FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

“Pick it up."

The metrocop points her stun baton at a ration wrapper laying on the sidewalk in front of me. My gaze shifts from the wrapper to the lifeless black eyes on her mask. Dark glass, blobby off white features, an overextended section for the muzzle and two swept back ears. The combine really know how to take something as natural as a face and twist it into some kind of crude mockery. Hell, with how vague the features were it was often impossible for citizens to know the exact species under the uniform, the only real exception being human collaborators whose masks had no need for a muzzle or ears.

The tip of the metrocop's baton buzzes to life.

“Pick. It. Up." She demands, this time her garbled voice carrying a threat of punishment.

I put my arms up in surrender. In this place there's little you can do against the combine's goons. Doesn't help they tend to hand out beatings like candy.

“Okay, okay, I'll pick it up."

I lean down and pick up the wrapper. She points her baton to the trash can beside her and I toss it inside. We stand face to face for a silent couple of seconds before she turns to the side allowing me passage. Keeping my arms held up I slowly walk past her and continue on my way. But just a few feet down the sidewalk I hear the same, flat garbled voice call out in my direction.

“Thank you. Citizen."

I pause and turn around, the metrocop staring at me with the same cold, dead eyes.

“No problem officer."

All that comes from her as a response is some kind of distorted chuckle. The metrocop then turns off her baton and walks away. Seemingly out of danger I return to my journey at a now faster pace. Why did that metrocop single me out? Why did she laugh? Was she testing me? Amused at how easily she ordered me around? Did the combine have something planned for me? These questions darkened my mind like a swarm of locusts hungry for the answer.

I know the combine 'take' people sometimes. They send in their masked goons and clear a residential block out one room at a time. Sometimes they simply beat the populace and move on, sometimes they arrest everyone and you'll find the same block filled with new citizens within a week. Not like they had any shortage of incoming refugees with all the chaos going on outside the city's walls. Hell, I can hardly blame them for wanting a little safety given how fucked the planet.

It pains me how much I remember of life before the combine. I miss not having to eat tasteless slop out of a ration pack for every meal. I miss being able to wear something other than the navy blue uniform of a citizen every day. I miss the safety, and the peace, and my family, and one still very sore part of my heart aches for my girlfriend.

We were split up not long after the first xen portals were opened, during the conclusion of humanity's final, pathetic act of resistance. We were in the subway with other stranded folks as chaos and fire raged above. I remember how we slept in that dim, crowded space. My back against the wall as I sat with her laying between my legs. Thunderous booms sounded above us as her sensitive ears twitched with every one, my hand softly flowing through her fur as we waited for death, or salvation, or whatever fate the universe decided for us.

Eventually the booming stopped and people began filtering out into the city. She said she needed to check up on her parents and I needed to do the same to mine. We hugged, kissed, and after a goodbye that felt all too short we parted ways. I never saw her again after that. I always assumed she just became another casualty of the war. Made things easy.

I never did make it home. Every road I took turned out impassable, every tunnel infested with hostile alien life, every forest on fire and every bridge long since obliterated. A few days of starvation was all it took for me to give up hope and check into a combine outpost, officially becoming citizen number 455325-44. After gaining entry to the city I searched for anyone I knew, my family, my girlfriend's family, friends, acquaintances, and of course the love of my life herself. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months turned to years. Couldn't find a single one. More casualties, I thought.

I finally reach the end of my walk, the ration line. After waiting for twenty minutes in line I finally make my way to the gray metal dispenser. I look at it's glowing red eye and it flashes red, reading my face.

“Citizen 455325-44. Nine standard ration units awarded for the next 72 hours. Adjustment: two additional units rewarded for recent social obeyance verdict." An uncharacteristic smile comes upon my face, but then I hear it finish speaking. “Adjustment: Air watch reports anticivil activity in your residential sector. Five ration units deducted. Citizen reminder: Inaction is conspiracy. Report anti-civil behavior to local civil protection units."

My smile dies as it spits out six flat ration packs from a thin metal opening. I gather my haul up and begin walking back to my apartment. The wind cuts through my clothing and a coldness creeps over me as I ponder how the hell I'm going to make six ration packs last three days, even the regular nine were just barely enough. I pass the trash can again and find the metrocop nowhere in sight. At least that means she can't hassle me anymore.

************************************************************

It took months of planning and effort but I finally made it home today. All the ration packs saved up, all the warm clothing I hoarded, the maps I carefully studied, the combine patrols I dodged, the double barrel shotgun I traded my few remaining belongings for. I know it was all worth it as that oh so familiar building crept out of the mist.

It's a simple house. Just a couple stories tall with white siding and a gray metal roof. Years ago the rear of the house faced a wide open lake, the shore practically kissing the backyard. Now that the water line's receded the shore is only just barely visible past a sea of flat lifeless sand. As I come closer the state of the exterior surprises me. It's not burnt up or torn to shreds like so many other buildings in the sectors free of combine control. Some of the windows remain intact, the siding is damaged but it could be from the weather, even the porch swing still hangs from the ceiling of the patio. I know it's a false hope but I wish deep down that my parents are still alive somewhere inside.

I raise my shotgun and try the doorknob. It turns with little effort and I slowly step into the living room. The interior's been looted, that much is clear. The couch is turned over, the television is gone, the contents of our media shelves litter the floor and the glass of the coffee table's been shattered. A thick coating of sand and dust blankets every surface. No one's been here in ages. Still, some measure of hope burns within me. I lower the gun and raise my voice.

“Mom? Dad?"

I wait a few seconds for a response only to hear nothing but the call of seagulls and faint sound of water lapping on the distant beach. My hope finally flickers out. Still, I should clear the rest of the house. Make it safe. Like before. It's what they would want me to do.

I raise my shotgun again and begin clearing the building room by room. First, the kitchen. The fridge is open and cleaned of contents, every pantry and cabinet door is either open or ripped off the hinges. On the bright side I do spot some cans of soup the looters missed in their haste. I toss them into my backpack and continue on. Next, my parent's bedroom. The bed is made, the closets are open but nothing's been taken out. Guess the looters didn't care much for old clothing and bed sheets. I make my way upstairs and clear a bathroom, storage closet, then open the door to my own room. I remember every poster still stuck on the walls. My desktop sits on a desk, the tower smashed and monitor cracked to pieces. In another time this would make me unfathomably angry. Not so much these days. I move to my bed and sit down, running a hand through my unkempt hair. As I look around the room, a flood of unwanted emotions hitting me all at once, I spy a photo frame sitting on a bookshelf, facing the bed. I walk up to it and wipe the dust off the glass.

It's me next to my girlfriend, an arm across each other's shoulders. We're sitting on the beach on a towel, an orange sun shining on our skin and an orange sparkle in her eyes. I try to think back to when it was taken but…I can't remember. It felt like so long ago. Ages. My knees begin to feel weak and I sit back down on the bed, staring at the photo in some vain attempt to call back happy memories.

My mind suddenly goes to high alert as the steady roar of a combine transport appears on the wind. I listen intently for a few moments and determine it's getting closer. Adrenaline already pumping through my veins I place the photo on the bed and ready my shotgun, making sure it's loaded with two rounds of slug before scrambling down the stairs.

I take up a position next to a window and wait, hands growing sweaty as the roar of the transport steadily grows louder and louder, eventually rumbling my ribcage as it appears on the horizon then sharply dives towards the front of the house. I watch with bated breath as the misshapen vehicle slows it's descent and hovers just above the ground a few dozen meters from the front of the house. It turns around revealing a large metal doorway that opens. Three combine soldiers hop out of the transport, guns raised and pointed towards the house. The transport ascends back into the sky and I hear a bit of radio chatter.

“Overwatch reports probable anticitizen activity in this sector. Sweep and confirm. Monitor radials. Weapons off safe, prep for contact."

I peek out the window to see the three of them creeping towards the house. From the helmets it's one human leading with two anthros behind it. Their bodies are covered in bulky plates of armor painted in a blue and gray camouflage pattern, piercing blue eye pieces shining from their helmets. My mouth goes dry and I remove my head from the window. These combine aren't regular civil patrol units equipped for bullying defenseless civies, these are the real deal. My grip on the shotgun grows tighter and I form a quick plan. I've got ten shotgun shells plus two in the gun already so I'll need to make sure my shots hit. I can probably pop out and surprise them, maybe take one out with a headshot if I get lucky. After that-

“Sweeper one reports negative movement, grid seven dash two five."

They're closer than I thought, almost to the porch. If I don't make a move now then I may lose the element of surprise. Blood pumping through my ears I raise my shotgun and look out of the window.

Three combine. The human is stepping onto the porch and the other two are about a dozen feet behind it. Picking the closest target I aim for the head and pull the trigger. The round hits low, closer to it's upper chest armor than the head like I wanted. The soldier recoils back from the impact and I line up another shot. I pull the trigger and this time it lands where I want it, the lights in it's facemask die and a fountain of dark red gore shoot out behind him.

“Target contact at ten meters, bearing zero one degrees. Dagger three go active and intercept." Orders one of the remaining combine.

“Dagger three closing. Cover me." Says the other, breaking into a run towards the house.

“Roger."

They both open fire near my position and my surroundings turn into a storm of flying splinters and kicked up dust. The booming of their guns deafens my ears and my brain enters a state of total lockup, the primal instinct of flight or flight failing to activate. Some sense of self-preservation still remaining I crouch down and shuffle to another window in a desperate attempt to stay out of their gunfire. For a couple brief seconds the gunfire dies down and I hear another garbled transmission from outside.

“Dagger three extractor away!"

A cylindrical blinking object lands through a nearby window and rolls on the floor. Instincts finally taking over I stand up and make a mad dash for the nearest cover I see, the closed staircase leading to the second floor. The grenade goes off mere milliseconds after I make it behind the wall and onto the first step, the entire house now filled with a smoky miasma as the smell of ash and gunpowder invades my nostrils.

I run up the staircase and take up a position at the top. Breaking open my shotgun the two spent shells fly out and with shaking hands I search my pockets for two more, sliding them in before shutting it. There are footsteps below. They're in the house. I get out of cover and aim my weapon downward, hoping to catch another by surprise. Sure enough two blue eyepieces appear out of the smoke and I fire both barrels at them.

I hear my shots ring through the house, the impact of slugs against Kevlar, a gurgled scream, and the blue lights flicker and die. Two down, one to go. I barely have time to break open my gun before I see the last combine soldier rush past it's fallen comrade and fire at my position. Pieces of drywall and wood fill the air and I begin stepping backwards, desperately searching my pockets for two more shells.

Rapid footsteps from below.

My hand wraps around the rim of two shells but my sweaty fingers cause me to lose my grip.

It's almost to the top of the stairs now.

In a state of panic I grip one shell and rip it out of my pocket, stuffing it into my shotgun just as the last combine soldier rounds the corner.

We see each other at the same time.

I manage to raise my shotgun mere moments before it raises it's rifle.

I don't even really aim as I pull the trigger, just pointing in the general direction of the soldier.

The gun goes off and the combine stumbles back, but quickly recovers. A non-fatal hit, I'm dead. The soldier raises it's rifle towards me and-

Nothing. It doesn't fire. It looks down at it's weapon and I do the same, seeing a large gaping ragged hole through the side of it.

“Dagger six reporting weapons malfunction. Threat minimal. Closing."

The combine drops the gun to the ground and runs towards me, one fist held back ready for a punch. With no time to reload I grab my shotgun by the barrel and swing the stock at it's head. The heavy oak impacts squarely on top of it's helmet and shatters into pieces, the combine grunts in response, one of it's blue eyepieces fading to black. I raise the gun for another strike but the soldier rips it out of my hands and throws it behind, punching me in the gut for good measure. I stumble backwards and into a door. It swings open and the combine follows me inside. I throw a wild punch towards it's head and it doesn't even flinch, instead grabbing me by the collar and pushing me backward.

I land on my childhood bed and the combine moves it's hands towards my neck in an attempt to strangle me. I grab it's hands to try and rip them away but it's grip proves unnaturally strong. We struggle there for what feels like an eternity, it's labored grunts echoing across the room as I slowly but surely lose consciousness.

The corners of my vision darken and my strength gradually fades. My breath slows and this thing's victory over me seems inevitable. That is until I see it's head turn ever so slightly, vision focused on something beside me. In that same moment it's grip on my neck loosens and I regain just enough strength for one final maneuver. With it still distracted I manage to raise one of my legs to it's chest and kick it away with as much strength as my depleted body can muster. The combine goes flying into the opposing wall and dents it, slowly slumping down.

I rub my sore neck and lean up from the bed, breathing heavily as my lungs refill with oxygen. I expected the soldier to get up and continue the attack, to fulfill it's orders until death, yet it just sits on the floor, it's one functional eyepiece pointing downward. It softly gurgles and grunts as if choking on something. I have to assume the respirator on it's mask was damaged at some point during the fight. It reaches up to it's mask and disengages some latches. A few soft beeps sound and it's one remaining eyepiece goes dark as it finishes disconnecting the gray plastic faceplate. With both hands it removes the faceplate and with a morbid curiosity I take in the face of my opponent.

It's like I'm seeing a ghost.

It's her face, her eyes, her muzzle, her ears. But she's been changed. Her once vibrant fur has lost it's color and become patchy, having faded into a sickly looking white where it hasn't fallen out to reveal the pallid skin underneath. Her face is littered with stitches and halfway healed scars. Her ears have been clipped into mere stubs in order to fit in the helmet. She looks sickly, malnourished, weak beyond her years. Yet I still remember the strength she used to push me around. It just doesn't add up. She remains on the floor, quietly panting.

“Riley? Is that you?" I ask.

Her face slowly turns to mine but she remains quiet. I get off the bed and walk closer. Now that the fight is over I study her face and body. The more I look at her the more I see Riley. Not Riley as I remember her, but Riley as she's been twisted by the combine. Her uniform almost hides her female form entirely under thick plates of armor and a baggy under suit. I stop a few feet away from her.

“Riley, it's me, Michael." I give a brief smile that she doesn't return, her face remaining blank. Confused, I try to jog her memory. “Do you remember where we are? This is my house. You used to come over all the time. We had barbeques and sleep overs and hell, we lost our virginities on that bed over there." I say, pointing to the bed.

She looks around the room as if in a daze.

“Grid seven dash two five."

“No, this is my house."

“Grid seven dash two five." She repeats.

“No, Riley, where are we?"

She looks around again, her movements almost panicked.

“Grid seven dash two five. Location…is…grid… seven dash two five."

I take a step back.

“Okay, okay. Maybe…"

I look around the room for something to help her remember. On my bed I see the photo of the two of us. I walk up and retrieve it then hold it out for her to see.

“Riley? Remember this? This is us on the beach, back when it used to be right next to the house."

She looks at the photo for a few silent seconds. Seeing no change in her face I lower the photo.

“Do, uhh, do you remember who I am?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

Thankfully she softly shakes her head up and down.

“Affirmative. Citizen 455325-44. Member of residential block 658-H. Suspected deserter."

“No Riley, that's what the combine call me. I'm Michael. Michael. Can you call me that? Can you call me Michael?"

“Contact is…uhhh…" She puts both hands on her forehead and shakes her head. “…contact is…contact…contact is…contact is 455325-44."

She groans in frustration and digs her fingers into her skin. Getting nowhere I decide to switch to a different line of questioning.

“Riley, how did this happen? Did the combine force you to become like this?"

She removes her hands from her head and stares blankly at the floor.

“Unit rewarded level three promotion. Physical augmentations and memory replacement applied."

“Memory replacement? They…oh my god." I recoil back and feel a pit form in my chest. “But…but they didn't replace everything. Otherwise you would still be fighting me. Right?"

“Dagger six reclassified contact as noncombatant."

“Okay, but why?"

She starts and stops, unable to get the words out.

“Dagger six…uhhh…contact was…uhhh…contact recognized as…uhhh."

She finally stops and puts her hands back up to her forehead, shaking her head in frustration. I put a hand out to stop her.

“Hey, hey, it's clear you've been through a lot. You don't have to remember everything right now, just knowing I'm not hostile is enough. Why don't we go downstairs? Remember that bench swing on the back porch? It's been years since we used it. Let's go see if it's still up."

I stand and offer to help her get up. She just looks at me blankly. Right.

“How do I word this, uhhh, 455325-44 requesting dagger six close on my location? Did I get that right?"

“Closing." She responds, standing up.

I walk down the stairs and onto the back porch, Riley following behind me. I'm happy to see the wooden bench still swinging in the wind. I sit down and Riley follows, the bench creaking as it takes the weight of her uniform. I look out and see a flat sea of lifeless sand topped with an impenetrable cloudy mist. I can hear the shore but the fog's moved in and it's no longer visible.

I stare into that misty wall and breathe out. Looking at Riley she's scanning the surroundings, her brow occasionally furrowing as if trying to remember something. Her gloved hand rests on the bench and I gently take it. After working the thick leather glove off I see that her hand has had the same treatment as her face. Patchy dying fur, stitches, her claws have been cut down to nubs. I interlock fingers with her and stare out at the sea once more. Her hand is cold and clammy but I don't mind. It's still Riley's hand and that's all that matters.

We stay there for what feels like forever. I tried talking to her some more only to receive blank stares and robotic responses dripped in codewords and terms I didn't understand. Eventually the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the sky grows dim.

“Hey, Riley, we should head back inside soon. All sorts of nasties come out after dark."

“Negative."

“You sure?"

Her lips quiver for a moment then stops, just one word coming out.

“Negative."

It's slight, almost imperceptible, but her hand grips mine just a little tighter.

“Okay Riley, just let me know when you want to go back inside."

“Roger."

I lean back on the bench as she continues to scan the horizon. I'm not sure what she sees, what she remembers, what they took out of her, but I know there's still some faint trace of my Riley left in there. And even a faint trace is better than how things were in the city. It's better than being alone.