FSE

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“I need it," she whispered. “Kill him."

It didn't need to be the fox, Rafael knew—but the fox was ideal. With that vermilion coat, and with his ears and tail tipped like charcoal, he was already burning. Each time he slipped away from the bar, someone new in his paw, they took away part of his fire. In weeks, months, or years, the fox would eventually be ash, a pool of dried wax at the foot of a dusty candlestick. There'd be nothing left, all of him wasted. Rafael could not let him rot. He could not let them all rot.

She had told him they were just meat and fur and bone made animate—and it irked her. It irked her so, for she knew they had no voices. All she could hear was gurgling and slapping, membrane pulling taut and vibrating to sound off one screeching cry after another. Nor could they see, could they truly see, and yet their eyes were fierce stinging nettles pressed up against her one own. Their incessant need to ripple and crackle and slosh was a mockery of all she held dear, and agonizing for her to behold. Rafael felt it too: that was her gift to him.

Rafael would bring them out before her whenever she manifested. He would sever their threads, then she would watch their eyes soften, soothing their stings until they were empty. She would press her ear against their muzzles, listening as the muscle and tissue relaxed and eventually grew still. Breath, heat, drive—all would flow from their bodies and into the air, invisible mists coiling about one another, dancing before her in her light. Meat and fur and bone would become nothing more than that.

She had said she could not fix them, for she could not, would not adopt this crude soma—so she had chosen him to serve as her instrument.

Rafael alone had heard her voice, the only real voice not produced by some inchoate amalgam of meat. For his consciousness—a consciousness that so many others lacked—she had blessed him with understanding. The knowledge she had shared with him was distant, unknown, but still somehow familiar to him, as if it had been resting just at the edges of his mind. While at first each whisper had induced a violent fit, slowly he had learned to withstand them, and with each fit came more of her wisdom, freed from the discipline others had put upon him. This was her first lesson, he found: weak flesh begot a feeble mind.

“I need it," she whispered, as he crept up behind the fox. “Kill him."

“I need you," Rafael said, his breath tickling the fox's ear. The fox's body shifted, his ears cupping suddenly toward Rafael's muzzle. He could see embers crumbling off of him as his body shuddered. Another one to take his fire—another one he would not refuse.

The words were practiced. Lust was barely restrained behind them, but he did not covet. The fox was beautiful, as his words implied; so much so that Rafael had no other choice than to approach him at the bar, to hear his sorry squealing and to feel his wicked heat. These were not words said before visiting a bathroom stall: they were words that brought an end—and a beginning—to a night.

Rafael had practiced them a hundred times in the mirror just a few hours ago.

“I need you. I need you, I need you, I need you I need you I need you, I need you. I need you, I need you, I need you. I need you I need you, I need you, I need you, I need you I need you I need you, I need you, I need you. I need you, I need you, I need you I need you I need you I need you. I…need you, I need you I need you, I need you, I need…you. I need you, I need you, I need you. I need you. I need you. I need you."

Sounds. Repeated so many times, they became less than nothing: a tongue in a muzzle and meat in a throat, all spasming together to produce a noise. It was sickening—Rafael could barely stand to be in the bar, where the mindless buzzing of those meat-puppet patrons choked his mind like their miasmic smoke and musk did his lungs. And yet, each noise carried meaning to them like her voice to him. Rafael knew that was why they needed mending.

“I need it," she whispered. “Kill him."

Rafael took the fox's blackened paw in his own, guiding him slowly toward the exit. His heat was dull, that of cinders left burning in a pit long since abandoned. He was nothing more than the remnant of a discarded fox, a matchstick struck so long ago and left to burn out. Yet, at a touch, Rafael could feel that his paws were not yet gnarled, nor was his muzzle worn and faded. While others had used him, stolen from him, the fox still held a spark—a spark that Rafael could set free for her.

The fox was murmuring something in Rafael's ear. His name? Lust-laden words meant to stoke his passion? Or perhaps it was merely one of those games foxes enjoyed playing with wolves, teasing and poking and dancing until the sudden bite. It mattered little for Rafael: he would not be lead astray by some loathsome soup of flesh and fur, nor by its foul utterances. He could hear them for what they truly were.

“—r pl—ce or m—e, s—d?"

“H—do y'w—nt m—?"

“I c—n't w—to—feel y—nsid—me."

Some were easier to parse than others. Watching their fur and skin shift as muscles snapped taut and loosened gave Rafael clues, as did imitating them in the mirror, though it made him ill to do so. With enough practice, he could guess at their meanings, and with her help, he could blend in with the rest of them. He wore their fur and flesh and bone for her, to serve her; she was his only meaning. Whenever she whispered—

“I need it. Kill him."

Rafael would see the truth. The fox's body did not say desire, destroy, discard—it was crying out for his help. His muzzle made unintelligible, garbled noises, but she translated:

“I need it," the fox said. “Save me."

The bouncer—a portly polar bear with muscle hidden below his girth—grinned at Rafael and gave him a slight nod. The gesture was worrying: he would have to stop coming here for some time, before the bear could notice a pattern. While not all with whom he'd left had found salvation, could not could not hope that their ignorance would last forever. He was her only instrument: if he became careless, her wrath would no doubt be his demise. Moreover, he would no longer be able to carry out her work.

Rafael stopped where he stood, unmoved despite the eager tugging of the fox at his side. Perhaps he could delay—the fox did, after all, have some fire left in him, and if he were to return, his eventual disappearance some months later would draw little suspicion to Rafael. A few repeat encounters would make the fox more willing to come with him to the river when the time came, would it not?

“S—d? This y—r first t—e? Or m—be y—just n—d a lil' enc—ge—nt." the fox whispered, his muzzle grazing Rafael's own. The fox's paw in his own was awfully nice. Perhaps a stay could be arranged for the fox, even if just for tonight. Perhaps…

“I need it," she urged. “Kill him!"

No! No, he had failed her twice this month alone, lead astray by his fallible flesh. A third would be unacceptable. The fox would come to the river with him, willing or not. It had to be tonight.

Rafael started again for the exit, and the fox's flesh squelched in delight. How had he forgotten how revolting such a thing was? His arousal was born out of nothing more than a fox's trickery, games meant to delude him and confound his senses. Nothing but fur, and bone, and—

“This piece is entitled 'Research,'" said a voice.

It was a clear voice, yet it was not of her. It froze him where he stood, causing the fox to huff. He didn't care—the voice, he needed to hear the voice again. Had it been produced by chance, some accidental assonance among the cacophony of meat? Perking his ears, Rafael closed his eyes and listened. He barely noticed as the fox's paw slipped from his own.

“Go f—yer—f, as—le."

“Words cast not in ink, but blood,

soaking deeply through

legislation, transcription,

false documents and treaties,

native furs and settler masks,

said to be civil,

insavage, unwild, even

named as atribal,

though behind them lie

majestic eagle feathers,

whet on ideology,

sharpened by strict adherence,

until they can, with one stroke,

draw blood, spill blood like crude oil

flowing free through free markets

built atop most sacred grounds."

Rafael opened his eyes and searched the nearby tables. There were two foxes, one scraggly, the other petite, but their muzzles were too occupied with each other's to be producing such

(wonderful words)

terrible sounds. It might have been the young snowshoe hare nearest to him, but Rafael couldn't see his muzzle moving. Each step Rafael made was slow and careful, yet he knew his erratic behavior would soon be picked up by those in the bar. He did not want to draw attention to himself, but he could not let this alone. Not tonight.

“I need it," she urged. “Kill it."

There!

“Tongues robbed from muzzles—

not of one generation,

but of so many

who followed after,

unable to find

Home and History,

oral traditions put down

in bloody ink, on paper,

bound in words and books never

to reach those from whom they took."

Rafael saw him through the haze of bar smoke, his long muzzle moving slightly. The voice belonged to a gaunt coyote, poorly dressed and reciting softly to some writing gray rat. The coyote's eyes were haunting, possessing Rafael and a familiar honesty he had theretofore seen only in those he had

(killed)

saved under her watchful eye. Rafael was transfixed: how could the coyote have those eyes of void? How could his words be signs, carrying meaning to Rafael, just as her voice did_?_ How could he be so empty, without flame, devoid of impetus?

“I need it," she screamed. “Kill him!"

“We're left beating hollow drums

filled with missing ancestors,

whose bones and souls remain trapped

in clear Plexiglas cages,

on display for the science,

The Science, The Greater Good,

a Good that was done at us,

against us, and harvested;

research and reus arché:

arrogant synonyms

proclaiming the principles

of reality."

Rafael felt another fit coming on, his vision mottled with darkness and wild color. At first, he did not fight it, instead closing his eyes to let the colors spread and phantasmagoria overtake him. She would explain this to him, he reasoned. If he could hear this coyote, then surely it was her intent. By their feeble prisons of flesh, all were unable to speak, and in turn, unable to be heard—this coyote was no exception, a thing born of fur and skin. The fact that he spoke simply meant she had shared her gift with someone else.

She had shared her gift with someone else.

She had shared her gift with someone else.

“Dissect me, settler!

For I am already dead;

a hollow man left beating

hollow drums in hollow homes,

emptied of my soul—

fur and bone without spirit."

The thought enraged Rafael. He was hers, and he was her instrument! None other than him had heard her call! And yet, he had heard the coyote speak, his voice just as clear as her. So Rafael resisted her vision, though it pained him greatly to do so: her

(gift)

(curse)

(gift)

(curse)

(gift)

would have to wait. As the colors faded, and as Rafael's vision returned, he fixed his gaze on the coyote. Either she had betrayed him, or the coyote had somehow stolen her voice. Rafael would soon find out which.

Rafael watched as the gray rat set down his pen. It was a futile effort: how could this rat hope to capture the coyote's burning truth by binding it to paper with ink? How could this rat feel the sounds impact against his ears like deafening drumbeats, yet fail to grasp their meaning? Did he not realize that he too was harvesting the coyote's wasting flame, if any part of it did indeed remain?

“It w—quite g—d, I th—k. I im—ne the o—rs w—ld like t—r it. Are y—ing to per—it n—t w—k?" garbled the rat.

“No."

“—re sure? M—I ask—y?"

“Yes," said the coyote, tone flat. “I won't be there next week."

“Ah. Th—w—k af—r, then?

The coyote shrugged, yet Rafael saw no embers rolling off of him. His vacant eyes held no fire, no passion—and yet, he could not fathom one being animate without so much as a spark. Had someone stolen from the coyote and somehow left him to this hollow existence? Perhaps his was the rot she feared so greatly, afflicting one whose soma persisted yet whose mind had long since perished: a coyote trapped between two worlds in miserable undeath.

Or, Rafael supposed, maybe the coyote has traded his flame to her in exchange for true speech. Had he not done the same with his own mind, to listen and see? The coyote would not be her instrument, then—merely a watcher, one to chronicle the miserable meat existence of these emptying gnats. The idea intrigued Rafael.

“It's c—ital w—k," the rat slurched. “I d—t know wh—y—you loa—to sh—e it w—thers."

“I'm sure the others will enjoy reading it as much as they'd enjoy having it read to them."

“If y—sist. Oh, the t—e! M—will b—very cr—with me if I—te ag—n. D—ou need h—p g—ting out?"

“No, thank you."

Rafael tilted his muzzle away from the table as the gray rat rose and smoothed his dark turtleneck. There wasn't so much as a glimmer of recognition or brief acknowledgement as he passed—not even a flickering of the eyes to confirm each other's existence. To the gray rat, Rafael was invisible, an opaque muzzle at the side of the bar, barely seen through the filter of smoke and plans now late. Insofar as the rat knew, he too would be unseen in the same way. Rafael felt no need to correct him.

When Rafael looked back to the coyote's table, however, he nearly cried out in shock. The coyote had donned a pair of dark glasses and had leveled his piercing gaze at Rafael—and he felt as though he was exposed before her burning light, completely bare. Though he could not see the coyote's void eyes, he could feel the coyote's uneven, unsteady, unerring gaze seeing him for what he was. It was an unspeakable terror unlike any other Rafael had experienced before.

Rafael wanted to flee; to scream; to let loose a primal howl that would finally rend his mind from his prison of flesh; to sink his teeth and claws into the coyote's throat so as to stop his horrid sight; to tear those eyeglasses from his muzzle and stare into his eyes while his flesh wasted away; to press his muzzle against the coyote's; to have the coyote take his—no, share in—his flame; and to collapse and shatter into a thousand obsidian shards, vanishing into nothing but dust.

Rafael did none of those things. Instead, he stood, paralyzed, while the coyote drew a pale ivory baton from his coat jacket and extended it. Rising from his seat, the coyote let the unfolded cane's spherical tip tap lightly against the tiled floor, before pushing it forward. It was exposed bone at the scene of a gruesome accident: the patrons, morbid voyeurs, could not help but have their gazes drawn to the coyote as he left, his wound bared for all to see—yet, being such squeamish creatures, they did not see what lay beneath. Yes, there was bone and blindness, but there was also unnerving, inhuman insight behind those darkened eyeglasses.

They parted around the coyote like the waves, moving almost unconsciously to accommodate his exit. It was as if the cane was an extension of his soma, but one that did not taint the mind. Watching the coyote exert such control over the patrons, to see him intervene between their minds and flesh, pulling at their puppet strings with hardly a thought, Rafael felt great awe and terrible envy. While this display of power did not rival _her—_indeed, he knew that what he felt under her searing gaze was but a fraction of her full strength—it was nonetheless a power to be feared and respected. Yet, Rafael also knew that this coyote had begun just as he had: a screaming lump of wet fur, tender flesh, and pliant bone. He was not, once—and if need be, he could not be again.

So Rafael followed after the coyote, stalking just as he had the first night he had become aware of her. Mediocrity was the goal: an average gait with a hint of intoxication to inspire avoidance and forgetfulness. The polar bear barely registered Rafael's exit, his gaze still fixed on the departing coyote and his cane of bone. Rafael was glad for the distraction. Buttoning his coat jacket and turning his collar up against the night's unforgiving winter chill, Rafael braced himself and stepped out into the street.

This pursuit, he knew, would not be easy: with her fury raging through his mind and across his skin like a summer wildfire, and with the strange coyote's stranger eyes threatening to tear his very being apart, he was almost assuredly walking into his undoing—if not his demise outright. Nevertheless, he trailed after the coyote, some thirty paces behind. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the snow beneath his footpaws, never daring to look up. She would be there, watching from on high, weighing him. He knew he could not bear the full extent of her, to look upon her, not then, not that night—not when his faith, like her, would soon wane.

Instead, Rafael listened.

He heard only his and the coyote's footsteps, both crushing hard-packed snow and ice underfoot. Few, he reasoned, would be out at such a late hour, and fewer still near a vicious den like the Saddle-Up. The biting cold and early darkness served as excellent deterrents for those who might otherwise hound him during his hunt, while the snow would alert him should some wandering eye of sick and curious yearnings decide to follow. And, though it would soon give away his continued pursuit, Rafael did not intend to dally. In less than two minutes, they would be out of sight of the main road, and he would be on the coyote—then, finally, he would have his answers.

Rafael matched the coyote's stride to further mask his presence. With so little greenery to be found on the flatness of the icy road, he was nothing more than an echo of the coyote's footsteps, each crunch and crack of snow and ice arriving at his ears just a fraction of a second behind. And, with each step, Rafael closed the distance between them—for although their steps aligned in pace, Rafael was the taller of the two. His longer legs crossed more ground in less time, allowing him to surreptitiously creep closer to the coyote without disturbing the pace of their footfalls. This, Rafael had practiced until he had had it perfected.

But something was amiss. Though the coyote showed no signs of noticing Rafael's presence—not even so much as a sharp breath or an uneasy step—his pace was increasing, almost desperately so. Rafael considered simply descending onto the coyote before they deviated too far from his hunting ground, but was stopped by a realization stranger still: the coyote was not homeward bound. Indeed, they were rapidly approaching the riverside woods, yet the coyote continued on along to the abrupt end of the road, where a single street lamp flickered in wait, a marker to warn away those who did not belong to a night such as this one—a night of her.

Once into the uncleared paths of the snow-laden wood, Rafael pulled his gaze from his own footpaws to take in his surroundings. Here, he would not be made to look upon her, nor would she be able to discern his shape through the white snarl of bared branches overhead—yes, here, he would be safe from her, if only for a moment_._ The gnarled thicket was treacherous, of course, thick with snow as it was; but Rafael imagined the coyote would have just as much difficulty traversing the forest, if not more. After all, he had been here a hundred times before, to plan and hunt and hide.

Yet somehow the coyote outpaced him, now jogging at a light trot through ankle-deep snow and hopping over the felled branches that hung over the ground like frozen snares. What had once worked his favor—the unforgiving terrain of the riverside woods at night—now hindered him greatly, compared to the ease with which the coyote navigated. Rafael would have been left behind entirely if not for the clear trail of pawprints left in the coyote's wake. With them, he could give quick chase without tumbling down the increasingly steep decline of the wood.

If Rafael had had any sense, he reasoned, he would have ceded this night to the coyote the very second he had been petrified by those damned unblinded eyes. If he were to continue on in this manner much longer, he would no doubt end up a mangled mess of frozen meat by morning thaw. But what else was he to do? To leave the forest, having found neither prey nor answers, and to grovel before her, begging for forgiveness with empty paws, was out of the question. Moreover, to willfully ignore what he had seen this night would be to choose their shameful blindness. No, he would never return to her—not as the same wolf as he had been before.

Rafael could hear the low gurgle of the river growing louder and louder, intensifying just as quickly as his own heart's vile beating. He had always held the physical unease of this moment to be an intrinsic part of the ritual, a reminder that, even serving under her, he was—and would forever be—a flawed being of flesh and fur and bone. Yet, this time, it had a different source. Bile rose to his throat not because of his weak flesh and lack of faith, but because of the unknown that lay ahead. Before, he had always been reassured that he was doing good work; now, he was less sure. All he knew for certain was that at the river, they three would meet: Rafael, the coyote, and her.

Rafael's breathing hitched as he finally breached the trees.

Before him, the wide rapids flowed like a river of coal across a dark landscape dyed black, as if dipped in oil by the night. The seemingly still surface of the midnight waters masked their true power, for they would—if not given proper respect—sweep away all things. Relentless, uncaring, unmoved yet evermoving, the river cared not who or what entered too deep into its waters. All things would find themselves trapped underneath, whirling and twisting and churning until their flames petered out, a single dim candle snuffed by the very thing that would normally give it life. All things except her.

There she lay waiting on the surface of the coal rapids. Her pale porcelain eye shone brightly, illuminating the riverside vista both from above and below. Only here could she enter into this realm of meat, her full perfection twinned on the black mirror of the river. Indeed, only here could Rafael bear to gaze upon her—for it was not truly her, but an image of her, her will made manifest. The rapids, cold and powerful as they were, could not dream of moving her. No, they would forever try and forever fail, while she burned like the very sun against them. He had thought nothing could challenge her.

And yet, there stood the coyote, his figure silhouetted against her reflection in the river, angering her, spoiling her, torturing her. She lay across the river, yes, powerful and imposing—but his figure was interposed between her and Rafael. The coyote had reduced her to nothing more than a pale frame defining his cruel, decaying flesh. Rafael could hear her seething and writhing at the coyote's audacity, but she could not, would not touch his living cage of meat directly. Instead, she compelled Rafael to

(kill him)

save him, to creep up behind him and thrust him into her burning embrace.

So Rafael crept forward, his mind ravaged by guilt, shame, and something else he had not yet identified—something that had come into being when the coyote had first pierced him with that gaze of his. If this had been any other night, he would have carried out her divine command without question. But now, prowling up to the coyote, Rafael could not help but wonder if this was truly an act of salvation: what good could come of throwing some flameless vessel into the coal rapids? Hadn't she been repulsed the coyote's rotting touch mere moments before?

Rafael was contemplating casting his own weakling body into the river to bring an end to his misery when the coyote unexpectedly began to move. His whole body shuddering—though Rafael saw naught but aged ash rolling off of him—the coyote stepped slowly into the shallows ahead, his footpaws leaving ripples in their wake as the coyote waded further into the river. Rafael could hear the coyote stifle some sorry sound: a sniffle, perhaps, or a half-hearted sob. Then, startled, Rafael wondered when had he learned to register these noises as anything other than the dissonance of meat.

The coyote stumbled—no doubt having found uneven stones on the riverbed—and lost grip of his bone-white cane, which was swiftly carried off by the current. At that, the coyote paused, neither advancing nor retreating. He simply stood there, almost waist-deep in the freezing black waters, empty and sniffling.

“I need it," she whispered. “Save him."

Rafael looked to her reflection and listened. He would save the coyote in the only way of which he knew: the very way she had instructed him in what seemed like another life. Throwing off his coat jacket and undressing as quickly as he dared, Rafael, too, waded into the shallows of the coal rapids, his paws outstretched toward the sobbing coyote. With uncertainty weighing heavily in his mind, Rafael summoned as much care and concern as he could muster to his tone. Then, gently putting one paw on the coyote's shoulder and the other on top of the coyote's paw, Rafael quietly said, “I need you."

A moment passed as water seeped through to their fur, chilling both, before the coyote gave a slight nod. Soon thereafter, both wolf and coyote found their way to shore. Rafael tossed his dry coat jacket to the shivering and soaked coyote while he dressed himself, as he knew firsthand how vicious the night air could be. Once mostly reclothed, Rafael prepared to guide the coyote back to town before the pair froze to death. Yet, as they left the riverbank, Rafael felt a strong urge building within him. He could not place the feeling.

Without a word, the coyote slipped a large, flat stone into Rafael's paw.

Turning in place, Rafael gazed back at the reflection of her that lay, pristine, across the river. With all his might, Rafael flung the stone sideways, causing it to skim the surface of the coal rapids one, two, three, five, seven times, before stopping at the center of her with one final splash. Each ripple shattered her mirrored perfection, fracturing her smooth, round figure into a thousand jagged shards of bone. He had broken her, even if only for a moment—but in his mind, she would remain like this forever.

The coyote gently pulled on Rafael's paw, leading him back into the wood.