CPT Obmeyer: Ch. 3
Story by CPT Obmeyer on SoFurry
Imported from SF2 with no description.
WELCOME TO THE MACHINE
Out the door you leap into a fresh snowdrift as deep as your waist.
As a husband on a leash you have next to no power over your life. What you can do is get the fuck away those anthros.
CPT Obmeyer stands stoically against the blisteringly cold wind, her only acknowledgement of the freezing weather and active snowfall being a slight pinkness to her cheeks.
You in contrast aren't doing so well. You were arrested in the dead of night by The Inspectorate a week back, and weren't given a chance to grab anything other than your father's old bomber jacket.
No hat, no scarf, no heavy boots, no nothin'.
For Lotte Obmeyer, this won't do at all. She pulls you close to her by your leash, then unbuttons her great coat. She pulls you into her coat, wraps her arm around your waist, and uses the other to take your hand.
With you by her side and her face to the wind, she chivalrously shields you from the brunt of the storm as you walk.
Her fellow officers pass one by one as they slog down the road, a few joking amongst themselves but most too distracted by the miserable weather to notice you.
Pressed so close to your rabbit-wife, you can't help but think about what happened between you yesterday. Lotte seems to radiate heat through her thick fur, and you note with some trepidation that her hand seems to fit perfectly together with yours.
Your cheeks burn. Why in blazes did you have to call her 'mommy' yesterday?? Mama did this exact same coat thing with you when you were little!
Your flustered thoughts still wrestle with each other when you hear CPT Obmeyer clear her throat.
She stands in front of a large, faded yellow building, patiently holding the door for you.
"T-thank you Lotte" you stammer as you cross the threshold.
"You're welcome." She says, and takes up your leash again.
Your introduction to Ft. Douglas is far less uncomfortable than the weather.
Though you've yet to spot another army husband on base, most of the facilities and services were designed with people like you in mind.
"There used to be more." Is the only thing your wife will say on the matter.
You find yourself waiting in line at some kind of bank, which confusingly doesn't seem to carry any cash.
"Where did you graduate from?" You ask conversationally.
"Fargo Military Institute."
"Ahh, I've never been that far east. What was it like?"
"Unruly and drunken."
"Oh...were you born there?"
"No."
"Where were you born?"
CPT Obmeyer pauses, and yanks your leash as the line moves.
You'd forgotten about getting an answer when she next spoke.
"Do you plan on interrogating me for the rest of today?"
You swallow nervously. "No..."
"Good."
An old goat in reading glasses greets you at the counter. "Dolores", according to the sign, wears a faded, unbuttoned military jacket over normal civilian clothing, with two polished old medals hanging from the front.
You fill out several forms verifying your identity, present your State ID, and receive a pamphlet explaining how the on base commissary works.
Lotte cosigns everything you do, including something about "account access." Dolores (Lori to you, sweetheart!) points to something of note on the form you can't quite see.
"You're certain about this, ma'am?"
"Affirmative. He has done nothing for me to doubt his frugality."
"Easy Day," the old goat says with a loud stamp.
Obmeyer pulls you along after a polite nod to the clerk.
Up next, in rapid order, are the ID Office, Security Office, and a trip to the officer's canteen for lunch.
You're a very popular topic of conversation at that table. A handful of the officers from earlier are there, but most are new faces.
Someone mentions "gray sweatpants," and the crowd start telling you to show off for the peanut gallery.
Lotte says nothing and neither do you.
You are an officer's husband, and you are going to conduct yourself with the same dignified bearing as your wife!
A hand sneakily feels around your inner thigh and you squeak. Another round of laughs, and a very angry lecture from Lotte.
You stand up after exactly half an hour, deposit your empty tray in a bin, ignore the hands trying to feel you as you pass, and are led out for further forms at the Requisitions Office and Officer's Commissary.
The Enlisted Commissary looked downright sad when you passed by. The Officer's Commissary, in contrast, was guarded by an armed trooper and stocked like a very small department store.
MREs, name brand foodstuffs, civilian clothes, challenge coins, and even a few popular junk foods. No Puppy Chow! sadly.
"Produce and meat distributed based on availability" reads a sign. Guess even the officers can't have everything.
The clerk shrugged when she saw your authorization form. "Hey, it's your money."
Lotte presents you with a new pair of black women's sweatpants, you change clothes, the official groomer is pointed out to you, and you head off again.
This time your destination, the Housing Office, is down the road in a big, gray Before-Time building.
Enlisted troopers of every rank mingle with each other around ancient coffee tables and in what clearly used to be a budget hotel.
More than a few seem to be living on bedrolls in various nooks, and the whole place stinks of musk and fur.
The officer's billet isn't here though. It takes another flustering march through the cold with Lotte before you reach what was a small downtown area.
"The Scholar Apartments", according to faded writing on a brick wall. "Officer's Billet 2" According to the front desk.
You open the door to Lotte's apartment to find...
Well, it's exactly what you expected, honestly.
The walls are mostly barren, save a diploma from FMI and framed copy of her commission on the wall.
The only furniture is a set of two seats, a coffee table, and a radio.
The bedroom has a Queen sized bed (which you suspect is new), two nightstands, and nothing else.
Surprisingly, only the window smells like cigarette smoke.
Then you're shown the kitchen.
"Your duties as husband begin tomorrow. Breakfast must be ready daily at 0630. Eggs, toast, and bacon unless informed otherwise. You will attend me, see me off, complete chores in my absence, and be here at 1630 to attend me when I return."
"Dinner is to be ready by 1830. Protein and vegetables. Follow the provided schedule to the minute."
You don't linger long. Lotte deposits something in her closet, and it's out the door for one final errand.
Ft Douglas's Central Administrative Building is a converted Before-Time high school. From what you've read in schlocky adventure magazines, this is fairly normal on the frontier.
Such stories typically go something like this:
Heroic Anthrostate soldiers show up in an unnamed region, almost always led by a beautiful and heroic Inspector-Captain.
They defeat the local warlord, despite being heroically outnumbered, and establish a new outpost in a symbolically meaningful building like a town hall or courthouse.
All the townsfolk are oppressed, and apprehensive of the foreigners showing up in their invariably impoverished little village.
Inevitably they come around after the Inspector-Captain gives a heroic speech about the comforts of civilization and the blessing of maternalistic rule.
The soldiers are always well fed, even if they joke about the chef's cooking, and have sapphic tension dripping from their words (and past the censors) when they speak.
One or more marry willing locals despite this.
They grit their teeth heroically when they fire their fully-automatic guns.
There are never any human women, ever.
Eventually the forces of patriarchal reaction rally and try to take back the town.
If the author is feeling bold, a misinformed young man is gunned down when he takes up arms against the State, typically but not always by his own side.
He heroically renounces the error of his ways before dying.
A named NPC gets heroically snuffed.
The Inspector-Captain gives one final heroic speech about the beauty of hierarchy, or the dream of the Anthrostate Project, or patriotism.
You see the Inspectorate's Seal of Approval on the back cover.
In the time you've been sitting in this Inspector's Office, you've read about four of these stories. Lotte skimmed one for about 2 minutes before heroically tossing it in the trash can.
"Harrgott in Himmel, The Inspectorate's self importance is endless. We lead, we bleed, and we die for The State while they lie through their teeth from behind desks in The City. No inspector has led troops in a decade."
She lights a new cigarette in violation of the "no smoking" sign, stares daggers at the overwhelmed Administrative Specialist, and all but dares her to say something about it.
"I-I am so sorry about this CPT Obmeyer ma'am! If I knew Inspector Goll's personal number I'd give it a r-ring, but it's not publicly available. She'll definitely be in some time today if you want to come back later!"
Your wife produces a metal container, stores her lit cigarette inside, and tucks it into her front pocket menacingly. Her voice is cold as ice, and practically drips contempt. "Inspector Goll's posted office hours are from 0800 to 1600 hours, with a half hour lunch break at noon. It is now 1422. She is not here. Why is that, AS3 Bernardi?"
She leans in for emphasis. "Do you KNOW where the Inspector is, AS3?"
The poor corgi is metaphorically sweating bullets. "The Inspector, ah, there's many reasons. Sometimes she has meetings over lunch, o-or there are new recruits at Indoc to meet! She's very busy today with that."
Lotte says nothing immediately, instead standing to her full height.
"Do you mean THESE RECRUITS?!" She shouts acidly, and gestures to the unorganized horde of nervous recruits spilling out into the hallway.
"Yes..."
"I thought so."
AS3 Bernardi puts her head on her desk and cries. CPT Obmeyer folds her arm, sits back down in her seat, and stares straight at her.
The crying eventually stops, yet the wait continues.
At 1458 a cackling heifer in a red-fringed uniform pushes her way through the crowd of recruits.
"Little boots, it's okay!~ We'll get your assignment rankings processed immediately!~ I had a meeting with Colonel Shepherd that went long, and I am SO SORRY!~ You're all valid, and I love you for your patience!~ <3" It croons.
You...
Your eye is twitching. Gospodi pomiluj, you think you're actually going to get angry.
"Colonel Shepherd" is a high end brand of rye whiskey sold exclusively in The City. Most probably don't know this. Fewer still will ever actually see a bottle.
You know though. By the way she's crushing your hand, so does Lotte. She bolts out of her seat and stands directly in front of the empty office.
"Inspector."
"He-llo Captain Lotte!~ Did you enjoy your conjugal sabbatical?~ Was he cuddly?~" She asks, waving off an anxious group of junior enlisted.
"Was he handsome?~ Was it girth--OH. MY. GOODNESS!" She declares, hands on her cheeks like some kind of mime actor. "Is this the boy?? Stars, and you let me keep him waiting!~ Lotte, how could you?~"
Your wife tries to sidestep between you at the heifer, but Inspector Goll is quick and you're pulled into an undignified bear hug.
Jesus Christ, these milk tanks are huge.
"Oh precious!~" She exclaims miserably, "I was so, so sorry when I heard about your family!"
Your eye is twitching again.
That's a very personal topic, most especially in front of a room full of recruits who will DEFINITELY talk. Anthro women are still women.
Lotte produces the metal container from her front pocket, pours out her cigarette, and relights it.
Goll puts you down, and smooths out your clothes. "Come into my office, I'll take care of you sweetness. I know how to deal with my own; We roar loud, but we're all just kittens when you make the right phone call. Lottie-Dottie-"
"Never call me that."
"-make sure you take care of him. This is a very brave little angel, and I want to kiss him for what he's doing. I'm revolted by what's happened to him."
She takes you by the hand, which you feel the need to accept, and leads you into her office.
Only certain anthro species have claws. Dogs, felines, bears... Many others have human-like fingernails.
Inspector Goll has human fingernails. Unlike every woman you've ever met however, hers have grown out a good inch past her fingertips, and are poorly painted an ugly shade of magenta. They are presently digging into your wrist.
CPT Obmeyer stands at the threshold to her office, inhales, exhales, and enters.
A large, glass nameplate rests on the inspector's desk reading "Doreen Goll" against a background of falling cherry blossoms.
Taking a seat across from you and your wife, who somehow manages to convey utter, inexhaustible disdain from behind a stone cold expression, Inspector Goll produces a manila folder out of the chaos.
She opens her desk and deposits a half-empty bottle from her handbag into a drawer holding a crystal decanter and matching serving glasses.
The heifer pats the folder on her desk. "Now! Before we can start sorting these things, I'll need to see a signed marriage certificate." She doesn't even have time to breathe before your wife produces yours.
"Easy day!~ Prompt as always, Lotte. That's what I love about you!~ You're the only punctual person on base."
The heifer produces a formal looking set of stamps from her desk, inks one with a flourish, and slaps it down on your marriage certificate. "Congratulations you two, I now pronounce you husband and wife!~"
You glance at Obmeyer. She glances back.
What a wedding day.
The marriage certificate, freshly stamped and a tad smeared from excessive force, is placed neatly into a surprisingly well maintained "OUT" box.
"Please allow 2 to 6 weeks for central processing. Of course, speaking of Central from more informal angles..." Inspector Goll begins, her tone changing starkly as she props her head up in her hands.
Her whole air seems to change instantly to one of smug self-assurance, and she looks right at you as she undoes her top buttons.
"The Judiciary has been notified of pending changes to Pavel's court case, and those against the rest of his family. The Inspector-Prosecutor's desk is empty, and she loathes a broken home."
Inspector Goll's lidded eyes leave you and turn to your wife, her tail flicking behind her playfully.
Lotte, ironclad disciple of The State that she is, meets her opposite's gaze in a staring contest. A whole minute passes before she finally relents and produces a plain, overstuffed white envelope from her great coat.
"Your commission in this affair. Thank you, Doreen."
The cow plucks the envelope daintily from your wife's hand and slides it between her breasts.
"Of course, Lottie-Dottie. Family values are as much an ideological matter as marriage. Professionally, how could I not step in?"
CPT Obmeyer says nothing, and gently prompts you up with the leash. Bowing her head respectfully, and solely as a courtesy, your wife leads you out of the inspector's office without another word.
Stepping out of the waiting room, she leads you down a long hallway before stopping in her tracks. Turning around, you immediately see why.
Inspector Goll steps out of the crowd of recruits, adjusts her pink and brown handbag, and turns towards the nearest exit.
Some recruit vomits glitter as she passes.
A put upon little corgi with a new set of very important looking stamps on her desk sighs miserably as she calls the first recruit.
"That, Pavel, is a living disgrace. Everything she does dishonors her uniform and insults the First Chairwoman in Absentia. When I come into power, and I will one day, I'm going to purge every inspector from the frontier and return control of the marches to the army."
...
"I think I hate her." You say.
Lotte exhales sharply in a manner almost resembling a laugh.
"I do as well."
CPT Obmeyer leads you, this time by the hand, back home.
"Pennsilfaani. I'm from Pennsilfaani."