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Well, I suppose this story deserves its own thread.
Some background:
Yes, this story stars many characters from The Sins of the Fathers. It is a completely different story. No knowledge of TSotF is necessary to enjoy this story. "Furmans" are basically Keidrans/anthros, except their lifespans are similar to humans and they don't have a "battle mode."
A lonely wind whistled down the wet pavement, dragging gum wrappers and pages of forgotten newsprint in its wake. The streets were still tonight, cold asphalt reminding everyone of the stark grey barriers that define and divide us all.
One woman was not intimidated by stillness of the streets. Clad in hot pants and a pink halter top, she stalked the sidewalk, spotted tail swishing enticingly in the breeze. To any casual observer, her occupation was as obvious as the tiny lime green handbag she carried: a streetwalker, a “working girl,” a hooker.
Headlights appeared behind the woman. She turned her head ever so slightly and risked a glance at the car: it was not a police cruise. Her luck was holding.
Deliberately, she slowed her pace until the sleek, silver BMW drew even with her. A heavily tinted passenger-side window rolled down silently, as if some poltergeist had reeled it in.
She coolly appraised the driver. Like most of her customers he was an older man, round in the belly but not overtly unattractive, with a strong nose and thick reddish beard. She approached his car and leaned on the door handle.
“Can I help you?”
“I am looking for a good time,” the large man replied in a thick Nordic accent. “Perhaps you can help me, yes?” He grinned suggestively.
The woman brushed a lock of black hair away from her eye. “Whatcha need?”
Using language that would have embarrassed Howard Stern, he explained exactly what he was looking for. She considered this for a moment, then replied, “Fifty bucks.”
He reached into the front pocket of his expensive-looking shirt and pulled out a crisp $100 bill.
“I give you double. Hop in.”
“You’re offering me a hundred?” Her green eyes stared in disbelief, flicking from the man to his money and back again. “For…” She quickly recapped his request, colourful innuendoes and all.
“Yes!” The man’s brow crinkled in impatience. “Are you coming or not?”
“Alright, alright, take a pill, buddy.” The woman sighed and said, “It’s a date.”
“Good.” Her customer reached over and opened the passenger door.
“Freeze! Police!” Uniformed officers exploded into the street from two alleyways. Within seconds, they had the car surrounded. One dragged the prostitute away while another pulled the richly-dressed man out of his vehicle and bent him over the hood.
“I am placing you under arrest for soliciting the services of a prostitute,” boomed the muscular, chestnut-haired man. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Stop, stop this at vunce,” bellowed the man, purple with rage and embarrassment. “My name is Ragnar Thorvaldsson, I am ambassador from Norvay!”
“Sure you are, buddy,” replied the police officer, clicking handcuffs into place. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot an attorney, one will be appointed for you…”
As the man protested, his arrester hauled him unceremoniously to a waiting cruiser and bundled him inside. He slammed the door, muffling Mr. Thorvaldsson’s pleas.
“I am ambassador of Norvay! Unhand me!”
“Yeah, and I’m the Secretary-General,” retorted the cop. He brushed his hands off and scratched the scar that ran from his nose to his left ear. “Nice try.” His catch settled down into the seat with silent fury and stared straight ahead.
Leaving the car, he passed through the crowd of officers that milled about, exchanging congratulations with some of them, and headed to an unmarked white van parked down the block. Its back doors were flung wide to reveal television monitors and ultrasensitive sound equipment. The prostitute sat on the van’s bumper, purse tucked into her lap.
The officer’s stony face broke into a grin. “Nice going, Kestra.”
Kestra smiled back. “That makes six tonight.”
“Not a bad haul,” remarked her comrade, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. The streetlights’ orange glow briefly passed over his name patch: RHYS. “This guy thinks he’s president of Norway.” Biceps shifted like caged behemoths as Rhys lowered his arms.
She shrugged. “Well, I guess he’ll fit right in with Stevey Detrel.”
They both laughed. Stevey Detrel was a career drug seller that Kestra and Rhys had put behind bars two weeks ago. Detrel had originally tried to plead insanity, claiming that he thought he was selling miracle healing powder under orders from the Space Lords of Belkazeebo; a clinical psychologist soon determined otherwise.
“Lieutenant!” A smaller man with black hair jogged over, bulletproof vest bouncing on his lean frame. “We going to do another run?”
Rhys shook his head. “That’s all for tonight, Bunter. Tell the boys to pack it in.”
A department tow truck arrived to impound the BMW, and the police task force headed back to the precinct. “Ambassador” Thorvaldsson was fingerprinted, photographed, and hauled off to a cell by Officer Bledsoe, vehemently demanding “Vun telephone call! I am allowed vun telephone call…”
“Hey Bledsoe,” called Rhys, “Tell him no overseas calls!” Both men laughed, and Dylan turned back to Bunter, who was sorting through the john’s belongings.
“This is a Norwegian driver’s license, Rhys.” He held up the card for Dylan to look at it.
Dylan gave it a brief glance. “So?”
“So I ran the plates and guess what? Beemer’s registered to the embassy downtown. He could be who he says he is, Rhys.” Dirk looked concerned, but Dylan shook his head.
“Doesn’t mean a thing, Dirk. Some aide or undersecretary thinks he’ll go find some fun, then gets busted and pretends he’s the ambassador, hoping we’ll let him go.
“I never let anyone go,” Dylan finished, smiling grimly.
“Unless they’re innocent,” added Kestra McMillan, emerging from the restroom. Her black hair was done up in a short ponytail as per department regulations, drawing attention to her bright green eyes. Bunter’s glance lasted a little longer than it should have and he quickly looked away; not even a uniform and bulletproof vest could disguise Kestra’s hourglass figure.
The department had come a long way in Dylan’s twenty-three years as a cop. When he joined, furmans were woefully under-represented were a novelty and female cops of any species were a novelty. Now, Kestra was the first furman female to join the force. Of course, Ochre Lupinworth was the first furman police chief, but that was one milestone Dylan would rather forget about.
“Here’s my outfit,” she said, plunking a plastic bag on the counter. “I’m going to go fill out my report.”
As Kestra headed down the hallway to the report room, Dirk asked, “You need a lift home?”
“I’ll be fine on the subway. Thanks,” she added over her shoulder.
Bunter sighed quietly, a minute release of disappointment that only Dylan picked up on, and turned to his lieutenant. “So, you got any plans for the weekend?”
“Catching up on paperwork,” was Rhys’s reply. They shared a knowing chuckle, and Dylan asked, “How about you, Dirk? Anything happening with Terri?”
“No.” Bunter’s shoulders slumped. “She called me last week, said we should start seeing other people.”
“Mhmm,” responded the lieutenant. What he meant was “I’m very sorry to hear that, and I wish you the best of luck finding another woman who will treat you better;” only men can convey so much meaning with a monosyllabic grunt.
Dylan interrupted the silence just as it reached the threshold of awkwardness. “Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow, Dirk.”
“Later.”
Three hours later, Kestra emerged from the subway system on a street much like the one she had been “working” earlier, but this street was lined with run-down apartment complexes rather than abandoned warehouses. She crossed the street, her foot scraping an assortment of crushed beer cans and condom wrappers out of the gutter as she mounted the curb.
Kestra acted like she belonged, showing no fear when confronted by shadowy alleyways or distant sounds of breaking glass. Still, her department-issued stun gun was in her purse if needed; it was not. Her feet traversed stairs hazardously clothed with threadbare, loose carpet and a hallway that smelled faintly of booze and vomit.
No lights were on when in Kestra’s apartment when she entered. Perhaps you think all single women immediately turn on several lights when coming home to a bachelorette apartment that they alone occupy, and maybe some of them do; but Kestra did not fear the darkness. She groped her way to the answering machine’s blinking red eye, which currently indicated two new messages.
“First message,” declared the machine in its passive, masculine voice. Kestra turned away from it, entering the alcove occupied by her bed. Mindful of lecherous men with binoculars, she drew her curtains before disrobing.
“Hey, Kessy? It’s me, Kander. Are you there?” Kestra’s eyes rolled, glinting green in the dark. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other night. Call me, okay? I really—” Her finger abruptly ended the playback.
“Message deleted,” the machine calmly replied. Kestra always half-expected it to shriek hysterically and yell, “Oh God, why did you do that?”
“Next message.”
“Kestra dear, it’s Mama. Just calling to see if you’re okay. Call me, baby.” The “End of messages” announcement coincided with a surprising lump in her throat. It had been weeks since her mother had called. Kestra squinted at a novelty clock hung over her television; the clock was patterned after a cat, with googly eyes that swivelled from side with each tick and each tock, accompanied by a tail-shaped pendulum. These days such anthropomorphic doodads were frowned on by society in general, deemed “offensive to persons of furman ancestry” by special interest groups. To Kestra, it was a prized memento.
Her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and she read the time: eleven-thirty. Too late to call Mama. She sighed and flopped onto the bed, groping around for her television remote.
After watching half an hour of a program she rarely followed and did not like much, Kestra left her living room for the shower’s cleansing warmth. Water dripped from her spotted fur as she shut off the flow pirouetted for her mirror, mentally critiquing every curve and hollow. Seeing nothing significantly out of place, she furiously scrubbed away the mental image with her towel. Her fur stuck out in all directions as if she just conducted several experiments involving hairpins and electrical outlets. Several minutes of brushing and blow-drying later, Kestra looked in the glass again and briefly saw what anyone would: a healthy furman in her early twenties with a shapely figure. Her face turned defiantly on the observer like a spotlight, boldly challenging anyone it met.
Shutting off the bathroom light, Kestra made her way back to the clock and read it by the television’s faint glow: quarter past midnight.
Four rings brought her to a perky voicemail greeting: “Hey, this is Miri. I can’t answer my phone right now, but—” Kestra hung up before the conclusion of her mother’s voice high-pitched, flirty message. The phone bounced off the carpet as she flopped into bed.
Critique if you wish!
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