FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

You take another look at the fateful email, hoping something you see there will spark an idea -- a favor to call in, a memento that could be evidence, anything. Something that might prove more productive than your frantic internet searches last night. Sure, you figured out what most of your charges would be, but not exactly what you can do about them. You didn't see 'Harassing an Officer' and 'Perjury while under Investigation' coming, though. Patricia adding those on was unexpected.

And a bit laughable.

You read through all the charges again, writing them down on a piece of paper. Doing some more focused research might help you about to search up the exact charges when something near the bottom of the email catches your eye: it wasn't just Patricia's contact information that was sent to you. Talia's is there as well, though you have it already. But what matters is that Rebecca's info is there.

She's listed as an 'Immediate Witness' along with Talia, but your gut tells you that she might be more valuable when it comes to testimony. The fact the she-wolf is your best friend is going to work against you. Aside from the fact she's also under suspicion, the phrase 'conflict of interest' looms large in your mind. Rebecca, though, had just met when it all went down. If anyone is gonna be your key witness, it's her.

You add her info to your phone, carefully reading the email again; your communications with Pat are going to be monitored and used in court, but nothing's said about the other two mentioned in the email. You start to look up if there's anything wrong with doing it, then close the tab. You offered to help the girl find a new gun. That's not related to case at all. If she happens to like you more because it, well, there's not a damn thing they can do about it.

Probably.

But tigress seemed so sweet that you're not entirely worried. If there's anyone that'll make this inevitably terrible week start off a little better, it's probably her.

'Hi Rebecca, this is Anon. I bet you got an email from the state earlier too, right?'

You don't bother staring at the phone waiting for a response, doing more legal searches instead. It takes her a little bit, but your phone pings as you're midway through a case-history doc.

'Hi anon!' her message reads. 'Yes, I got a notification from the state that I'm a witness. I hope you're not too worried'

'A little,' you lie, 'I'm working on trying to build my case. I'm no lawyer, but I think a lot is going to come down to testimony.'

You regret the text as soon as you send it. It's blatantly self-centered, not exactly the kind of first impression -- second impression -- you want to make. You type out 'no pressure,' but stop yourself from sending it, thinking about the impact of your words a little bit this time. You get up and put on some hot water; it's early, and you slept like shit. A bit of caffeine should help you think straight. Considering what's at stake, you opt for black tea.

The coffee you prepare is the same el-cheapo instant crap you always use. It probably tastes terrible, but all coffee does to you. What matters is that it smells good, makes you a little more calm. Rebecca's next message comes as you pour the water, filling the little sake cup of coffee powder.

'Oh!' it reads, 'Well, i'll do what I can!'

You close your eyes and hold onto your steeping tea, the warmth giving you a chill, even if it is summer. You take a minute to think about your response this time and type it out carefully.

'Actually, it's kinda convenient getting eachother's contact info like this -- if you want to look into getting a new gun, I'm available. Took a bit of time off of work after everything that happened yesterday.'

By the time you hit send, the tea is ready. You force yourself to take slow, small sips, letting the earthy flavor run over your tongue. It's still a little hot. Your phone goes off again, and this time you leave it. It goes off again as you continue drinking, feeling the warmth settle in your chest. When you finish, you take the phone to the bathroom and prep a shower. You check it as the water warms up.

'Oh, sure!' the first message reads, and then: 'I've got time off too, actually. When would work this week?'

You check the water as you type back -- it's always cold in the mornings...

'If you're not too busy, how about now? I can drive' you send.

The water's almost warm enough now. Just enough time for a quick addition.

'I could use a break from the legal stuff for a little bit...'

You strip down, about to get in when your phone buzzes. You step partway past the curtain, then curse. It could be time-sensitive. You wipe your hand on your discarded clothes before tapping at the screen.

'Okay!' Rebecca's text reads, 'I need a little time to get ready, but today works. Here's my address:'

You chuckle, dropping it back into your clothes as you get in. You need a bit of time too. The shower is certainly a comfort, that warm feeling from the tea spreading all over now. It's cleared your head up a bit, too; you're focused instead of jittery. You're thinking about what gun would best suit her, what'll be easy for her to learn on. Which shops around here have those sorts of guns, plus ammo and accessories. And which place will give the best deal -- on that stuff and on her old piece.

You wonder a little bit about her, too. Her having time off as well is certainly convenient, but it makes you wonder what she does. Her address looked to be in the south-west suburbs, so probably something white-collar. It's a nice part of town. You just hope she's not wasting a sick day on you or anything. She seems really nice, but the way she reacted when you went to pat her sticks out. That and how she was quiet when you asked why she was doing all this.

You brush away the thoughts as you dry off, reminding yourself you're doing it all for a reason. She was nothing but cheerful otherwise, and you made a promise. Whatever her reasons, you want her to have a gun she can actually use. Her being cute is just a bonus.

...Oh, and she's your key witness. That's important too.

The drive to Rebecca's place takes a bit of time, but you don't mind it. A good half of it is in the suburbs, which are a nice change of pace from the urban center where you're renting. It's nice to not worry about some yeen or rat trying to make a move at a stoplight. It actually makes you feel a little out of place, actually -- and not just because you're the only one driving a stubborn old shitbox. Everywhere you look it's well-manicured lawns, shaped bushes and flower gardens, summer decorations in windows and stuck out along front walks. All the cars are new or new-ish, shining on concrete that seems like it just set yesterday.

If it weren't for the lack of humans walking around, you'd mistake the place for the picturesque descriptions of pre-state America. There were anthros back then, you know, but the ratio of them to humans was a bit more equal. You do see a few of your kind out on the sidewalks, but they're all in company of what you presume are their spouses. There are lone anthros, but no lone humans. They look happy and slightly older for the most part; some are on their own, others are walking dogs... You try not to think about it too hard as you pass a large doberman lady walking a tiny mutt of some kind. You imagine they try not to think about it either.

After a few twists and turns, you find yourself at a rather small house, pushed up near the sidewalk. A small willow tree stands alone in the yard, its bed filled with flowers. The light orange paint on the siding is bright, and a small buffer of bushes lays just below the windows. There's no real room in the driveway, since the attached garage is just as pushed-up as the rest of the house, so you make do on the street.

You can't quite make out anything inside as you approach the front door, the windowpanes all getting a good glare. As you get closer and see that it's around 12 feet tall, all doubts about this being the right house vanish. The doorbell gives a bright chime when you push it and wait; the literal 'Welcome!' mat is a nice touch. You realize there's two sets of handles and locks, a normal set around the height of your waist, and another larger set around head-level. Definitely new construction.

Soon enough the tigress answers the door, looking down at you with a smile. Her outfit is a little different from yesterday, her sweatshirt and shorts replaced with a red, woolen sweater and a pair of short jean shorts.

"Hi Anon!" she says, "Thanks for coming!"

"No problem Rebecca," you say, standing awkwardly on the stoop. "I've got the time, and like I said, I could use a break."

"I'm happy to help," she says, pushing you out toward the street with her presence alone. "It's the least I can do."

She pauses as you unlock the door to your truck, and it takes a second for you to realize why. Standing there with the pistol case looking tiny, she's taller than the cab by a good three feet. She's wider than the door without a doubt, and she might be thicker back to front, too. Her tail flicks low behind her, her ears drooping a little as she lets out an "Umm..."

"Maybe we should take your car?" you suggest, trying to hide your blush.

"It’s in the shop, actually..." she says, her hands flexing around the pistol case's handle. "I dropped it off yesterday, after the range..."

You sigh. It's funny-- you've used the light truck's small size to avoid giving rides before. The bigger Anthros from the range -- usually the big predatory species, but sometimes hefty herbivores -- seem to always have their vehicles malfunction when you're around. And naturally, they're a bit harder to say 'no' to than the just-a-little-tall rodents or the lanky buncels from the library. You may have teased some of them with it, leading them on to watch their face fall when they saw the cramped cab. Then their car would magically start up again.

You feel a little bad about it now.

"Here," Rebecca says before you can speak, holding the pistol case out to you. "You go ahead. I trust you to get something better for me."

"Rebecca, it doesn't work that way," you say, choosing your words. "The State requires the owner to be the one actually buying the gun. Plus, all I can really get are pre-State guns... and..."

"...And we know those are too small for me," she finishes with a nod, though she's still frowning. "Most pre-State stuff is."

"Yeah... Well, it's got a bench seat. we could throw the case in the bed, and you could try to squeeze--"

"No, no, I'm not putting you through that!" she says, waving away your suggestion. "I'll go in the bed."

That wasn't what you expected to hear at all.

"A-are you sure?" you ask, trying to read her face; nothing but serenity. "We could always wait until your car is fixed."

"No," she says, putting her hands on her hips, "you said you needed a break, and I said I'd give you one."

Before you can protest, she drops the case in the cab with you and throws a leg up into the bed. Getting in is easy for her, tall as she is, but the ancient suspension complains loudly. You watch the rear end bounce a little as she settles into place with her head near the cab, but the stubborn machine holds.

"Come on!" she says, a bright smile on her face.

"Can't believe none of the others thought of this..." you mutter to yourself, turning the key.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

The truck moves sluggishly, but moves all the same. You keep it in the lower gears, all your turns and stops nice and gentle for your passenger. The engine isn't giving you much choice -- you don't know the Toyota's tow weight, but you imagine the tigress is near it. If you felt out of place on these streets before, you're certain you are now.

Rebecca fills up your rearview mirror, even though she's leaning to the side near your window, practically hugging the cab. Hell, she fills up your bed; the tigerstripe of her thighs cover the width of it and threaten to spill up over the side, her knees bent and her feet dangling lazily above her like she's making a phone call rather than riding down the street. Your eyes roam up over the hem of her shorts and to the generous curve of her rear, her tail sweeping across it now and then with the slight wind. Another question comes to mind: why is she wearing a sweater in the middle of the summer?

"A-Anon, there's a--"

"Shit!" you hiss, stomping on the breaks for the fast-approaching stop-sign. A cyclist flips you off as she swerves around you -- you didn't think you could cycle with hooves, but that pissed-off doe just proved you wrong. You hear -- no, feel -- Rebecca's chest thump against the rear glass as the whole truck lurches to a halt, right behind your head.

"S-sorry, I zoned out," you manage, "trying to think of the best way to get there without taking the highway."

She laughs a little nervously as you start up again, her rumble a bit louder than the pickup's.

"That wouldn't go well," she says, grabbing onto the roof and the edge of your open window; you're pretty sure you hear claws punching into the steel.

"Where is it we're going, exactly?"

"'Double Action Sports,' they're an indoor range and a store. They've got a good selection of anthro-sized handguns. More than most of the other places I go, anyway."

She gives a little noise of affirmation, then goes quiet. When you get on a stretch of calm, open road, you take a glance behind you: thank God. The rear window is somehow still intact.

There's no other incidents on your way to the store, your eyes completely on the road this time. You see a few heads turn, but no one causes a fuss. The parking lot is filled when you arrive, but thankfully everyone is already inside. The two of you are spared a little dignity as you find a spot, but Rebecca still blushes. As much as tigers can, anyway; her tail and ears flick, as she gets out. She holds the gun case tight to herself, looking down and biting her lip as the two of you walk towards the sleek storefront.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah," Rebecca says, shaking herself a little, "It was a little fun, actually."

"Wanna take the highway back?"

There's a pause, then she chuckles.

"You're funny, Anon."

You've been to this place once or twice before, though you can't remember why. It hasn't changed much, everything white, black, or tactical brown and green. The shop portion of the store is nearly as big as the range, separated by soundproofed glass. Firearms take up the majority of the showroom, though there's the mandatory apparel and other knick-knacks section off in the corner near the counter. The range itself is fairly busy, muffled thumps of gunfire providing a second beat for the radio. The showroom itself is empty, but the staff are all busy at the counter, trying to get a younger-looking group set up for a range session. They give you a glance of acknowledgment, but that's all.

"Good," you say to yourself, "We're on our own."

"Why is that a good thing?" Rebecca asks quietly, following you to the rows and rows of display models.

"We'll be buying instead of being sold to," you say, taking in their inventory. Everything is modern and organized by brand. Glock, Tridentia, Lupine Arms -- even HK, the standard supplier for the state. What's important is that they've got a good variety of models, including oversized pieces. You look at Rebecca; she's just a little overwhelmed

"So now I need to know a little about what you want, Rebecca," you say. "Let's start easy. How big do you want it to be?"

"Big enough for me," she says, still trying to take in the sea of gunmetal, finishes matte and shiny.

"Don't worry, they're all probably big enough for you to use. Something smaller will be lighter, have more concealment options, but they've got less mass. Bigger ones will be easier to handle, but they're bigger, and --"

You stop yourself, catching Rebecca staring down at you.

"Bigger ones are easier to hold onto and shoot softer, but smaller ones are easier to hide. Sorry, nerded out."

"That's okay," she says with a slight chuckle. "I think I'll go with something bigger, then.

"Okay," you say, simplifying your thoughts, "next question: do you want more shots, or more power in each shot?"

"Can't I have both?"

"It's a tradeoff," you sigh, "always has been. The middle-ground isn't usually an improvement."

The tigress makes a soft sound, leaning down to look at a Sig 520 and its display.

"Well, what do you think?" she asks, clasping her hands behind her back.

"...You're a big girl," you say after a moment. "You can handle a big round."

She stands back up, cracking what you now know to be a nervous smile as she tries to shrink herself down.

"It's a good thing," you reassure her, reaching out to pat her arm before remembering what happened yesterday. "Last question: what's your price range? Low, middle, high?"

"Middle," she says, her tail flicking a little. You nod and take stock of their inventory again; you want something high caliber, extra-fullsize, and median price. HK is out for being too pricy, Lupine Arms for the opposite reason. Sig and Tridentia are about on par and both have the right size, but Glock has more options when it comes to chambering. But giving her something without a proper safety might not be the best idea. In the end, though you're not the one deciding. You point out the various models that you think would fit and have Rebecca pick up the display models. The store staff glance over at the two of you now and then as she racks slides and pulls triggers, but they've fortunately still got their hands full.

"I think this is it," Rebecca says after a while, having come back to the Tridentia 30XL. It's certainly a better choice than the Gobi Eagle she was infatuated with -- .99GE is probably a bit much, even for her. Say nothing about price. The 30XL is quite similar to it, actually; a simple, steel-framed autoloader, one of the only other hammer-fired models on the market. But you've always preferred DA/SA. The progressive decocker/safety isn't bad either, though you'll have to make sure the tigress doesn't get overwhelmed. You go through the list of chamberings with her, and settle on .50 Beo-Short. If she were anyone else, you wouldn't recommend the caliber to a new shooter, but you've got a feeling the titanic tigress will handle the round just fine.

Another positive is how common the model is. In fact, you bet there's some stuff in the little gear section of the showroom that'll fit it. You take another look at the counter while Rebecca continues handling the sizeable semi-auto, and see that they're still busy.

"Okay, Rebecca," you say. "If that's the one you'd like, let's get you a ticket. We can see if there's anything else you need while the line at the counter thins out."

"Oh! Okay," she says, setting the gun down, "-- what other things do I need?"

"You know, ammo, cleaning supplies -- stuff like that."

She nods, and you walk through getting a ticket with her. The mini kiosk things are just like the ones they've got at FnF -- they're pretty straightforward, but Talia's walked you through them before. She works the gun counter, so it's one of the few things she can do to kill time when you hang out there on-shift.

With a fresh ticket in hand Rebecca follows you over to the apparel and accessories area. Looks like the ammo is behind the counter, all the shelf space here being taken up by tactical knick-knacks, some more useful than others. You search together through them, though you doubt you're looking at the same things. The tigress is eyeing up the tacky t-shirts plastered with things like "Gun Bunny" or "Pistol Packin' Momma," and rolls her eyes at the handbag covered in MOLLE straps. The only thing that somewhat tempts you is the overpriced, extroverted coffee that's mandatory at stores like these.

"Hey Reb?" you ask. "Were you thinking about carrying the gun?"

"Like... outside the range? Can you do that?"

"If you're a State employee or were at one time, yeah."

"...Well, I guess yes."

You nod, and bring her to the selection of holsters, checking the different size charts for ones that'll fit her Tridentia. She tells you she wants it 'hidden,' which shouldn't be a problem; she's big enough that even the 30XL should disappear pretty easily. What you're most concerned about is getting the right style for her. You don't know how she plans to carry the gun, and because it's such a personal thing, there's little you can really say besides 'try them all out.'

"What's this one?" she asks; you turn to see her holding a mess of velcro and straps like it's some kind of unknown sea creature.

"That's a shoulder rig," you say, watching her untangle it, "...you can try it, but I don't know if it would be the best choice for you."

"Why not?" she asks, putting it on. "This one even fits!"

It does indeed, and she even put it on right. The black straps arc across the back of her red sweater, tucking the holster and mag pouches under her arms. They might be a little bit high up, but more concerning is the enormous bust that'd be in front of her draw. The very, very enormous bump on her red sweater.

"W-well, you'd need to change your outfit if you want to conceal it," you say slowly, "And I'm a little worried about your draw."

She gives you that same cute look from the range, one of confusion but concentration.

"How you draw the gun," you say. "I'm worried you're a little..."

You cough as you gesture around your chest, sure you're blushing.

"...Well developed."

It takes her a moment to figure out what you're saying. When she does, she lets out a tiny sound of embarrassment. You look away as she hastily takes the shoulder rig off; when you look back, she's squeezing herself in a futile attempt to hide her assets.

"What would you suggest, then?" She asks slowly after a moment, looking anywhere but down at you.

"A-Appendix," you say, also looking anywhere but at her. "O-on your belt, I mean. You won't need to change your outfit, and it's easy to access."

She makes a soft sound of acknowledgment and grabs the holster you offer up. Her tail swishes as she heads to the counter; you keep your distance. You try and force your blush down as the two of you wait for the counter to open up. You can't tell if she's offended, angry, embarrassed, or some combination of the three; it's not good for your star witness to be any of those things toward you. Especially when she's like 10 feet tall and a couple hundred pounds... and you've got to take her home.

You've got the sense to not try and explain yourself to her; you *really* were thinking about the holster, and not about her chest. It really is big enough that you think it'd be an issue. Her boobs look bigger than your head, after all.

Each. Each one is bigger than your head.

You sigh-- definitely a good thing you didn't say any of that out loud...

"...oh. Are you sure?"

The soft sound of her voice brings you out of your thoughts. The pack of youngsters have cleared away from the register, and Rebecca is talking with the polo-shirted anthro at the counter, trying to appear not twice as large.

"Sorry, ma'am," the bulldog says, "but that's the best I can offer. We don't really cater to humans, so..."

You notice the tiger's new Tridentia is already bagged up along with the goodies you suggested, but that's not what they're talking about. The Glock 42 -- human-sized -- is laying there in its case, the barely-used box of .380 next to it on the counter.

"Okay," Rebecca huffs with a sad tone. She sweeps the case and the bag into her grip and grabs you hand with the other.

"Come on, Anon."

You're a little surprised as she leads you out the door -- her grip covers your hand to the wrist, but isn’t overly tight. She's not tugging you along, keeping you at her side.

"I thought you said it would be worth $400?" she asks when the two of you are in the parking lot. "They only offered 125!"

"Well, they had a point," you say. She lets you go, her tail flicking as she deposits her purchase in the cab.

"If their customers are going to have about as much fun with it as you did, then they're not going to want it."

Rebecca grumbles, sounding like a thunderstorm as she slides into the truck bed.

"Fine," is all she says when the suspension shuts up. She crosses her arms and puts her back to the cab; you decide it's best not to point out she's blocking the rearview mirror. The truck splutters to life, and you take your chances backing out. She'll yell if you're going to hit something, you figure. You stay quiet for a few blocks before taking your chances at a long light, sticking your head partway out the window.

"Hey Reb?"

"Yes, Anon?" she calls back. You can feel it throughout the cab; she sounds more tired than unhappy.

"We could try one of the stores I usually use. I'm sure we can get a better price there."

She's quiet for a bit, then the truck buckles and the suspension makes a noise like chipmunks having a rave. You turn forward and grip the wheel as her chest thumps against the rear glass again, and she half-hugs the cab once more.

"Okay," she sighs, settled into place now.

You're just glad she did it before the light changed.

"Anon! Good to see you!"

John greets you at the door, as always.

"...and I see you've brought some company with you..." he adds as Rebecca squeezes in through the small doorway, case in hand.

"Yeah," you say, scratching your head. "She's a friend of mine. Someone sold her something a bit too small for her."

"I can see that," John says, watching her pop in from the doorway. The tigress still has to stoop a little to avoid the ceiling when she's inside.

"Rebecca, John. John, Rebecca."

"Hi," she manages, gingerly taking the old man's offered hand.

"Nice to meet ya, 'Becca," John says, giving her firm shake. "Were you looking to sell the gun to me?"

"Y-Yes," she says, offering the case to him.

"Ahh, a Glock!" he says, opening it up and taking a look. The pistol looks tiny even in his old hands.

"Yep. Can see why a little lady such's yourself would prefer something else."

You try to catch John's eye as Rebecca lets out a nervous laugh, again trying to shrink herself down.

"Let me just go check my books..." he says, heading for the back before pausing. "Oh! Anon, I had something for you to look at."

You follow him, glad he caught your look.

"Just make yourself at home out here Miss," he says to Reb as she looks around hesitantly, "this won't take but a minute. Take a gander at what I've got. Lot of it's from my personal collection!"

That seems to calm the tigress down somewhat. She takes a look at the old taxidermies that line the walls as you head into the back room. It's a small store, and the back room is even more cramped than the front, full of tools and extra inventory. The old man grunts, setting the case on a stool before trying to clear some space on his workbench. The place smells like old wood and grease, especially so back here. It's comforting.

"I thought you were with that Talia chick?" John says, setting the gun on the bench and starting an inspection.

"That's not what this is," you say.

Somewhat for yourself.

"I'm in a load of trouble, John."

"Oh?" he asks, figiting with the bright tabletop lights.

"Pat finally found an excuse to start an investigation. It's bad."

The old man pauses as he disassembles the 42, but waits for more.

"The Kolibri ran away on me, and she's claiming I manufactured a machinegun."

He laughs, nearly losing the striker as he pulls the slide apart.

"Yeah, ha-ha, it's real funny. If she gets her way, I get everything taken away and get shipped off to Special Assignment."

You can't tell if that sobered him up, or if it's because he's eyeing up the Glock's receiver guts.

"Rebecca is the primary witness. She was new, and I was helping her out when things happened."

"So you're buttering her up for court," he asks, "not bed?"

You sigh.

"If that's how you wanna put it, yes. I already took her out to get a proper pistol for her size. We stopped by here because they didn't want a piece that small."

"Well, I'll certainly take it," he says, turning to you. "How much?"

"They're around $400 on the used market."

John lets out a quiet groan, snapping the case shut.

"I'll give her five. Just because I don't want to lose a good customer."

That lifts a weight from your shoulders.

"Thanks, John,"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on," he says, getting up, "act like we never talked."

The old man blathers on about a hunting trip from decades ago as he half-pushes you back to the front. Rebecca is looking at one of the big-bore rifles John has hung near the ceiling, but turns to the two of you attentively.

"You mind getting the cobwebs while you're up there?" John jokes, setting the case back on the table. Rebecca laughs again, and blows on the ceiling before shuffling back over to the counter.

"So, I can give you $500 for it," John says, readying the paperwork. "That okay?"

"Y-yes!" Rebecca says, nodding after a moment, "yes, that's okay with me!"

"Alright, then let me walk you through these forms..."

John gives you a look as he guides her through the convoluted State forms. Even though he deals mainly with curio and relics, he still files everything he's had and sold. Having a wife deep in the body of the Anthrostate will do that. You don't know the details, but you suspect it's part of why he's able to run the shop at all.

The look says that you owe him a favor or two. You brush it off, pretending to look at one of the many racks of shotguns. Whatever it is he's expecting -- more than likely to get a better price on your next purchase -- it's well worth standing a chance at trial.

Half an hour later he's sending the two of you out the door, laughing his ass off when he sees how you got here. Rebecca's laughter in response is surprisingly genuine; either she's really happy about that deal, or she likes the old man's brash sense of humor.

"Hey Anon?" she says, leaning in close to the window.

"W-we can take the highway if you want."

You turn to see her smiling, fangs glinting in the midday sun; somehow, the sight fills you with joy rather than terror.

Rebecca's fur is ruffled and her hair-like mane windblown when the two of you arrive back at her place in the suburbs. You decided against the highway, compromising on the Subsector Mainways. You're not sure the Toyota could get up to 70 right now, but it had no issue with 45. Even at those speeds, you could still hear her occasional laughter through the wind, shaking the cab around you as she pressed into it.

"That was fun, Anon," she says, taking the Double Action bag as she slips out from the bed. Your suspension cries out in joy; you're more focused on the joy written on her face.

"The shopping trip, or the drive home?"

"Both," she chuckles, leading the way up to her door. "Both were fun."

The two of you stop in the threshold, something pulling you back.

"Well, I should probably get back to the case now," you say. "But when that's over, we can definitely do this again sometime."

"Of course," she says, tail drooping slightly, "I suppose I've kept you long enough."

"Hey, I had fun too."

"Good." she purrs, looking down at you. Like, really purred. You think you saw the windows flex in the corner of your eye. The two of you sit there for a breath, staring at each other, before suddenly you get a faceful of sweater.

Soft, warm sweater, with a slightly floral scent.

"Thanks, Anon," she says as you register her paws on your shoulders, holding you close in the closest thing to a hug she can give while leaving you on the ground. "I'll see you again, I hope?"

"At the trial, at least," you say into her stomach. She lets out a sad, quiet laugh, letting you go slowly.

"Well, see you later, Anon."

"Bye, Rebecca."

As the door closes and you turn back to the empty truck, you find yourself wishing it went on longer.

All of it.

True to your word, you spend the afternoon and into the night educating yourself on the convoluted mess that is the Anthrostate legal system. Which, from your studies, is hardly different from historic ones in its needless bureaucracy and jargon. You're just glad you're not in Sector COW way out west-- you'd probably be in some sort of intensive deradicalization therapy already. The courts here in WCS are still slanted toward the state, but not insurmountably so. If you can clearly disprove all your charges, then you should be safe. Assuming Talia can make your weapons charges go away, the rest are all going to come down to eyewitness accounts.

You've got plenty on your side when it comes to harassment charge with Patricia-- hell, most of the people at the range would probably vouch for the same charges against her. The perjury charge for her investigation (you assume about the 'machine gun') shouldn't be too hard to shake either: you've got a reputation for historic preservation. All it should take is a few more people on your side.

The kicker is courtship claims. Eyewitnesses won't cut it for that -- at least, that's what you've read. There's so few cases of it ever coming up that there's almost no precedent for it. It's hard to prove or disprove, which means the state is going to favor its own side. A civil union would be the easiest way out, with Talia or anyone else. You've read the fine print, though: as soon as divorce or separation papers get handed in, you're considered guilty on all counts.

That's the one solid precedent that's been set.

Your phone rings as you finish a sheet of notes for your public defender -- whenever they're finally assigned. Perfect time for Talia to ring. You pick it up and answer without looking, offering an exhausted "hello?"

"Anon?" a gentle voice answers.

"Reb?" you ask, her voice pricking you awake. "Hi, what's up?"

"I wanted to call and check in on you," she says, "...and see if you'd be free tomorrow, by any chance?"

"I'm not sure," you sigh, "I'm hoping they'll assign me a lawyer soon, so I can talk things through with them. Other than that, like I said, I took the week off."

"Well, I was thinking..." she starts, trailing off. You can picture her face, the shy smile and clasped hands.

"Yes?"

"If you need testimony, you should go to the range. See if anyone from yesterday came back. I could come along, and maybe you could walk me through this new gun a little?"

"Umm, sure," you say, "Yeah, that actually sounds like a great idea!"

"Great!" she says. Then a bit quieter: "It also seems like it might help you... you know, destress?"

"Yes," you chuckle, "yes, it will."

You take a breath, and push the legal notes away for a second.

"I think most people will be there a little later in the day, if they're going at all-- should I come get you at 4?"

"Sure," she answers.

"Okay. See you then, Reb-- you don't mind if I call you that, do you?"

"Not at all," she says, the warmth in her voice coming through clear over the phone. "Bye, Anon."

You set the phone down as it goes quiet, feeling a bit better than before. You've got something of a handle on your situation, and your key witness is certainly seeing you favorably. You feel a lingering sense of warmth, and something tells you it's not from the beef stew you're eating at the computer. The tigress' cute smile comes to mind again, the little flick of her ears. All the soft sounds she makes.

The 'ping!' of a text snaps you back to the present: Talia wants to check in.

'Any progress?' she asks.

'I think so,' you send, and then: 'I talked with Rebecca some; she seems sympathetic, at the very least.'

'Good. I'm going to be making some calls at the range tomorrow, getting advice from a few people.'

'Might see you there, actually. From what I can tell a lot of this is going to be about witnesses: Reb had the idea to go to the range and see if we can't drum any up.'

It takes the she-wolf a little bit to respond to that one.

'Solid. Check in with you then.'

You go back to your legal research for a little bit after that, but there's not much more that you can find. It doesn't feel as bad as it did last night. You don't feel guilty as you read a bit in bed. The pre-State history book is excellent bedtime reading -- and not just because it's fairly dry. You soon find yourself drifting off, much more easily than the night before.

And this time, you're actually looking forward to tomorrow.