind that she'd quit; you couldn't imagine her doing anything else.

>"But Pat... what about all... this? About us?"

>It takes her a second to catch your meaning, and she sighs when she does.

>"We all cheat a little, Anon. You saw what the others in the office were doing."

>She hugs you to her shoulder, thighs squeezing you possessively.

>"And if I have to bend the rules for you, well, I will."

>"...So you'll approve all of the requests that come in?" you whisper into her neck after a moment.

>With a laugh, she rolls the two of you over, her cruel smile hanging over you as her hands slide back to your wrists.

>"Maybe if you act as my chair again," she says, voice husky, breath hot. You feel yourself stiffen against her, and from the way she rubs herself against you, so does she.

>It only gets worse as she leans in, pressing down harder on you as her muzzle nears your ear.

>"It was very, very cute of you to struggle like that."

>She licks her lips, grazing you along the way.

>"It made crushing you so much more sweet when you finally gave in..."

>She pulls away before you can respond with anything coherent, sitting up tall with a huff, dropping her weight on your hips.

>"Now, here's what we're going to do," she says, hands on her hips. "I'm going to inspect your little machine gun, and make a report saying it was a mechanical failure. This little chat will take care of those harassment and investigation charges-- if you do what I say."

>You groan as she moves against you, your hands sliding up her thighs. She smiles, trapping your hands against her.

>"Any problems so far, perp?"

>"It was a mechanical failure," you say, resisting the urge to grind back against her, "and it's not a machi-"

>Patricia bounces on you, turning your complaint into a gasp. That grin grows ever more malicious as she grinds her hips against you, sliding her hands to your shoulders as she looms over you.

>"You like being crushed, don't you? You like being put in your place?"

>You don't respond, though your red face tells her more than enough. She coos-- something you didn't think she was capable of-- as she strokes herself along your length again, your groins a pair of furnaces. Your hands slide up her thighs, grabbing her full, furry cheeks in a vain attempt to pull her deeper onto you.

>"No!" the shepherdess barks, grabbing your hands and pinning them by your head. She growls in your face for a few seconds, her breath washing over you, before she resumes stroking herself on you.

>"You don't get that until I say so. You don't get anything, until I say so."

>Up she goes again, sitting on your erect member; this time, she doesn't let go of your hands, placing them between you and her as she straddles you, her thighs tightening slightly when your fingers are trapped against her wetness

>"For i-instance," she says, trembling only slightly, "what am I supposed to do about you, and Talia?"

>"What do you mean?" you pant.

>"I can't just make those charges go away," she says, not stopping atop you, "I need some reason to dismiss them."

>You hesitate for a second, and not just because the shepherdess you hated just a few days ago is grinding herself against your fingers and dick.

>"S-she-- it was real to her."

>"I don't care about her," Patricia growls, still not stopping as her eyes close, "And that still leaves me the little problem of you, perp."

>"L-Lyons kept telling me to get a Civil Union," you manage, "He said it would fix things..."

>That gets her to stop. Slowly, she pulls your hands from between the two of you, now moist as her panties.

>"Are you asking if I'll get one with you?" she says. Her tone is that same, scary-even tone she used yesterday, when she ordered you around at the beginning of the day. Her expression is just as serious,

>You take a breath, looking her up and down. Over her fur, her curves, her concerned expression.

>"Yes."

>Her expression is stone, but you can feel that fluffy sheppy tail swishing slowly over your legs.

>"I don't know," she says, looking away and crossing her arms, "that's a lot of paperwork."

>You know her game-- you're gonna make her work for it.

>"Then just end the investigation."

>"I can't do that, you dolt! That'd be even more shit I'd have to fill out!"

>"Sounds like it'll be paperwork either way," you sigh, "Guess if I'm not worth filling out a few forms, then--"

>She snarls and drops down on you again, teeth grazing your cheeks and then your neck.

>It's safe to say that she's figured out that you're playing with her. It's also safe to say she's not a fan.

>"You are going to tell me how you're gonna make this worth my while, perp," she growls low. "And if it's not the most fantastic fucking thing I've ever heard, you are going to serve time."

>An idea hits you. It's a stupid one, possibly the most stupid you've had this week. You can't help but not say it.

>"Y-you know I can't get enough of your tits and ass;" you say, only stumbling a little, "Same thing goes for that sweet, sweet sheppussy."

>The growling next to your ear stops. And then she laughs.

>It's a growing, rumbling laughter, her body going slack atop you as the spasms that had come from her hips now come from her chest.

>"Oh, you're gonna pay for that later," she says, wiping a tear as she lifts herself back up, "That's why I'm keeping you around, you've convinced me. You need to be taught a lesson, perp-- a few lessons."

>The claw she scrapes along your cheek is gentle and there's still a smile on her face, but you can see in her eyes that she means it.

>"But that's for later," she says, grinding her ass on you one last time before swinging her leg over you and getting up. "Time to get started on that paperwork."

>She stretches, walking over to a small dresser and pulling off her panties, swapping them out for a new pair. She does the same with her sports bra, her tail wagging as if she can hear the way your dick strains just a little harder at the thought of her bare breasts.

>"Now, here's what we'll do," she says, pulling out a clean set of clothes, reminding you of your own soiled set. "I'll handle most of the paperwork. Most of it's going to be on my end, since I'm the anthro. You can start off by making some breakfast for us."

>"Start off?" you ask, sliding your legs over, "What else you think I'm doing?"

>"Whatever I goddamn tell you, perp," she snorts.

>"...Well, then let me head home real quick so I can get dressed and get some better tunes."

>She turns back to you, harsh look in her eye as she tucks her shirt in.

>"My 'tunes' will be just fine for you. And if you don't like the clothes you've got on, you're welcome to go nude at your own risk."

>"It'll give you time to get started on the forms," you say, fighting to avoid blushing. Patricia doesn't react, just turning around.

>"I've got to print it out at the office anyway," she says, shimmying into her bottoms with plenty of wiggle, "You're staying here. Now get to work."

>You stand, cringing slightly at the still-cool floor.

>"Wait, why don't you have work?" you ask, giving it one last try.

>"I'm ATF, Anon," she huffs, turning back to you, "We're government. We don't do weekends."

>"We still had to at the--"

>"Shush," she says, silencing you with a finger as she leans down to eye-level. "Get in the kitchen, make me some eggs."

>A smack on the ass sends you that way as she walks ahead of you, finding her belt and discarded pieces of yesterday's clothing, rummaging through the pockets. You're not exactly happy that you're being made to make breakfast, but you're a little hungry yourself. After grabbing your sandals to make the cold wood tolerable, you get to work.

>Her pantry and fridge are much like yours, fairly bare-bones. The jugs of anthro-specific protein powder are the main difference, plus a few other bags and tins.

>As chipper as the dog on the bag of hides is, you don't think they'll help your gums like she says.

>The eggs and butter are normal enough, though; in a few minutes, you've got a pan of half-decent scrambled eggs, plenty for both of you.

>"That'll do," Patricia grunts, suddenly behind you. A firm hand on your shoulder moves you bodily away from the stove as she turns the burners off and grabs the pan, blowing on the eggs.

>You don't quite believe your eyes when she then tips the pan and scrapes the contents in with the spatula, hardly pausing to breathe or flinch from the heat.

>"Next time, though, I'll want something a little nicer," she says, rubbing your hair. "See you in a bit."

>"What-- wait, what the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime?" you ask, ignoring what just happened. as she tries to walk away.

>"Your job, if we're getting a CU." she says over her shoulder, "Make sure I'm happy with the place I'm coming home to."

>You hesitate a moment, then catch up with her at the door.

>"Patricia," you ask, grabbing her shoulder, "Is this what you're gonna make me do?"

>She stops, though she doesn't turn back to you.

>"Am I just going to be stuck at home all day, sitting around doing nothing, waiting for you to come back?"

>Slowly, she turns around, looking down at you with pricked ears. There's an expression of... mischief, on her face.

>"Anon," she says quietly, her arms going around your shoulders, "You're mine now."

>There's a slight whine from her as she holds you a little tighter, her eyes closing for a moment as she does.

>"You're my responsibility. You're going to do what I say-- if that's 'stay home,' then you stay home. It won't always be, but I want that right now, because I--"

>Her claws dig into your shoulders.

>"--I'm a little excited right now."

>The way she's struggling not to pant convinces you. A hand goes to the back of your head, and she doesn't snarl when you slowly wrap your arms around her.

>"If you do what I say," she says, breath hot on your face, "I'll spoil you. And if you don't--"

>The shepherdess lets you go, sending you teetering back with a small nudge.

>"--I'll punish you."

>She turns around and opens the door as you try to shake off the hormones. She stops, looking back at you.

>"And if you ask, real, real nice, I might do it when you're good too, perp."

>As she shuts the door, you realize that the battle with your hormones is doomed.

>Their effect does partially subside in her absence, and you took the chance to actually give her apartment a proper look. In the daylight, and in less of a daze than when you arrived last night, you realize it's a bit more different from yours. While you both mainly have the essentials, you have a lot of pre-state stuff of all sorts laying around, making a chaotic, private museum.

>She doesn't have anything similar, save the picture and the uniform. And the music, you suspect; the picture is of a younger Patricia and her squad in some rec area or another rather than the field, and a very similar boombox is in the background.

>'Uniform' is probably too strong of a word, 'piece of' being more appropriate. The patch that dominates the scrap of fabric doesn't mean much to you. Perhaps Patricia will tell you about it later, assuming she doesn't hit you for asking about it.

>You set the two of them near her music, not wanting to touch that either. The cassettes and CDs aren't at all how you'd organize them, but you know moving them around wouldn't likely end well for you if she's in a bad mood.

>It might be actual punishment rather than something laden with lust.

>Instead, you focus on cleaning the place up. After making yourself another pair of scrambled eggs-- and using a plate like a normal person-- you start with the sink.

>It doesn't quite give you the same satisfaction as cleaning a freshly used gun, but you find scrubbing and rinsing things off tolerable. You hit the bathroom too, finding it thankfully somewhat clean.

>Picking up shit from the floor is less fun, the place still in a little disarray from last night's frenzy. Though picking up the shepherdess' worn panties does lift your spirits a little.

>You look around, not just for a hamper.

>You can't resist, and take a big sniff of them, drinking in her scent.

>It's not quite sweat, a hint of something else making it just different enough.

>You force yourself to pile them with her other clothes in her laundry bag, an old military duffel.

>Her name's written on it-- you wouldn't be surprised if it was on her chairs and cot too, probably the stuff she was issued.

>Speaking of, you go over to the cot and take a look at the hole she put in it. The thing's built like a tank, so that hole won't immediately make it useless. The two of you slept on it with it there, after all.

>But there's little else for you to do, and it doesn't look like too bad of a fix. All the fabric is still there, so you don't need any extra material for a patch. After a minimal amount of rummaging through Patricia's things, you find a sewing kit and set to work.

>It's just about finished when you hear her return, just a few more loops to go. You hear her grunting as she pulls off her boots, then the click of her claws on wood as she pads over to you.

>"Fixing the hole," you tell her, not looking up. "Ran out of other things to do, and since it seems like we'll be sharing this--"

>"We're getting a proper bed," Pat tells you, a hand running through your hair, "But I like that you went ahead and did this, Anon."

>Somewhat quieter, as if her bosses were listening, she adds "Good job, cleaning things up."

>You look up at her, catching her tail wagging behind her as she looks down at you.

>"Uhh... the bed at my place is a bit bigger," you say. "And softer."

>"Finish that up and we'll hash things out about that, right on it," she says, turning away and walking back to the main room. You force yourself to take things slow as you pass the needle through the last few times, not wanting to fuck things up.

>When you're finished, Patricia brings in the small field table from the other room along with a sizeable stack of paper, held together with a binder clip. You had thought it'd be smaller, but apparently there was a lot of legal work involved with signing your life away.

>"Do you have to do it in hardcopy?" you ask as she plops down on the cot like it's a bench.

>"No," she says, testing your stitches with a few bounces, "but I like having ones for myself."

>"What're you gonna do," you snort, sitting down beside her, "hang it on the wall?"

>The look she gives you tells you she might.

>She grabs your dick and balls through your shorts and pulls you close to her, smiling a little at the squeak you make.

>"Get over here," she says, "and let's get this shit done."

>Her hand doesn't leave you for very long over the next few hours as she asks you questions, using your genitals like her personal fidget toy.

>...Though, all things considered, you wouldn't mind having a pair of tits to play with while you did multiple hours of paperwork, should you be so unlucky.

>Half the time they're teasing questions, excuses for her to squeeze you or stroke you, and half the time they're serious.

>Turns out that there's a little more to it than you had expected. Patricia asked you for your tax info at least three times, along with plenty of stuff about your past. Where you went to school, any disabilities or injuries you have/ had, if you've ever signed up for the voluntary assignment program.

>She of course doesn't tell you what she writes down for her answers to those questions, but you're too busy trying not to nut and trying not to scream.

>The hours drag on for the both of you, though for very different reasons.

>Eventually, she relents with a sigh, letting you go.

>"I'm getting hungry, Anon," Patricia says, "Make us something nice while I head out, hmm?"

>"O-- kay--" you splutter, "Where are you-- going?"

>"Your place," she says, grabbing her keys. She looks back at you, a hand on her hips as you stand on unsteady feet.

>"You're going to be staying here until sometime next week, and I want that mouth clean since I'm gonna be using it."

>She smiles as you cringe, feeling your dick pulse.

>"Any requests?"

>"Clean clothes."

>She shakes her head, sighing, "fine," before stopping in the doorway.

>"If you do a good job, I'll make filling the rest of the forms fun."

>"We're not done?"

>"Not even close," she calls back before shutting the door. The stack of papers is impressive on her little field table, and hardly organized. You've got no idea if she's bluffing or not, but considering the cover form has a big 'ONLY TO BE FILLED BY WIFE/ANTHRO' message on it, you don't think trying to finish it yourself would be a good idea even if you did know where to start.

>Regardless, now that the throbbing in your member has subsided-- and you have a piss-- you realize that you're a bit hungry too. You head to the kitchen, seeing what you can scrape together with what Patricia's got. Hopefully you won't have to make whatever it is twice.

>Your options are somewhat limited, if not familiar. You decide on something familiar, at least to you: Spaghetti al Spammo.

>As you turn on the burners and pull everything out, trying to organize it on the counter, you're reminded of how much you hate cooking. It saves you money, but not time.

>As you set the water on and begin prepping the 'meatballs,' you realize you might need to get used to it.

>You thought the worst part about Pat was just her being a bitch before, but now you think it's the way she teases you. She's still a bitch, of course, but the way she's using you, pulling and pushing you-- that's worse.

>And you just went and agreed to marry her.

>You sigh, putting on something from her selection of cassettes and discs while things heat up. It hasn't even been one day, and from the way she was hardly able to control herself when she left this morning, you imagine this is strange for her too. Hopefully, the little things between the two of you will get worked out in time.

>God knows you've got no problem with the big things; once you realized why you were in bed with Pat when you woke up, it was the best morning you've had in a long time. Probably the best rest too.

>She might be a fucked-up ATF agent, but at least now you know why she's fucked up. And even if she's reluctant to admit it, it seems like being around her helps.

>...And as reluctant as you are to admit it, being around her isn't just good for your libido. There's other things too.

>If she's that dedicated to her job, you imagine she'll be that dedicated about you.

>If she threatened to taze one of her coworkers to protect you before, you don't what to imagine the lengths she'll go to protect you now.

>If she's willing to bend the rules for you, maybe you can actually do some good.

>...And you really like being called 'perp.'

>You're just finishing plating the food when Patricia returns again; a competent chef could have made another side dish or two in the 40 minutes or so it took her, but you're happy with having plenty of pasta.

>She dumps the bundle she's carrying on one of the camp chairs, striding over to the now-fancy folding table.

>"Should I wait for you to light some candles and pour the wine?" she snorts.

>"Maybe if I made dinner for someone classy, I might."

>"Fuck you," she says, shoving you to the far side of the table, "Now sit down. Let's see how good you did."

>"I'm gonna--"

>"Sit," she orders, staring you down as she takes a seat in the barracks chair.

>"I'm gonna change."

>"You're gonna sit down," she growls, "I want to eat, so you're gonna sit your ass down and do it with me."

>The two of you glare at each other for a few moments, before you slowly go back to the chair and take your seat.

>"Thank you," she grunts, and begins.

>You do the same; it's about as good as every other time you make spaghetti and fake meatballs. The pasta's fine, the sauce is great, and the 'meatballs' are little more than balls of salt.

>Pat's staring at you, though you can see she's eating it. You don't return her gaze.

>"Better than your usual kibble n' bits?"

>"I can cook," she snarls between bites, "I just have a husband now."

>"When those forms are finished, you do," you say, still not looking up. "And I saw the cabinet full of canned chow."

>"Prick," she huffs quietly, shoving herself back from the table. "Hurry up and finish. We need to get back to those forms."

>She walks around to you, once again cupping your head and forcing you to look up at her.

>"And drink some water when you're done. I want that mouth clean."

>Her tail swishes audibly as she saunters away, back to the other room. You manage about three or four slow, deliberate bites before you're scarfing the rest of the plate down, hastily shoving the leftovers in the fridge as you guzzle and swirl a few cups of water.

>Her discarded pants in the doorway only solidify the stiffy you're packing as you walk in.

>Well, at least you didn't change yet.

>Patricia is sitting sideways on the cot, one leg up, baring her white panties as she scribbles at the paper.

>"Lay down," she orders, not looking up. You do so with as much dignity as you can muster, laying on your side on the cot to try and get the best angle. She reaches down and adjusts you with an annoyed sigh, pulling your face into that white cotton before dropping her leg, trapping you there.

>"Did I do good?"

>"Shush," she says, giving you a light squeeze. "Just smell. Don't talk unless I tell you."

>You let out a muffled whine, but comply, grabbing the hem of your pants to prevent yourself from grabbing her ass.

>"...And yes, you did."

>The last period of filling out forms felt long; this one feels even longer.

>Patricia quickly stifled anything you did aside from sitting there between her thighs and smelling her, not even the slightest nuzzling was tolerated. You considered asking if it was because she didn't want to stain the panties, but any attempt at speaking out of turn got you a growl and a squeeze.

>...when she figured out you began to do it on purpose, she started swatting your dick with a rolled-up piece of the form. Only had to do that once.

>That didn't stop you from being horny basically the whole time, though; and from how damp your face is, now that she's announced the forms are finished, you're guessing she is too.

>"That enough 'sheppussy' for you, perp?" she asks, grabbing the back of your head, thrusting a little against you.

>Your response in the negative goes unheard, swallowed by hot, damp cotton, but she releases you after a few moments regardless. Before you can react, just taking your breath of clean air and adjusting to light again, Pat grabs your arms and lays you out on the bed, your shirt coming off along the way.

>"You're gonna give me a reward after all that," she growls, ripping off your pants next, her shirt already discarded as she stomps heavily around the cot. But when she mounts you, her panties still in place, you see her expression falter, the lust disappearing in an instant as she presses against your bare, erect member. You reach up for her and she snarls, that anxious look still on her face as she pins your shoulders down. Her tail is wagging slightly, unevenly.

>"P-Pat? What's--"

>"Shut up!" she growls, not looking at you. After a few more seconds, though you can't keep quiet.

>"What is it? The trial?"

>Her chest heaves as she lets out a sigh, her body still tense. Though at least now she's looking at you.

>"No, no. That's going to go fine. I'll make it go fine."

>Slowly, you bring your palms to hers, stroking her forearms as she keeps you pinned.

>"What is it?"

>"Nothing! Just-- Just lay there and take it, you--"

>She twitches for the first time since last night, letting out a whine. You didn't feel the electric shock, so it couldn't have been all too strong, but the way she reacts is nearly as bad as last night. Her body tenses, claws digging into you hard enough to make you wince, her face wrinkling up like before.

>"Pat, what--"

>"I'm scared alright?" she yells. "I-- I want to do it, but I don't want to lose control! I don't want it to be like last night!"

>You begin shushing her softly, trying to calm her down, bring her down to you continue stroking her strong arms, hands creeping up to her shoulders as she looks down at you, eyes frantic. They calm a little bit, and she sighs again, lowering herself slowly against you.

>"I know I like you, but when you're down there, when I get excited, it's just-- overwhelming."

>"Well," you say, stroking her back again as she nuzzles into your neck, "Do you like me?"

>"I'm not pressing my tits in your face again, prick," she growls quietly into your ear.

>"I don't care, that wasn't what I was after," you reply. "If you like me, you do even when you're excited. Just-- try putting that energy somewhere else, huh?"

>"Easy for you to say," she snorts, "All you have to do is lie there and--"

>She stops herself this time, not twitching but growling against you all the same.

>"...Let me try something," you say, "Let me up."

>Somewhat reluctantly, she lifts off you, sitting on the cot as you get up.

>"Glad to see that my emotional turmoil hasn't ruined your mood," she says, watching your stiff member bounce as you walk back to the other room. You don't dignify her with a response-- she doesn't know how dicks work, anyway. Beyond the obvious.

>Then again, you're trying help an ATF agent fuck you-- literally.

>You don't really know how it works, either.

>Once again, you find yourself at the shepherdess' music library, searching until you find the CD you're looking for. Checking the back, you're pleased to find the track you need is the first; you pop it in, about to carry the boombox off before you see the cord. Instead, you adjust the knob so Judas Priest's spacy-guitar riffs are loud enough to hear from the other room.

>You turn around as the lyrics begin, and find Patricia standing there.

>'You won't hear me' is right.

>You definitely feel her as she grabs you up, one hand on your head and the other on your ass as she presses you against herself.

>"'Turbo Lover,' huh?" she growls in your ear, striding back to the cot with you like that, "You think you can live up to that, perp?"

>"Did I fix things?"

>She tosses you onto the cot and pulls her panties aside, scooping you up and taking you in with her hips alone as she presses down on your shoulders, growling against you.

>"Shut the fuck up and scream for me."

>It's hard not to as she begins slamming down on you, her strokes hard and fast. Your toes soon curl, and she doesn't stop you from wrapping your arms around her back as you hold on for dear life.

>The cot thumps against the floor with every pleasure-filled pound she puts your pelvis through, and in the back of your mind you fear the canvas will rip again.

>When your pants and wheezes raise in volume, almost turning to screams, Pat puts her mouth over yours. You groan into her lips as she pulls at yours, slowing her thrusts to half-tempo while her hands cup your face. She lets out a growl as yours shift up to her breasts, but she doesn't stop you from cupping them, squeezing them each time she drops down on you.

>With a groan, she pulls up from you, grinding herself down on you throughout the guitar solo, your dick still in her. Each move makes you think you'll burst, but you hold on, seeing her chest heave as her head drops back.

>You can see her smile, her tongue hanging from the side of her mouth; she's not just happy. She's sated, complete.

>And you realize you are too.

>She flops back down on you hard when the lyrics hit again, body tense as she pants "Try and fuck me."

>You scramble for her ass, your hips twitching beneath her; you feel her backside shift in kind, but only barely. Patricia doesn't seem to mind, letting out a pleasured grunt with each thrust you manage.

>She groans as the song begins to fade, her legs tightening around you for a second before she begins to push herself up.

>"No, no," you pant, "Don't-- Keep going!"

>"I want to--- fuck you to that, Anon," she says, trying to push your arms away, "I wanna feel you-- cum to it--"

>The words almost make you do it right there, but you hold on with a groan, your legs scrabbling and managing to wrap around her tail as you desperately cling to her.

>"Fuck off, Anon!" she says, pushing at you harder, "I want to--"

>You can both hear the clicking through your combined panting; the song begins again, the chords soft at first.

>Patricia looks down at you, panting, her expression near blank as you do the same.

>"Good boy, perp."

>And then she continues as the sun sets, the music loops, until your eyes begin to grow heavy.

Chapter 9: That's All

>"This court of the Anthro-Guided World Regulatory Commission, Sector WCS, SubSector 11, is now in session."

>God, it's been a while since you've heard someone call the State by its actual ludicrous name.

>The ringing of the gavel announces the start to the most dreaded day of your life.

>And all this trouble was started by the shepherdess in uniform over on one side of the courtroom.

>The one that you woke up next to this morning, and are now praying will get you through this.

>As the judge-- a llama with curls so long you can't see their face-- goes through the dry announcements and ceremonial rules, you can't help but think back about how the day started out.

>You woke up with a throbbing pelvis.

>At least this time you remembered that you actually liked the bitch that gave it to you, and that you hadn't been drugged and smuggled into her apartment. Though the way she treated you as she woke you up made you question it.

>Patricia was not in a flirty mood, already dressed when she shook you awake and called you all sorts of wonderful things. Her tail was all fluffed up as you stumbled to your feet, telling her you needed a shower before you'd put on the fresh clothes she'd gotten from your place.

>She told you that there was no time, and that if you didn't put something on, she was dragging your ass to the courtroom naked.

>You didn't bother correcting her that you were still wearing shorts-- heavily stained and shredded, but shorts nonetheless. Instead you scavenged for something resembling deodorant and pulled on the slacks and button-up she'd brought you. It was a little loose, and definitely not yours-- where she got it, you don't want to know.

>You asked what she was rushing around the apartment for and she nearly bit your head off, telling you to look at the time.

>9am; an hour before the trial. You had a vague idea where her place was in relation to the courthouse, but the time it takes to get there is irrelevant.

>She wanted to get there early to prepare whatever bullshit she was about to pull.

>You asked her how you could help; once again you were made to cook.

>Makeshift breakfast-burritos wrapped in leftover napkins was a good choice, letting the two of you eat on the run. She practically dragged you to the glowiemobile, not because you tried to resist but because you could barely keep up with her long strides. Pat gulped down the burrito in one go while the vehicle started up, leaving you to try and finish yours while she drove like the agency SUV had red-and-blue flashers.

>...Which, maybe it did? You're still not sure.

>The shepherdess was visibly tense; you imagine that if you could have seen her knuckles, they'd be white. You offered a few calming words and asked if she was alright, but she snapped at you, twitching hard enough that she veered into the next lane, nearly smashing into another car.

>At the next stoplight, she sighed, closing her eyes momentarily before offering you a grumbly apology.

>The words 'I'm sorry' didn't actually leave her lips, instead telling you that she didn't need you to baby her. The trial was going to go fine, and you should just sit there quiet in the courtroom like you should in the car.

>No matter what happened, she said, getting a CU with her would tie the judge's hands. That was priority one for the State-- the trial was still a show trial, but it played in your favor now.

>You're still not sure you can believe that; the State is corrupt for sure, but will the judge keep in line with it's prerogative or her own? Because while it sounded like the State would be fine with a little humiliation to get another human hitched, people tended not to take that as well.

>But you pushed aside those fears for a moment, for your sake and Pat's. A hint of a smile came to her face when you tuned the radio to that same station the two of you listened to Monday, all those days ago. 'Dancing in the Dark' wasn't on, but she still tapped the steering wheel to the beat of 'That's All.'

>The shepherdess is all serious now, though, as the judge finishes up reciting the charges against you for the court and gestures toward your side of the room.

>"Mr. Anonerson, how do you plead to the charges laid against you? Should you plead guilty or be proven guilty, as your summons letter indicated, possible punishments include the loss of firearms privileges and confiscation of any associated property, and an accelerated State Evaluation schedule. Due to the fact that your courtship with Ms. Grilliz has ended, you will be subject to mandatory enrollment into the Civil Matchmaking Services System regardless of the outcome. However, it is possible that you will be put into the Special Assignment pool should you be found or admit to being guilty of your charges."

>Lyons, who has been giving you strange looks since you arrived, gives you one more. He appears resolute, but concerned.

>"Innocent, your honor."

>The llama nods, her curls bouncing.

>"Very well. Ms. Birch, please take the stand and present your opening statement for the prosecution."

>Pat doesn't look your way as she makes her way up, her stride short. You know you shouldn't look her way, but can't help it.

>"Thank you, your honor," she says, the first time you've ever heard respect in her tone. "As the primary and initiating officer of this case, it is my duty to inform the jury and this courtroom of any and all evidence found throughout my investigation, and to serve as the representative for the prosecution."

>She still doesn't see you, instead looking out at the small crowd behind you. Through them, more likely.

>"My suspicions that Mr. Anonerson may not have been truthful about his supposed relationship with Ms. Grilliz vastly predate the incident that incited this trial. I had no reason to suspect him of any firearms charges until said incident, taking place last Sunday, one week ago. The subject discharged a weapon-- a Kolibri 2.7mm pistol-- on the range and appeared to engage in automatic fire. Section 2-64 of the Sector WCS Civil Code states that '...no unmarried human can own any non-antique weapon, or weapon(s) covered under the former region's most stringent weapons codes.' Civilians prior to the Unification in this region were prohibited from possession of automatic weapons, as Mr. Anonerson's Kolibri appeared to be. Considering that Mr. Anonerson and Ms. Grilliz were only in Courtship at the time, this was grounds for investigation."

>Beside you, Lyons shifts, a low sigh leaving him.

>"However," the shepherdess continues after a breath, "It was my duty as an acting agent of the ATF to continue this investigation. The termination of Mr. Anonerson and Ms. Grilliz's courtship in the middle of the week allowed me to focus my efforts on the firearms and perjury charges put against Mr. Anonerson. Following procedure to the letter, I have found scant evidence to back up said charges that were issued."

>You can see the llama's eyes bug out along with the bailiff and clerk's; Lyons stiffens beside you. Patricia stays resolute, standing tall and firm.

>"The charges were made according to ATF guidelines and procedures, which I will discuss in my arguments session along with the evidence gathered from the investigation."

>She leaves the stand on her own, like she'd been there plenty of times before.

>"Mr. Lyons," the judge says after a pause, "Please come up and give the court your opening statement for the defense."

>The lion appears cautious as he takes the stand, though he looks professional and unmoved during his opening speech. You don't pay too much attention-- certainly not as much as you should-- as he goes on about how your clean record and clear interests show that you have little motive for purposely committing the acts you've been accused of.

>You're more focused on watching the judge whisper to her clerk, a neat-looking mouseman. He appears to be hard at work, while the judge's face is unreadable thanks to her long bangs. While you don't doubt that Patricia has a plan, you worry about the powers that be disagreeing with it. Lyons told you something you already knew much earlier in the week: the State hates being humiliated, especially publicly.

>Now rather than banking on that as your way out, you're worried that it might kill it off. Possibly literally.

>When the llama doesn't call for a recess, your fears are slightly eased.

>"Ms. Birch," she instead calls, "You may present your argument for the prosecution."

>If there was some secret message that passed between them, some secret look or smell, or even simple note passed along by the mouseman, the shepherdess didn't show it. She stays tall as she takes the floor, standing next to the small rolling cart that contains a variety of documents submitted by each party.

>"My investigation continued throughout the week, as stated in my report," Patricia begins, standing at attention. "Throughout this time, it was my duty to investigate Mr. Anonerson in relation to his charges and determine if any additional ones were appropriate. Briefly, I will summarize the events of the past week and their events; you will find them recorded in more detail within the physical report that has been submitted."

>Shuffling paper fills the room as judge, jury, and your attorney all sift through the hefty stack of forms, reports, and other documents.

>"Monday: Mr. Anonerson contacts me concerning the firearm related to his charges; he was unable to find upon returning home. I requested that he join me in retracing his steps, and he obliged, showing concern not only for the proper treatment of arms, but also for the community itself. Said firearm was not found at the range."

>"Tuesday: I search Mr. Anonerson's home for the missing firearm as well as for any other suspicious evidence. Neither were located, showing a lack of negligence on Mr. Anonerson's part. At this point, the firearm was declared stolen via the ordinary ATF process-- the forms are available for reference."

>"Wednesday: As per procedure, I search our local evidence vault for the missing firearm. However, due to its antique nature, it was not subject to documentation in any former database, and does not fit precisely into our own. Mr. Anonerson responded promptly to my summons to the office, and further proved his dedication to public safety and personal responsibility in aiding in identification. The firearm in question was not located in our inventory, and is still missing as of today."

>"Thursday through Saturday: Because of the firearm's missing status, I was forced to conduct a series of personal interviews with Mr. Anonerson in lieu of examining the firearm itself to determine if the weapon was intentionally modified for automatic fire or not. It was also necessary to conduct research into the firearm model as well, to find out if there were automatic versions or known malfunctions that result in autofire."

>You're not sure how she's keeping a straight face, but you're glad she is. You're doing your best to as well, and after months of dealing with people at the library, you've got plenty of practice.

>"Throughout these interviews, it became clear that Mr. Anonerson had no intention of sabotaging or delaying the investigation, even providing documents related to the firearm in question. Rough transcripts of these interviews can be found in your paperwork."

>More paper shuffling fills the courtroom; you try and peek over at Lyon's sheet, but it's a bit too far away to read. Patricia waits patiently on the floor, still giving the back of the room the thousand-yard stare.

>"Does this conclude your argumentation for the prosecution, Ms. Birch?" the judge, asks, stressing the last few words.

>"Yes, your honor."

>The llama stares at her through those curly bangs, before saying "Very well. Mr. Lyons, you have the floor."

>Lyons does a good job of making your case for innocence, you think. Talia's special gun-lawyer contacts too. But what everyone in the courtroom seems to be focused on, including you, is the voluminous transcripts Patricia provided. You're looking through them yourself; Lyons told you to appear professional and to stay calm, and looking through case papers couldn't be anything but professional.

>Reading the transcripts of your meetings with Patricia make it somewhat difficult to keep your cool. Not because she recorded the intimacy between you two, but because she didn't.

>Patricia fucking Birch, who appears to be the single dedicated ATF agent in your subsector, was willing to fabricate evidence and reports for you. You can't help be a little scared about the implications.

>She still isn't looking at you, doing the same thing you are and sifting through forms.

>Though that changes slightly when Lyons begins to call up character witnesses for you. Rebecca gives you a little smile and wave as she takes the stand, wearing a dress-sweater now.

>Your shepherdess watches intently as Rebecca and Aki answer Lyon's questions about you. Rebecca talks about how you were very deliberate as you instructed her, and how you appeared just as surprised as she was when the Kolibri went off. Aki, dressed nearly as sharp as the court staff, manages to hold off on teasing you too hard during her testimony, only calling your penchant for old weapons and your care for their condition 'notable.'

>Patricia declines the judge's offers of cross-examination for both of them, her appearance calm.

>Well, as calm as her resting bitch face can be.

>But its the last witness that makes you worry. The one that you told Lyons to drop, but he insisted had to appear in order to provide a clear account of what occurred when that gun went off.

>"Ms. Grilliz, please come to the stand," the judge orders.

>It's strange seeing Talia walk up there in a pantsuit, seeing her in anything but casual clothes.

>Stranger still is the feeling of dread that comes with her.

>Unlike Patricia, she stares straight at you when she takes her spot. You see the carefully manicured fur of her neck rising, and you've no doubt her tail is swishing intermittently behind her.

>"Ms. Grilliz," Lyons says voice even as he keeps his spot on the floor, "Could you please recount for the court what happened last Sunday afternoon, when the inciting incident of this case occurred?"

>"Ano-- Mr. Anonerson was in Bay 6," Talia begins.

>You know that tone; it's the one she uses on difficult customers at FF Supply.

>"He was showing Ms. Maldovich and I the firearm in question. Ms. Birch came in and demanded to look as well."

>The wolf doesn't look at the dog, but you can see ears flatten.

>"Mr. Anonerson loaded the firearm, made it ready, and fired. The firearm appeared to discharge all six rounds with one pull of the trigger."

>"While that does meet the legal definition of a machinegun, as Mr. Halbrooke and his associates explained," Lyons says, turning to the jury and courtroom at large, "Please recall that only weapons intentionally modified to do such are subject to criminal punishment. With that in mind-- Ms. Grilliz, please describe Mr. Anonerson's reaction to the events you just previously described."

>"Mr. Anonerson was..." Talia begins, not needing to correct herself this time. You can tell she wants to look at you, as much as she focuses on Mr. Lyons.

>"...Surprised. He inspected the weapon, including checking to see if the magazine was empty. While he examined the spent casings on the ground, Ms. Birch said--"

>"Thank you, Ms. Grilliz," Lyons interrupts quickly, "That will be all."

>He turns to the judge, the she-wolf's silent ire focused on him now, Patricia doing much the same.

>"Your honor, that concludes my argument."

>"Very well," the llama sighs, "Ms. Birch, would you like to cross-examine this witness for the prosecution?"

>Her eyes bug out from the bangs again when Patricia says "Yes."

>You see Talia's fur bristle and her lips curl, and once again, you and her are unhappy with the bitch.

>"Ms. Grilliz," Patricia says, her tone that same deadly-even one you've come to know, "Describe the circumstances of your break-up with Mr. Anonerson."

>Ooh, shit.

>"Mr. Anonerson and I... mutually agreed to--"

>"Objection, your honor," Lyons again interrupts, "This has nothing to do with the firearms charges brought against Mr. Anonerson! The courtship is over, so those charges no longer concern the court!"

>A look passes between the llama and the hound, and you think you can read it.

>If Patricia wasn't going to serve you up to the state machine, she was going to need to serve up someone-- and who better than the she-wolf that had kept her from you and teased her for all this time?

>"I'll allow it. Continue, Ms. Grilliz."

>Talia was having a hard time containing herself now.

>"We mutually agreed to end the courtship. I clearly wasn't satisfying him, and he had changed during the course of the investigation."

>"Be more specific," Patricia said, "What day was it that this occurred?"

>"Thursday, I believe."

>"What time of day?"

>"Around noon."

>"Did you hit Mr. Anonerson during this break-up, Ms. Grilliz?"

>Talia snarls.

>"I told you, it was mutual!"

>"I see," Pat growls before turning to the court at large. "I invite the court to look at my reporting of Thursday's interview with Mr. Anonerson."

>You quickly flip to that section, petrified. She begins reciting what was written, describing that when she met you for the second time that day, later in the afternoon, you were hesitant to let her in. That your voice was rough, and there were scabs-- still are scabs-- on your shoulders and face.

>"Ms. Birch," Lyons interrupted, "It says right here that Mr. Anonerson didn't confirm where these injuries came from."

>The way he says it makes you unsure if you want him as your lawyer anymore. There's no remorse there, though he's sitting right next to you.

>"Ms. Griliz," the shepherdess says, ignoring him, "I will remind you once that perjury in court is a more serious offense than the charges you avoided by breaking things off with Mr. Anonerson. So I'll ask you again: did you, Ms. Talia Grilliz, become violent with Mr. Anonerson around noon on Thursday?"

>The she-wolf bares her teeth, and you can feel the animals in the room around you tense up.

>"No, Ms. Bitch-- Birch-- I did not," she growls, getting one in response from the shepherdess, "But I'm more than happy to recount all the times you were on my god-damn range."

>"I've kept agency procedure throughout this investigation and before, Talia!" Patricia shouts, leaning over her table now. "As many times as you and Anon have taunted me, I--!"

>You begin coughing. Loudly.

>The bailiff almost bangs for order before he realizes that it's not quite under your control, the water you're spitting out all over the table as Lyons smacks you in the back with a large paw.

>"Are you alright, Mr. Anonerson?" the judge asks when you're just spluttering rather than hacking.

>"Y-yeah," you manage, giving Patricia a look, "just went down-- the wrong pipe."

>The shepherdess meets your glare. There's no doubt about it; she knows you want her to drop it. Whether or not she will is unclear. You can feel Talia's eyes on you too, but you don't want to piss her off anymore than Pat already has.

>"Mr. Anonerson," the judge says again, jolting you upright, "Please clear the air for us: did Ms. Grilliz hurt you when the two of you broke up?"

>"No."

>The answer comes easy. Talia relaxes slightly, while Patricia tenses even more, her anger now directed at you.

>"Very well," the judge sighs once more, "Ms. Birch, do you have any more questions for Ms. Grilliz?"

>"No, your honor."

>The way she keeps looking at you while she says it only adds to the menace in her tone-- you think you see her chip go off.

>You're in for it tonight.

>The recess feels short as the jury goes to deliberate, and you find yourself sticking near Lyons. You don't want to go near Talia, and you can't go near Patricia. Rebecca and Aki come and breach protocol by more-or-less asking you if you lied, to which you continue to lie and say that you didn't.

>Lyons doesn't have much to say to you, too busy working things out with the gun lawyers that Talia recommended. You can catch them talking about how strange it was that Patricia basically was working for them as well. Plenty of jokes about cops making poor lawyers are made, though you detect a sense of unease.

>When the staff call you all back into the room, you feel a distinct sense of relief. For better or worse, it's all going to be done.

>"Would the representative of the jury please read off the verdict?"

>A human man-- the only one among the menagerie that fills the jury box, who are all eyeing him up-- stands, holding his papers slightly nervously.

>"We find the defendant, Mr. Anon Anonerson, innocent of Firearms Negligence, of Illicit Possession of a Machine Gun, of Perjury, and of Obstruction of Justice."

>A weight lifts off your shoulders, one that had settled in and grown heavier throughout the week. Your side of the courtroom is filled with sighs of relief and smiles-- save Talia who is looking across murderously, gazing right past you.

>Patricia stares back, her expression mirrored.

>"Be that as it may," the judge says, cutting the celebrations short, "Because you are no longer in courtship, Mr. Anonerson, and your State Evaluation recommends you for mandatory entrance into the CMMS pool, there is still the matter of that to discuss. You may appeal, and--"

>"That won't be a problem, your honor."

>All eyes go to Patricia, her expression still severe.

>"And why would that be, Ms. Birch?"

>Is that... blush?

>"If you return to the end of my report, you'll see that Mr. Anonerson... confided to me that he was pursuing a Civil Union."

>Though she doesn't say with who, most of the courtroom can figure it out.

>"There's a receipt from the CMMS office attached to the back of the file."

>And indeed there is, your name and hers filling out those dotted lines.

>You find Lyons giving you a strange look. He opens his mouth to whisper something to you, but shuts it, thinking better of it.

>You don't blame him.

>Before you can gauge the reaction of anyone else, however, the judge speaks again. And she doesn't sound happy.

>"Ms. Birch, I want you and the court to recognize something. This trial began because of your investigation. The charges laid against Mr. Anonerson were your doing. In your argumentation, your evidence appeared only to prove Anon's innocence. And now, after everything, you reveal to us that the two of you got a Civil Union, further nullifying the charges made against him. Tell me, Ms. Birch: did you intend to waste the court's time and money?"

>The room is silent for a moment, all eyes on the shepherdess as her expression turns sour. You half expect the chip to go off, but instead she takes a large breath.

>"Mrs. Birch," she corrects.

>"Your honor, at the end of each daily report, you will find a justification for my each and every action. I have committed the agency's guidelines and agreements to memory, and have included the different sections in full which support my actions throughout this investigation."

>She begins to lean over the table again.

>"To be brief, your honor, the whole thing had to occur according to Section 1.123b. Illicit weapons of any type, even rumors of them, must be investigated in order to protect public safety. Section 64.3aB indicates that in lieu of physical evidence, an investigating officer may instead conduct interviews with suspects or witnesses. And Section 14.246 says that no matter the results of an investigation, be they in favor of the prosecution or against, are to be made available to the court and to the public."

>She takes a breath before finishing, forcing her voice back down from a shout.

>"I have followed these rules to the letter. But who Anon and I choose to get a Civil Union with is no damn business of the court."

>The llama stares back at the defiant dog, and once again you find yourself slightly afraid. Not only did Patricia fabricate evidence for you, but she just dressed down the judge.

>"Court adjourned."

>The words bring you only a little comfort as everyone rises, the jury and others watching the room beginning to file out. You stand, turning to Lyons.

>"Is that it?"

>"That's it," he confirms, shutting up his case. "I can't say I expected things to go quite like that, but I'm happy that you appear to be happy, Mr. Anonerson."

>He grabs your hand and gives it a shake, the expression on his face genuine.

>"If you need a lawyer, well, you know who to call."

>He turns and moves to the aisle, only to be confronted by a navy-blue figure.

>"Mrs. Birch," he says, giving her a nod.

>The shepherdess-- truly your shepherdess now-- stays there for a moment, arms folded, before she steps aside and lets the lawyer go out. You don't know what look or secret scent passed between them, but it seems to be forgotten as she pounds toward you, too fast for you to read.

>Christ, is she gonna try and punish you here for lying for Talia? Right in the courtroom after using the CU to get you out of things wouldn't be the best ti—"

>She does the strangest thing, right then.

>She hugs you.

>You stay quiet as you feel her tremble a little against you; not from sobs, you don't think, but from breaths. Her heart is going fast as you gently reach up, stroking her back.

>"A-alright," she says, voice tremoring only a little, "Enough of that. Let's go, perp."

>"I'm not under investigation anymore, am I?" you tease as she grabs your hand, leading you from the aisle.

>"You know damn well that you're always gonna be my perp."

>Her voice is rough, tired, and exasperated-- but she gives your hand a squeeze.

>Two felines block the way out, though; Rebecca and Aki, the former taking up most of the aisle.

>"Is that it?" she asks, her smile faltering a little at Patricia's downturned ears, "Lyons didn't tell us what to do, he just kind of left."

>"Yeah, it's over," you say, squeezing Pat's hand. "All of it, thank god."

>"I'm glad I could help," Aki says, and Rebecca nods in kind-- though she doesn't share the cheetah's smug look.

>"So, you change your mind about the ATF, Anon?"

>"Well..."

>You look up; Pat is looking at you expectantly, wanting to move on.

>What the hell, she seems to be tolerating these two.

>"Most of them I still hate. Most of them."

>"You and me both," she mutters under her breath.

>"Well, I hope you two are happy!" Rebecca says as Aki snorts, shaking her head at you. "I... didn't expect the two of you to be happy together, but if you are, well, that's what matters!"

>"Thanks," Patricia grunts, and you jab her a little. "Thank you," she says more nicely, giving you a good dig back.

>"It really helped out," you say, doing your best not to wince.

>"You still gonna play with old futzy guns now?" Aki asks as Pat drags you along, Rebecca moving out of the way with a small wave. "You've got no excuse!"

>"Fuck you, Aki!" you call back, "If I hear you've been going automatic on the range, I'll tell my wife!"

>It feels weird to say, even in jest.

>But the way it makes Pat wrap an arm around you makes it worth it; you can hear her tail swishing behind you.

>Unfortunately, it's not quite the ride off into the sunset that you hoped.

>As the two of you step out from the building, you spot a responsibility among the crowd of people going down the steps.

>Talia.

>She's sitting on the stone steps of the building, head in her hands.

>You can feel Pat stiffen beside you, but you have to pull towards the wolf.

>"Anon," the shepherdess growls, very, very low into your ear, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

>"I've got to apologize, Pat."

>"You don't have to do shit," she says, turning your face to hers. "Much less that, much less to her."

>"Pat--" you begin, then sigh.

>"I have to. I just do. She was... was my friend. I at least owe her that."

>Patricia just grips your face, looking down at you with those brown eyes. She's not trying to crush your head or claw it, but just overpower you with her gaze.

>You don't let it work.

>She pulls back with a sigh as you stay resolute.

>"Fine," she says quietly, her arms crossed, "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

>You make no move to retake her hand as you walk down slowly, almost quietly, towards the she-wolf. It might be better if Patricia wasn't with you at all, but you doubt that your new guard-dog would ever let that happen.

>"Talia?" you say, just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the city street. When she doesn't look up, you're tempted to reach for her, but think better of it.

>"I'm sorry," you say instead. "I-- you were right. About most things."

>The she-wolf doesn't move, even her tail still dead on the ground.

>"I want you to know-- that I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want--"

>"You didn't want to hurt me," she finishes for you.

>Her voice is raw, but tinged with a growl.

>"You're still fucking doing it, Anon," she says as she gets up, looking at you with red eyes. "You, you, you."

>"Talia--"

>"No!" she shouts. "I don't want to hear it!"

>Pat grabs you and pulls you to her, a hand over your chest as you feel her resonate with a growl.

>"I don't want to hear how you're sorry for me! I don't want to hear you try and tell me you did it to save me! I don't care that you, or Ms. Bitch, pulled whatever strings so my charges got dropped!"

>She breathes for a moment, Patricia growling as the small crowd of passersby looks on.

>"What you did was selfish," the she-wolf finally says, panting slightly. "I want you to know that. Everything turned out great for you, but some of us didn't end up okay."

>She takes another breath, her eyes staying open this time as she clenches her fists at her sides, lips curled.

>"You come to the range, you come to FF Supply, and you'll see what I mean."

>"You threatening my husband, hick?" Patricia snarls, and you hear the flick of her baton extending.

>The weight she puts on 'husband' was by no means accidental. And it makes Talia widen her stance, her growl reaching a crescendo.

>"Like you are right now, Bitch?"

>You feel Patricia twitch, a little of the chip's energy hitting you.

>"Pat--"

>She pushes you behind her, that swishing sheppy tail brushing you on the way.

>"I've been waiting for this a long time, Talia," she says, her voice almost husky. "Give me an excuse."

>Talia laughs; it sounds like Pat used to.

>"That makes two of us."

>A moment or two passes of growling and bristling. They're scary like this, both of them-- even the AK-toting yeens were a bit more comfortable.

>Talia's words go through your mind, your throat getting sore just thinking back to what she did.

>What she said.

>About being a coward.

>The two of them leap damn-near simultaneously, closing the gap in just a few steps before--

>Before they both stop.

>You put yourself between them, facing neither, your arms out to your sides in case they couldn't skid to a stop.

>"Don't."

>You can hear Patricia still growling, panting, but Talia's hatred is quiet as she looks at you, a note of confusion written on her face.

>"You're not violent, Talia," you say slowly, making sure she understands. "We might not be together, but that doesn't mean it wasn't real."

>"You're choosing her?"

>You turn slowly at Patricia's incredulous growl, anger barely masking her grief.

>"After all I've fucking done for you, you've still got a thing for that--"

>"'Shepherd in the dark,' Pat."

>Now there's some confusion on her face.

>"That's what you are. To me."

>She begins to relax as she understands, the song lyrics from that night on your couch coming back to her. She lowers the baton, her tail drooping slightly as you take a step towards her.

>"Patricia, I l--"

>She grabs you by the arm and yanks you into hers, silencing you with her lips.

>She keeps you like that for a long time.

>"Don't you try and say it, perp," she says when she finally pulls away. But you see her tail wagging, and she's almost smiling.

>It falters a little as you begin to pull away, but keeping your hand in hers when you turn to face Talia seems to sate that.

>The she-wolf stares at you; you can tell she's not happy, but it's not at all like it was before.

>"Fine."

>"I'm glad that things worked out for you, Anon," she says. "I hope you're happy."

>She turns away, her tail completely down.

>"I meant what I said before, by the way," she calls over her shoulder, Patricia gripping you tighter. "You're banned from the range."

>"...After all, you had a Negligent Discharge."

Epilogue

>The sounds of acoustic and electric guitar fills your apartment as you watch over a pot, stirring occasionally.

>So far, there haven't been any issues with the copy of Tesla's 'What You Give' that you dubbed onto the mixtape. None of the other songs, either. All of them sound just like they're from the source, no quality loss from recording it off the radio or player.

>You haven't told Pat that you have a digital dubbing machine, nor that you've got blank cassettes. You've been working on this surprise for a few days now; picking out the songs and ordering them was practically as hard as getting the physical stuff to work and making sure Pat didn't find it.

>It was just when she was home that it was an issue; you've had a bit more time to yourself there since she moved in. You still work at the library, but you can afford to take shorter shifts and earlier shifts now.

>Though, now that you've got a glowie wife, you think the weirdos that come by at night might think twice about fucking with you or trying to fuck you, as the case may be. Even if they did, you can carry now.

>You would have gone to the museum job, but by the time you got all settled in with Pat after the trial, someone had already taken the job. Jen sounded a bit regretful when she told you over the phone.

>But having a lazy job that you only sort-of care for isn't all bad. You've got plenty of time to do stuff like the mixtape and get better at cooking. You're no chef, but you're a hell of a lot better than you were a couple weeks ago. Good thing, too; it took a little bit of practice to figure out stuff that you both can eat and enjoy.

>That and moving in was a source of tension for the first few days, but it's all been smoothed out. She doesn't have too much stuff, and your place is plenty big. Though with your ever-expanding pseudo museum and the location not being exactly glamorous, the two of you have talked about finding another place when the lease is up.

>You're pushing for a spot out in the country so you can shoot with all the great off-time you have, but Patricia doesn't like it. You're not exactly sure why, other than the drive.

>If you did, though, you could finally make good on that promise to Rebecca. She was a bit disappointed when you told her over the phone that you'd been banned from the range, but it sounds like Aki had taken her under her oh-so tactical wing.

>If you could ever convince Pat to let you bring anyone else to the glowie range, that tiger might be the one giving you tips at this point.

>You check your watch-- the stew should be ready in just in time for dinner, just needing to simmer for a bit now.

>...And it is almost time for Pat to come home.

>You're popping the tape out from the player just as you hear the key in the lock, and quickly pocket it as the shepherdess comes bursting through the door, groaning.

>That's not usually a good sign outside of the bedroom.

>"Long day?"

>"No," she grumbles, kicking off her boots at the same time as she slips off her belt, "Someone's getting in my way again."

>"Who is it?" you ask, taking the belt from her waiting hands-- she only agreed to stop wearing it in the house if you take the gear-laden monstrosity from her and took care of it and her boots while she changed.

>"Laura," she calls back to you, thudding over to the bedroom.

>"Laura? Like, cougar-lawyer-Laura?"

>"Yeah. She's getting in my way again."

>The somewhat handsy feline you'd met all those weeks ago had turned out to be a lawyer-- one that Patricia had to deal with frequently, actually. She advised the agency and local state departments fairly often, and Patricia wasn't always a fan of her advice.

>"What is it this time?" you ask, trying to find a better pocket to hide the tape as you listened to the fluttering of clothes.

>"She doesn't think we've got enough on those gun-runners a few blocks down to search their bar."

>"The yeens?"

>"Yes, the yeens!" she half-shouts, poking her head back out from the bedroom, "The ones I've been investigating since I moved in here!"

>She had indeed been going after the pack of gun-running yeens; the very same ones that harassed you at the range, in fact.

>You're doubtful it's a coincidence, especially when the two of you discovered they appeared to all work at a bar near your apartment.

>You hear her sigh from the other room, grumbling some more. She's standing there in her casual clothes doing her breathing exercises, forcing herself to untense.

>It's been a week since her chip went off-- that you know of, at least. It's the longest it's been since the trial.

>"Pat," you say, slipping up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist, "You don't need to go after them because they went after me once."

>She grunts as you press your face into her back, feeling her tail brush against your stomach.

>"I know they're close by, but I'm safe. We're safe."

>"It's not about that," she says, holding onto your arms and beginning to sway, "It's my job. It's a big case, and no one seems to be working on it. I'm making sure that New Apple is safe, not just us."

>She pauses a moment, turning around in your arms.

>"...And if that means I get to settle a score, so be it."

>She smiles down at you, stroking your hair before giving you a kiss.

>"Now, what's that you're hiding in your pocket?"

>You pray she's talking about your slight stiffie.

>"Nothing. Nothing you haven't seen before."

>"Oh, I'm not talking about the little carrot you've got down there," Pat says, the grip on the back of your head tightening. "What is it, Anon?"

>"First off, rude."

>"Tell me, Anon," she says, beginning to sound annoyed. "You know you can't hide shit from me. What is it?"

>You sigh; she was an ATF agent, after all.

>"Well, it was going to be for later..." you say, pulling out the tape slowly, holding it up for her.

>The shepherdess takes it gently from your hand.

>"...But you had to go and stick your nose in it, didn't you, Officer Bitch?"

>"Where's the track list?" she asks, scratching your neck at the sound of her pet name, turning the cassette over in her hand.

>"I was going to put it in and find out, but you had to go and open your little present early."

>She huffs, letting you go and setting the tape on the counter. But you can see her smiling.

>"Well, I'm glad I wasn't the only one that felt generous today."

>You stare at her for a moment before you figure it out. A quick glance around the entryway doesn't reveal any packages, and she snickers as you peek into the bedroom.

>"I'm good at hiding shit too, perp," she chuckles as you pat through her discarded uniform. You give up with a look.

>"Belt," she whispers with a slight nod to the side.

>You rush over to her duty belt, the one that you hefted up onto a shelf near the door. You begin tearing through the pouches and pockets, finding nothing out of the ordinary-- cuffs, mags, pepper spray, mints, condoms for when she just can't wait when she gets home--

>Then you see it. A small envelope, padded by the sound of it. You slide it out, feeling the iron inside.

>Carefully, you undo the flap and reach inside, pulling out the contents.

>It's a gun, the frame steeply angled and the overall size small-- the cleared magazine and chamber suggest a .22.

>But what catches your eye is the slide, the finish well-worn but still serviceable.

>There's no marks of an electropen, just lettering. It's in Spanish, but only two phrases matter to you.

>'Trejo,' and 'Modelo 1.'

>"I thought, that after all that trouble you went to getting my attention," Patricia says as you turn the gun over, seeing the small 'R' marking next to a small lever, "You might want an actual little machine gun."

>You can't tell how much of it was teasing and how much of it is genuine.

>And right now?

>You don't care.

>"W-where... how...?"

>"Evidence, perp," she smiles, brushing the hair from your face as you look up at her.

>"...But you don't just get to have it."

>That grin turns a little sadistic as she takes the Trejo from you, dangling it over you like some schoolyard bully.

>"You've got to--"

>She stops as you rush into her, holding her tight and pressing your face into her chest. She stays frozen for a moment.

>Then her tail thumps a little against some piece of furniture as she hugs you back, the contented hum from her chest hitting you full in the face.

>"Nice try," she whispers when you both finally pull apart, "You're gonna have to do a little more than that for it."

>"What might that be?" you ask, keeping your hands on her waist, rubbing just up to her ribs.

>"How old's this thing?" she asks after a moment, ignoring your ministrations-- though her tail does not.

>"...I'd have to try and look up the serial, and even then it--"

>"A range, perp."

>"90 to 110 or so."

>"Ooh, I like those numbers," she growls, looking back down at you. She takes your chin in her free hand, rubbing a thumb over your cheek.

>"If you want it, you'll have to worship me for that many minutes."

>"...Sounds like cruel and unusual punishment to me..."

>Patricia laughs, stepping back and pushing you away.

>"You know that law doesn't exist anymore, Anon. Now, which'll it be:" she says, undoing the one button on those pants, letting them fall to the floor, "sheppussy, or ass?"

>She didn't bother putting any new panties on, you notice.

>You think for a second; the stew needs to simmer for at least another hour and a half, but too much could make things a bit too mushy.

>...

>What the hell.

>"Both."

>The shepherdess smiles that evil smile, chuckling softly to herself as she lays back on the couch, her eyes locked on yours.

>"Good boy, perp."