His black shoes and brass buttons shine, and the blue collar of his uniform is neatly pressed. A wrinkled hand comes up to the brim of his spotless cap, and beneath it eyes narrow, and a pinched mouth frowns. She is late, and he does not like to be kept waiting.

Two sets of tapping sounds echo all around him, then come up beside him. The tapping of metal legs stops as the tiny robot arrives next to him, but its fingers keep on tapping the typewriter keys attached to its front, as though it were programming itself. No paper comes out the top, but its lamp-like head looks up at him, questioningly.

He ignores it and turns around, as though to go back inside. But then …

“Hello?”

The man across the ledge from Feather squinted up at her, and frowned. For a moment she thought Is there something wrong with my dress? and adjusted her straw hat nervously. Then she realized that she’d kept him waiting awhile, and strode up to where he was.

“Hello!” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Feather-”

“Cowl,” he said, barely moving her hand with his own. “Mister Cowl.”

“Do you have a first name?” she asked, letting go hesitantly.

“Yes.”

She stood at attention, starting to sweat, as he examined her as if inspecting a uniform. “Your appearance is not appropriate for the inside of the Machine,” he said, as he paced around to her side.

Oh heck, there really is something wrong with my dress! “W-what’s wrong?” she asked, and wondered if the small creature beside her was typing out a list of demerits.

“This,” he said, and pulled off her beak with a THOCK. A human nose and mouth were beneath it, and she looked startled. “You’re meant to be a Handler, not an animal yourself. Please try to remember that.”

“Y-yes, sir!” she said. Her leonine tail whipped back into the folds of her dress as though it had never existed, just as he walked back behind her.

He made a full circle, grim and dispassionate, the typewriting robot hurrying out of his way as he did so. Finally, Cowl nodded to her, then turned around and started walking back inside. “This way,” he said.

She hurried after him, low heels clicking on the metal floor, and looked over her shoulder at the small creature carrying the typewriter. It looked so out of place. She wondered if it was lost.

They step inside the steel elevator, and the folding door slides shut accordion-like. Then he pulls the lever, and it lurches to a start and descends. He’s already steadied himself on the handrail, but she stumbles a bit and nearly trips on her low heels.

Part of the elevator car is floor to ceiling glass. It looks out on a cavern, brown rock receding into the darkness, lights shone on its face by small spidery robots with welding tools. They’re patching up bundles of wire, soldering some of them together and removing others. And there are lights that play in the darkness, like tiny fireflies. They’re hard to make out until you look out there and realize they’re more robots, way off in the distance, so far away you can barely see them.

One of them does something to join two wires, and the whole network lights up brilliantly, multicolored light streaming out into the distance. Flickering, glowing, gleaming to life across a space as big as a world. And the spiders all look up and take notice for a moment, before getting back to their work.

The woman stares outside at it all, her breath fogging up the window. She’s captivated, he notes. And she continues to stare, transfixed, gripping the rail as the elevator car shakes.

She turns away and looks at him, a moment before another spider gets shocked by the wire it’s holding. It falls off the rock face and smashes into the ground, just as the surface comes up and obscures the window. “It’s beautiful,” she says to him.

“The Machine is possessed of a terrible beauty,” Cowl says, running his finger along the doorframe and frowning at the oil that stains it. “But which parts are beautiful and which parts are terrible is not for me to say.”

He braces himself again, and she notices a second too late and trips and falls backwards as the car slams to a stop. The door opens, and he steps forward and holds out one hand for her. She takes it, and he pulls her back upright, then steps out as she’s getting her feet back into her shoes. “This way,” he says.

They stepped out into a damp, underground grotto, phosphorescent moss and glowing mushrooms covering the walls about five feet out from the metal path. Their footsteps clanked on it, and her gaze lingered on sparkling spores drifting out from a cap. It wasn’t as spectacular as the cave she’d looked out on, but it had its own beauty.

They followed the glowing vines in the ceiling, around the bend towards the sound of water. Then they came to the source. The walkway hung out over a deep stream that went past, and turned into a roaring waterfall just below them. It was only about ten feet high, but the sound reverberated inside the chamber.

There was movement on the edge of her vision, and she looked out to see what it was. Then she rubbed her eyes, and did a double-take. There were flying snails, all throughout the cavern, hovering over the walkways and the bridge over the stream. One eyestalk stuck out from their shells, and they paddled the air briskly using tiny feet-like things beneath.

“What are they?” Feather said, stepping back as one floated past. It turned to look for a second and blinked at her, then resumed staring straight ahead as it paddled.

“Cordbiters,” Cowl said, frowning.

“Why are they called that?”

There was a shower of sparks, as one of them bit into the glowing vines using a mouth just beneath its eyestalk.

” … oh.”

“Kindly place them all in the cart, please,” he said, and she saw what looked like a mine cart on rails just past the walkway over the bridge.

“How do I get them in there?” she said, turning around. But he’d already stepped around the corner.

“You’re the Handler. It’s your job to figure that out.” His voice echoed, and his shadow receded across the wall.

Feather took a deep breath, then turned back around to face her task.

It wasn’t hard to move the “cordbiters” at all. They were light — as a feather, she thought — and their eyes widened and feet paddled frantically when she pulled them from their places. She turned one over in her hands to look at it, but it just retracted and huddled inside its shell.

The ‘biters were just big enough that it was awkward for her to grab hold of them in one hand, so she had to use both hands to move them. For a few minutes she ran back and forth, grabbing them up one at a time and putting them into the cart. But after she’d done this a few times, she came back and saw that they were just swimming lazily back out. The only things to keep them secure were two straps across the top, and the flying snails just swam around them.

A spark-spray lit up the cavern, as one of them bit into the vines again. Feather mopped at her forehead, chilly and sweating at the same time, and turned on the indigo backlight on her watch to check the time. A ‘biter peeked over her shoulder, curious, and stared at it for a long moment, the light reflecting off of its glassy eye. It turned to look at her just as she turned to look at it, and after a second it whipped back into its shell and lay still.

Feather’s eyes lit up.

A moment later she whistled, and it echoed off of the rock as all of the snails turned to look at her. “Hey! Over here!” she said, and held up her glowing watch in one hand.

As one, the snails stared at it. Then they started swimming towards her.

“That’s right … ” she said, moving slowly, leaning her arm down into the cart. The slower she moved, the less the snails noticed her, and the more they focused on her watch.

Steadily they moved towards her, crowding around and into the cart. The first ones made a circle around her watch and stared at it, transfixed. The next ones inside jostled to try to get a close view of it, and ended up peeking over the shells of the others.

Feather watched as the last of the ‘biters swam closer slowly, unable to see the source of the glow anymore. As she waited on it, one of the ones in the circle around her hand opened its mouth, inch-long needles shining in the glow.

She yanked her hand out just as it bit down on the air, then grabbed hold of the straggler and stuffed it down into the cart with the others. They all yanked back into their shells as she pulled the straps tight, and the shells clacked into each other with a sound like billiard balls.

Feather leaned up against the cart to catch her breath, tense and exhausted. Then she put her watch back on and checked the time again, before heading back towards the elevator.

Just before she rounded the corner, she looked back towards the cart full of ‘biters. Eyestalks peeked out of it, and blinked at her. She turned away, hoping that they’d be alright until somebody else could take care of them.

As she left, the cart began to move.

“Go on, shoo!”

A gothic-looking towering vault, with a high, domed ceiling far up ahead. Metal coils snake in and out of old windows, and long rays of light shine in, through the arches supporting the dome overhead. There are large, flamingo-like mechanical birds in Feather’s way, clustering around her on the floor, flapping their feathered wings agitatedly. More of them line the galleries, high above, looking down at her and the movement around her.

Mister Cowl sets his tea down, on a stand just beside the cart, and strides swiftly over to where she’s trying to get the birds to move. Some of them see him, and they start waddling away, their clumsy, hopping gait and bobbing heads making them move much more slowly than him. One doesn’t make it in time, and he kicks it out of the way with a “SQUAWK!” before gesturing towards the tea cart.

“After you,” he says, to a shocked-looking Feather.

She steps towards it hesitantly, looking back towards the limping bird. “Why don’t they just fly away?” she asks. “They don’t look like they’re meant to walk very far … “

“Because they’re stupid,” Cowl says, stepping back up to the cart and taking his tea and sipping at it. Behind him, a couple of birds awkwardly hop up spiral steps towards the galleries, right next to a door that’s marked “ELEVATOR.”

“They seem pretty animated for stupid creatures … ” Feather looks up, at the ones watching her still.

“A lot of things are.” He lifts a teaspoon. “Sugar?”

“Oh … uh, no thanks. I drink coffee.”

“Your loss.” He takes another sip.

The birds are still watching her. A few of them flutter their wings.

She looks away. “Anyway, uh … the ‘cordbiters’ are all taken care of. Did you need me to do anything with these birds, here … ?”

“No, thank you, madam. That will be all.”

She’s startled. “Are you-”

“Yes.”

“But it’s been less than an hour … ” She squints at the screen of her digital watch.

“There are more things in heaven and earth than you could dream of, and more situations in the Machine than you could ever attend to. But your time is tied to mine right now, and my time is limited.” He takes a long sip, and then checks the gold pocketwatch at his waist.

“Oh … “

Cowl snaps the watch shut, and pockets it. “Come back tomorrow at the same time,” he says.

“Alright … ” She nods. “I will, thank you.”

“Mind the birds.”

They cluster around her again, as she walks to the door that’s marked “EXIT,” and he finishes his tea as he watches her elbow through them. She’s still trying to be polite to them, he thinks. She’ll learn soon enough.

Feather disembarked next to her mailbox. A huge thing like a cross between a bus and an elephant galumphed away just beside her, smog coming out of its trunk. She coughed and waved it away, setting out across the dirt path, the forested hills in the distance just outlines against the sunset.

Gravel crunched beneath her shoes. She passed by a pond, and heard frogs singing and saw glowing dots floating in midair. One of her feet stepped in a puddle, but she shrugged and smiled as she walked past.

Her cottage was tiny, with circular windows and a treated roof that looked like brightly-colored clay. The electric light outside the front door buzzed as her silhouette walked up to the porch, growing lighter until her beak, tufted cat ears and lion’s tail could be seen clearly. She started to open the screen door, then saw her reflection in it and laughed, shaking her head to herself.

Kicking off her shoes, Feather dug out the keys from her purse and fumbled with them for a moment, trying to unlock the door. Then from inside the cottage came a pained moan, like a person struggling to keep from emptying her stomach. Feather’s eyes widened, and her beak fell off, revealing an open mouth. She hurried to unlock the door as her ears folded back into her hair, and her tail whipped back into her dress.

She left the door open, walking past the fireplace embers and holding her hands out to keep from bumping into furniture silhouettes. “Rissa-” she called out, before stubbing her toe on something and hopping around it. “Rissa, dear, are you alright?”

The door to her room was most of the way closed, a sliver of light all around it. It creaked as Feather pushed it open, and crept around it into Rissa’s room.

It wasn’t much bigger than a large closet, with barely enough room to stand behind her chair. Her shelves were lined with strangely-shaped toy models, and pictures and thick books of all different sizes. In her enormous chair, nearly swallowed up by it, a young girl in a white t-shirt and shorts was slumped back, taking deep breaths with her eyes closed.

Feather stood there for a long moment, watching Rissa fight off her latest attack. Rissa’s face was pale white, and just as the color seemed to be gone from her skin, it was gone from the rest of the room as well. The wallpaper was dull gray, and the shadows behind her bright telescreen and between the raised keys of her touch-typer were ominous. Crumpled up pieces of paper and old dirty dishes littered the desk, and even the toys and pictureframes on it seemed dark and menacing as they loomed over her.

There was no sound except for her breathing.

Finally she swallowed, spent another few seconds breathing fast to catch up and then tried to sit back upright. Feather moved in quick to help her, but she brushed Feather off and brought herself up, pulling the chair back towards her desk as she did so.

Feather tried to step up beside her, but the room was too narrow. It was a long second before she spoke. “Are you doing okay?”

The corner of Rissa’s head that she could see shook side-to-side. No.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

No.

“I made some soup this morning, before I left … ”

No. No. No.

Feather reached around carefully, to take the dirty dishes from her desk. As she did so, her eyes fixed on a (fading, black and white) photograph, of a very young girl standing in front of a magnificent four-legged gryphon. The gryphon’s beak and eyes were shining and its wings were spread proudly, and the girl was grinning and holding onto tufts of its fur.

Feather smiled, sadly. “Remember when we … ”

Her voice trailed off. She saw Rissa double-click on something, and begin to type on her ‘typer. The words appeared on the screen: Yes, I remember what it was like. You’re an excellent flier, when you let yourself be a gryphon.

“Someday, do you think we could … ”

But Rissa had already started to type. No, I don’t. Gryphons weren’t allowed at your school.

“Or at work.” Feather sighed, and looked down while Rissa kept typing. When she looked up, she’d already finished a sentence.

Or more or less anywhere. But it was fun while it lasted, she wrote. Kids should have fun and games. Grown-ups have more important things to worry about. Like tending the Machine, and their sick little sisters.

It’s okay. I’ll be alright. I’ve got schoolwork to do anyway.

Her eyes were still looking straight ahead, up at the screen, and her limp arms rested on the desk that was too tall for her.

Feather played with a strand of her hair for a moment; dry, dull, and lifeless. She let it settle, and remembered that it hadn’t always been that way.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said.

Rissa said nothing.

Feather finally stepped back around her chair, and went out and closed the door softly.

The next day, Feather got dressed in her work clothes (a pair of ratty old sweats and mudboots, perfect for the underground parts of the Machine) while Rissa was still asleep. Tossing her keys and other essentials into a fanny pack, she stepped out the front door quietly, into the cold air and hard dirt path lit by the sunrise. Then she jogged out to the stop at the end of the road, past the pond where the frogs were still singing; past the mailbox that hadn’t been visited yet.

And there she waited.

She set two new high scores on the games on her phone while she waited.

She kept checking the time, so she knew how long it was taking. After an hour and a half the sun had risen, and the frogs had hidden, and the air was starting to get warm. The mist had disappeared from the road, and so she stepped out and looked in both directions. Nothing.

If only she hadn’t had to sell her jalopy! Or maybe … but no. As much trouble as she’d get into for showing up late, Feather would be in even more trouble for showing up as a gryphon. It wasn’t just a thought, or even a feeling; it was a state of mind, and it was hard to break into and out of. It stayed with you all day, or all week even, and it got in the way when you tried to do things. Things like get along with people who weren’t as fond of magical creatures as Rissa was.

Feather waited a long time.

She spent the next few hours pacing up and down the path that led up to the stop, looking up from her phone whenever she heard an engine noise but never seeing the right one. Pretty soon it was getting uncomfortably warm outside, for someone who was wearing sweats, and she was getting uncomfortably hungry. So with a last look over her shoulder, she headed back towards her house, half relieved and half disappointed.

Feather considered calling her workplace to tell them what’d happened, but she knew that it’d do her no good; they almost never answered the phone, and even if they did they wouldn’t listen. So she was just putting her phone up as she got up to the front porch. The main door past the screen was open, and the smell of frying bacon was coming from inside.

She pulled the screen open, and took a deep breath of the sizzling grease smell. She thought she detected eggs, too. “Rissa?” she called out. “Are you making breakfast?”

“Brunch.” It was the electronic voice of her assistive communications device. “Would You Like Some.”

“Yes, thank you … ”

Feather stepped into the kitchen, and saw her thin, wispy sibling up next to the stove, one hand slowly stirring the eggs and the other hand typing on a small keyboard she had up on the counter. “What Are You Doing Home,” it asked.

She sighed. “They didn’t show up.”

“That’s Too Bad.” Rissa turned over the bacon without looking up.

“Do you need any help?”

They talked, and made and ate brunch together. Feather realized how much she’d missed talking to her; all these hours they could’ve spent with each other put into the both of their classes, instead. Then her job search, and now her new job. How much longer did they even have left? How much longer did she have left?

After brunch, Feather asked Rissa if she wanted to go out to the pond together. Rissa’s face was impassive as always, and her hair was tangled and unwashed. But she finally nodded to Feather, and after a few moments’ preparation the two of them stepped outside.

Rissa’s footsteps were fragile and awkward, and she was hesitant about leaving her sandals behind. But she finally stepped out onto the cool, wet grass; then, nearer the pond, let the mud squish between her toes. She ran her fingers contemplatively over a willow branch, her other arm holding her lightweight keyboard, while Feather picked ripe white swampmallows. Then the two of them ate them, sitting down by the pond, getting their feet wet and behinds muddy.

“Remember when Brianna was here?”

“Yes.”

“Those were the days.” Feather grinned, and splashed her feet into the water.

Rissa typed for a moment before hitting Enter. “I Was Thinking Of Different Days.”

“Oh?” Feather looked over at her.

“Before I Was Stuck In This House. Before I Was Stuck In This Sick Body.”

“I’m sorry … ” Feather said, but Rissa’s face was still blank. And she was still typing.

“It Doesn’t Matter. None Of It Matters. You Have Your Work. I Have My School. The World Isn’t Here For Us To Experience. We Are Here To Survive In It. Anything Else Is Secondary.” Rissa slammed the Delete key a couple of times, as she corrected what she was saying. Someone else might have dismissed that, but Feather knew she was frustrated.

A Nipper grabbed onto Feather’s foot, in the pond, and she kicked it away before looking back at her sister. “Aren’t there things that you’d like to experience?”

Rissa sat there for a long moment, staring straight ahead, before typing it out without looking. “Yes.”

“What are they?”

“It Doesn’t Matter.”

“Rissa … ”

“Your Work Is More Important.”

Feather knew then what she was talking about. But she had to weigh the consequences, in her mind. Would she be able to show up for work tomorrow that way? Would she be able to show up at all?

Maybe he wouldn’t mind if she hid her beak and her tail.

Maybe a coat would cover up the feathers.

Maybe shoes for her claws, and gloves for her talons, and wings pressed close to her sides …

“And I Have Work To Do As Well,” Rissa finished.

Feather took a deep breath before speaking. “Rissa,” she said, “would you like to fly today?”

Rissa was silent a long moment. Then she lowered her head and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she typed, long fingers stabbing the keys.

“Alright … ” Feather stood.

She closed her eyes and imagined flight; silky fur, and downy white feathers, and pointed ears and a beak. She imagined walking on all fours, wings outstretched on her back, seeing farther than anyone else can. She imagined herself as she’d once been, as she’d once let herself be, as-

HONK!

She jumped, and her leonine features grew back into themselves, retracting so fast she had whiplash and leaving her in a cloud of feathers. She was on hands and knees in the grass, breathing hard with exertion, looking up to see what had …

The bus.

The bus.

HO~ONK!

Feather looked up past her beak at Rissa, tail swishing behind her. Rissa’s face was impassive; guarded, again. She looked up at Feather, and then looked down the path towards the stop.

Feather jumped to her feet, brushing herself off and trying to get mud and grass stains off of her clothes. She walk-hopped towards her shoes and socks, one paw still leonine, then grabbed them up in one hand and hobbled towards the dirt path. “I’m sorry … ” she said, out of breath. “I’m sorry … ”

Rissa watched her go, barely moving or blinking, and waited until the engine had roared and then died away into the distance. Then she typed out a word, and hit Enter.

“Goodbye.”

Feather spent the entire ride next to a large, impressive man in a suitcoat. He sideyed her while reading his newspaper, as she tried to brush off the grass stains from her knees and mud stains from her hands and her bottom. And she grinned sheepishly up at him, sweating profusely and trying to make her beak and her tail go away.

They were still there when she showed up at work. Mister Cowl tugged on both, trying to get them to come off, but nothing happened except that it hurt. So instead he just frowned at her, and gave her a look that said What am I going to do with you now?

If he hadn’t seemed to have much time to babysit her yesterday, he had all the time in the world today. Cowl watched her wrangle the cordbiters, sweep up the dustbunnies, and shoo all the pogo-stickbugs into their pens. He took his tea while he watched her wrestle the birds in the atrium, the ones who were too stupid to know they could just fly up to where she was trying to get them to. He didn’t offer her a cup this time, and she didn’t ask for one, either.

He let her go at midnight on the dot, and by then Feather was hot and dirty and exhausted. She nodded off on the bus, and nearly missed her stop when they called it out. Finally she made her way up the long and winding dirt path toward her house, each step heavier than the last, and took a long, warm shower before tiptoeing into the kitchen to get something to eat.

There were no lights on in the house. Quiet snoring came from the door to Rissa’s room. Feather took an electric candlestick from the wall and flicked it on to look in the cupboards for dishes, then set it aside to get some leftovers out of the fridge. There were still cherry buns left over from yesterday’s breakfast, and she devoured two of them before realizing what she was doing.

As she threw her trash away, looking close with the light to see what she was doing, she saw something that caught her up short. It was the package to this morning’s bacon. The label said that it had expired awhile ago.

At this, Feather had to stop. Do I feel sick? she asked herself. I don’t think so … what if it takes awhile, though?

Then her eyes widened. What about Rissa? Is she doing okay? If something happens to her-

A loud snore punctuated her musings.

Feather looked up, and sighed. Calm down, Feather … you were always a worrier. She’s going to be alright, and you probably are too. If anything, waking her up in the middle of the night will be bad for her.

More snoring.

I’ll get up early and check on her tomorrow … I’ll set an alarm, and if her breathing seems irregular I’ll make sure she’s okay before leaving for work. And if something happens, I’ll take her straight to hospital. That’s what I’ll do …

SNO~ORE.

Feather took a deep breath. Right, then. On to bed …

Five minutes later she crawled under the covers, having forgotten to set the alarm.

A sound startled Feather awake. She jumped, under the covers, then flailed about for a moment, knocking things off of her nightstand before finding the lamp’s “on” switch. It took her another long moment of sitting upright, waking her brain back up, before she realized that what she’d heard was a pained human moan.

“Rissa?”

Another moan, louder this time.

“Rissa!” She got up.

The moans were coming from Rissa’s bedroom, but Feather didn’t go there right at first. There was a special tea Rissa drank, one that helped her with her digestive problems. If there was anything Feather could do to help, making that would be it.

“I’m coming … ” Feather called out, sliding her pink slippers on and shuffling into the house’s cold main room. She made for the kitchen and hurried to get the tea ready, as the moans became more frequent and more intense. This was the worst that Rissa had been in awhile, and it worried Feather.

Teacup and saucer in hand, Feather shuffled back out of the kitchen. As she did so, Rissa gave the most awful, pained, gagging moan that she’d ever heard, trailing off only slowly.

Feather laughed nervously as she pushed the door open, trying to quell her own fear. “I’m sorry, I know it’s taking awhile … ”

The sheets were rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown off. Rissa lay on her side, motionless, clutching her stomach with both arms. And it took Feather until she’d set the tea down on the nightstand to notice that she wasn’t moving. Or breathing.

” … Rissa?”

Feather nudged her arm gently. She did not move.

“Oh. Oh … ” Feather started to shake.

What was it? asked a voice in her head. Was it the bacon? But it couldn’t have been, because I don’t feel sick …”

Her feet had already started to move. She’d made it back to the kitchen and started dialing the emergency numbers on the phone when she realized she had to give CPR. So she ran back to the bedroom, falling and kicking off her slippers and stretching the phone cord, and got to the foot of Rissa’s bed before remembering she had a beak.

Hello? Hello? the phone said.

Feather tugged at her beak with her free hand, then smashed it into the door frame a couple of times. Nothing.

Sweat poured down her sides.

Hello?

Feather threw the phone down and screamed.

Insects glow and sing outside. The pond’s still surface reflects the moon, and a frog eyes one of the hovering motes of light and licks her lips.

Suddenly there is a noise, shrill and piercing and angry and pained. The frogs are silent, some of them turning to look towards the noise. Then there is another scream, a sound like an angry predator, and its dull bass roar shakes the earth. The frogs scatter, hopping and splashing to get away, and after a moment even the insects are silent.

Drywall smashes, wood splinters, and panes of glass break into shards. A taloned arm crashes through one of the outer walls of the house, then a whole section of roof lifts up, as an angry gryphon rears back and cries into the darkness. Its ears are pointed, its eyes are glowing teal gems, and its fur and feathers are pearly white.

Finally it reaches up and tears down the wall, revealing a bed with a crumpled human form on it — one which is now all covered in sawdust. The gryphon reaches down and tenderly takes it by its clothes in its beak, and then steps outside before transferring it to one taloned arm. Then it spreads its wings wide, wider even than the house itself, and takes off, turning around in midair and speeding towards the road and the bus route.

Feather knew the general direction the town was in, but she didn’t know any way to get to it except by following the road. There were no cars or streetlights beneath her, and the trees obscured the road markings. Moonlight glinted off of the upper branches of the trees, and their brightness stung her eyes. She could see in such detail; could feel the wind slice through her fur and feathers, and hear its roar over her racing heart. But the light on the trees nearly blinded her, as she tried to squint down at them to see where the road had gone, realizing too late that she’d lost it.

Feather looked back for a moment, dismayed, beak hanging open and wingbeats slowing. Then she looked down at the limp form in her claws, and held it close to herself as she pressed on, determined. She could feel Rissa’s body up next to her heartbeat, and she willed her own vitality to affect her somehow, to give life to her failing organs.

The lights of the town were far in the distance. She could see them just past the lights of the Machine. From here it was a giant shape, black and ominous, which blocked out a big chunk of the sky and blotted out the glow of moonlight beneath. Feather flew over the edge of the Machine to get to the distant town, and she found herself coughing from its noxious fumes. Then whiplike organic tendrils snaked out from below and tried to grab hold of her limbs, and of Rissa. She grappled with them, cutting them with her claws, and pressed herself even harder to fly past.

She kicked the last one free just as she finally cleared the dark area. But by now Feather was exhausted. The lights of the town were ahead, but they were still far away. Feather found her wingbeats slowing, her head drooping, her eyes squeezing shut in spite of herself. Feather shook her head and pressed on, conserving her energy, trying to stretch it to last until she arrived.

A whole minute passed as she barely flew at all, gasping air into her lungs, catching her breath. That minute stretched into two, and then three. The lights were closer, but not close enough.

Feather took a deep breath and then pushed herself toward the lights, flying bulletlike at them with her limbs (and with Rissa) held close to her sides. After a minute the town spread out underneath her, buildings and lights and parked carriages, and she flew in between wisps of smoke coming up from the stacks of the buildings that were just near the hospital. As she was about to touch down she spread her wings like a parachute and flapped them with all her might, trying to slow down enough to land safely.

It didn’t work. She clutched Rissa to her chest as she tumbled end over end on the cobblestone street, crashing through men-at-work barricades and smashing a melon cart next to a wall.

Feather unfolded onto her back, her ears ringing and her feet covered in sticky juice. And on her downy chest lay her sister’s form, laying still as if sleeping.

Cowl opens one eyelid, unamused, at the flapping and beating sounds over his roof. Then he sits up in bed, at the bashing, crashing noises outside, which go on for a second and end in a THUD.

He lights a match over his nightstand, then touches it to the stub of a candle that’s still in its holder. After that he takes it and stands up, feet finding his slippers, and huddles in his nightclothes all the way to the front door, where he looks out the glass window. The window is murky and it’s dark outside to boot, but he can see something large just across the street, and people all ’round running up to it.

A hand grabs his coat and his blue cap, and he puts them on before taking his candlestick back up and shuffling on outside. Now he can hear people calling to each other, and he can see the commotion: There’s an enormous gryphon laying prone on the street, its wings flat to the ground and its chest heaving with exertion. It looks to see what the people around it are doing, as men run from the hospital carrying a stretcher.

One of Cowl’s eyebrows rises.

The doctors and nurses lay someone out on the stretcher, right there on the street, and start working on him or her. After a long moment, the gryphon heaves and stands up on all fours, scraping melon rinds from its feet and shaking itself dry. Cowl holds up a hand to protect himself, but he’s too far away to get wet, and the doctors don’t seem to mind.

They continue to work, and the gryphon watches them closely, its feathery head just over their shoulders. Cowl looks around at the street, at the dim lamps overhead casting shadows on them, and shivers before fumbling to check his watch. Another long minute passes.

Finally one of the doctors shakes his head and removes his stethoscope, and closes the fallen form’s eyes with one hand. The gryphon blinks, as through disbelieving, then again as it fights back tears. It screams, and the sound is so loud that everyone jumps, as it echoes off buildings and across town. Cowl drops his candlestick and cringes, peering through his arms as the gryphon’s scream dissolves into screeching sobs.

It takes Cowl a moment to realize what’s happened. Then he closes his eyes, and places his hat over his heart.

Wind blasts through the upper reaches of the Machine’s atrium, as “stupid” birds flock together from floor to rafters, huddling to stay warm. In the cold winter light Cowl takes his tea from beneath a thick coat, sipping at the hot liquid and stirring to cool it down.

A huge creature behind him snorts. Cowl’s teacup smashes to the ground, as he whirls around and presses himself up against the cart to look. Across the room from him is a feathery white gryphon, the same one from that night. The same one from the papers.

“H … ” He coughs. “Hello, Feather! G-good to see you again!”

Her claws click on the floor as she paces up to him. “Things h-haven’t been the same without you … ” he goes on. “How have you been? I’d offer you a cup of tea if you could take it that way … “

She glances over at the tea cart, then back at him, unamused. By now he is wringing his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t express my condolences … about your sister.” He coughs. “Terrible tragedy, really … “

Feather looks away, and closes her eyes.

“You’re welcome to take time off for grieving purposes … ” He’s backing away, putting the cart between him and her. “Take as much as you like! And you can come back any time … “

Feather snorts again, derisively. Then she spreads her wings wide, feathers gleaming in the sunlight, eyes closed and head held high. Her beak shines.

She takes off, wingbeats echoing throughout the room, blasts of displaced air knocking Cowl onto his back and nearly tipping the cart. In lazy circles she flies upwards, through rays of light coming from tiny windows. And as she does so, the birds all look up at her, their glassy eyes comprehending.

They take off after Feather, circling with her, flying up into the light. And as she leaves the Machine and looks out on its vast gray expanse, giant tentacles stir but flop back to the roof, exhausted. They don’t have any strength in the sun. Not enough to fight back.

The birds land on them, and pick at them with their beaks. A second later, Feather joins in, her claws gleaming as she pounces.

The clock over the fireplace ticked, nearly drowning out the TV in the corner.

tick-tick-tick-tick-TOCK-tick-TOCK …

The female newscaster was standing in front of a bookstore. “But it’s now been two months since he’s sequestered himself away in that cabin, and there’s still no word from him or his publisher.”

TOCK-tick-TOCK …

A man in a suitcoat, in an office lined with books. The caption read MR. HOLMS’ AGENT. “I haven’t heard from him either! But I’m dying to read his new book, just as much as you are.”

tick-tick-tick …

A man in a winter coat, standing just next to the bookstore. “I was in line for The Rewair’s Orb, and I’ll be in line for the next one. They just need to say the word.” He grinned.

“What do you think’s taking him so long?” said the voice behind the microphone.

“I dunno. I guess his muse just hasn’t struck yet!”

TOCK.

TOCK.

TOCK.

The Great Author looked up with a start, from the pile of papers that he’d been buried in on his desk. His bleary-eyed gaze flicked back and forth, from the windows that looked out on the forest to the rough-hewn wooden inside.

They fixated on the clock.

He got up, sending papers flying everywhere. Then he jumped over his desk and stepped around the wicker furniture in the small living room, before grabbing the clock and sliding open the glass door to step outside.

SPLASH!

The Author’s muse raised one paw to shield himself. He was a short, stocky anthropomorphic raccoon, in a blue vest and a jaunty red cap. And he did not look happy about getting splashed.

He looked back behind himself, down the pier towards the shoreline, but the Author was already walking back to the house. The Author’s muse hmphed, adjusted his cap, and got back to fishing.

The water rippled from where the clock had been thrown in. But besides that, the lake waters were still. Evergreen trees reached shadows out to almost where he was, and the sun shone down on him, making the fur on the back of his neck warm even though his toes and fingers were cold. He opened the bait box and got out a sandwich, then started munching it, kicking his legs and showering crumbs next to his line.

His raccoon ears perked, as he heard the door slide open and closed back at the cabin. Then again a minute later, and footsteps crashed through the brush, shoshed through the sand, then clomp clomp clomped down the pier.

The muse pretended he didn’t hear anything.

The footsteps stopped a few feet behind him, and he found himself tensing up, waiting for another splash. But instead there was a sound like someone was unscrewing the lid from a jar, then pulling the cover off the inside. Something was set down beside him, and he tried to ignore it but a smell twitched his muzzle.

He sniffed at the air, then looked down beside him to see a glass jar filled with dark brown spread. “What is that?”

“Some kinda snazzy new peanut butter.” The voice came from behind him. “It’s made out of chocolate and hazelnuts.”

“Really, now.” The muse set down his sandwich, then dug a clawful of spread out of the jar and licked it clean. It wasn’t bad, and was very sweet.

“There’s more in the cabin,” the Author said.

“I’ll bet there is.” His muse began reeling in his line.

Behind him, the Author smiled.

The muse detached the fuzzy-shaped thing with eyes from the end of his line, and set it back in the bait box. Then he crammed the hook into the jar, and swung his line out into the lake, jar and all. It splashed, and his legs got all wet.

The Author’s face fell. “Geo, why must you be so unreasonable?”

“I’m not the one who’s being unreasonable, Mister Holms.” He turned around to scowl at the man, who looked younger than he sounded and was wearing a old sweater. “You’re the one who dragged me along on book tours, and signings, and interviews. You made me stretch out that story into a three-volume masterpiece, and now here you are back for more. Well, maybe I’m done for this year.” He turned back to his fishing. “Or this decade. Either way.”

“I thought you liked writing … ”

“I liked writing when it was fun.”

“It doesn’t have to be fun when you’re getting paid for it!” the Author shouted.

“Talk to the tail.” His ring-tail swished. “The rest of me ain’t listening.”

After a minute, the footsteps clomped back towards the house. Geo picked up his sandwich and took another bite, but it had been splashed with lakewater. He spat it out, and tossed the sandwich away. Ducks couldn’t eat peanut butter, he knew, but they’d all flown south for the year.

He wondered what a sandwich with that chocolate spread would taste like.

Geo was almost ready to go back to the house, when the door slid open again. He turned around to see the Author carrying a large duffel bag with him.

Geo’s ears flattened as he turned back to his fishing, listening to heavy clomps up the pier again. The duffel bag unzipped, and something big that smelled of oil and metal was pulled out. There were clicks and latches and bolts pulled back into place.

A last switch was thrown, and Geo’s raccoon ears perked as the Author spoke. “Alright, no more mister nice-guy. Come inside and help me, or face heat-seeking missiles!”

Geo tugged on his fishing line, and the pier rumbled and started to shake. The bait box rattled and nearly fell off, and the Author struggled to keep his footing. Then there was a SPLASH that washed over the pier, and Geo held his cap onto his head and gritted his teeth into the spray as an enormous black metal shape came to surface. It stretched across the horizon.

“Oh look,” he said. “I’ve caught a nuclear submarine. Now what should I do with it?”

The Author stared, as a hatch opened out in the lake and a confused-looking man peeked outside.

The Author slid the glass door shut behind him. The air smelled like cooked butter, and on the TV a loud ad was playing. He walked over and turned it off.

Out in the kitchen, a thing like a short, humanoid wolf wearing goggles floated up from behind the counter, as the microwave popped popcorn. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“If a guy in a fur hat comes calling in Russian, tell him we gave at the office.” The Author slumped down into the chair at his desk, sending a couple more papers flying.

The wolf-thing floated towards him, paddling in midair with his hindpaws. “Blender and I came up with something that might help,” he said.

“You and-” He looked up. The other was carrying a blender under one arm, its cord trailing just above the floor. “Oh, right. What is it, Zippy?”

Zippy set down the blender and picked up a big gun-looking thing, with a barrel half a foot wide and a bunch of lights and dials and gauges on it. “It’s the Inspiration Machine!”

“I thought that was your Annihilation Machine.”

“It was. I changed it. See, you just set it from ‘frappé’ to ‘blend’ … ” He swung the machine in the Author’s direction, and the Author dove under his desk, kicking his chair aside with a clatter.

“Don’t worry,” Zippy said, “you don’t use it on yourself!”

The Author peeked out from underneath.

“You use it on the thing you want to be inspired by. Like, say you want to recapture the excitement of your old novels. You just aim it at them, and- May I?”

The Author winced. “Knock yourself out.”

“Okay!” Zippy’s face lit up. “Just aim it at them and pull the trigger, like so!”

The BLAM sent the Author reeling and clutching his ears, and the shock wave sent half of his papers flying. Zippy was sent flying backwards and hit the refrigerator, and the punch bowl fell off the top of it and knocked him unconscious. It rattled to a stop on the floor as the Author stood up and took stock of things.

There was a huge burn mark on the front of his hardback copy of The Rewair’s Orb. He sighed.

Picking it up, he checked it over and stopped at the ad copy on the back. “Riveting! Spellbinding! George Holms’ Dementor-like creatures will capture your heart, if they don’t steal your emotions first. Evocative of Harry Potter and Twilight-” The Author groaned, and made a mental note to hunt the reviewer down with a spork. “-but able to stand on its own two (or four) feet, The Rewair’s Orb is in a class all its own.”

But was it, really? he wondered. The Author thumbed through his work, ignoring the scorchmark inside. Most Authors hated their older work, but The Rewair’s Orb had been written just a couple of years ago. He still liked it okay. More than that, he thought it was genuinely a decent book.

But in a class all its own? He’d have to think about that one. He knew it was good, of course. But it wasn’t substantially better than the stories he’d been writing online for years. In fact, he could think of one of two of those that he liked better than it. And the only reason its sequels had got written was because it had become a bestseller … a fact that seemed to have nothing to do with how good it actually was.

The Author turned pages absent-mindedly. Why am I trying to make myself write even more of this? he wondered. This story is over.

He shut the book, and set it on top of the old Thinkpad on his desk. His gaze lingered on the computer, and he remembered staying up all night reading fanfiction based on his work. Some of it had been scary, but some of it had made him think Why aren’t these people writing the next book? They know where it’s going better than I do. More than that, they’re enjoying themselves. I just want to get the wretched thing finished.

The Author mused on that for a moment before picking up the phone, as the microwave dinged and the smell of burnt popcorn seeped out of it.

A man in a suitcoat, in a room lined with books. He sat at his desk, leafing through a stapled-together manuscript. The bored look on his face changed to one of disgust when he saw the $100 bill in between the papers. He threw it all back on the slush pile, and woke his computer from sleep mode to send out another rejection notice.

The phone rang, and he reached over to hit the transfer button. Then he saw who was calling, and put it on speaker. “George!” he said, in a let’s-do-lunch kind of voice. “Good to hear from you! How’re things going out there on Lake Superior? Getting chilly this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah, uh, listen … ” George said, in a lost-my-train-of-thought-when-I-opened-my-mouth kind of voice. “Is there somebody else who could do this book? ‘Cause I,” he coughed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“Of course you’re cut out for it,” his agent explained. “Just look at the Rewair trilogy! You’re the only one who can do it.”

“Uh, no,” George said, “I’m not.”

His agent gave the phone a patronizing look. “Oh, really,” he said. “So who else is going to write the next Rewair book? Please, do tell.”

George coughed again. “Well, um, there’s this person called … uh … ” He mumbled something.

“Speak up!” his agent said.

” … LatinoFurry87,” George finished.

His agent blinked. “Huh?”

“That’s what he’s called on the Internet,” George went on, in a rush. “He wrote this story based on The Rewair’s Orb-”

“He’s not authorized to do that,” his agent broke in.

“Well, somebody ought to have told him that, ’cause he wrote it anyway.” George sounded exasperated.

“Tell him what ‘copyright law’ means,” his agent said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair. “I think he could learn a lot.”

“Will you just let me finish?” George huffed.

His agent said nothing.

“He wrote this epic fanfiction based on my stories, and it continued the Rewairs’ tale better than I could have. I was done with it at the end of the first book, Malcomb, you know that. And it was like pulling hens’ teeth trying to stretch it out into a trilogy.”

“Or laying golden eggs,” Malcomb mused, looking up at the crystal-and-glass awards on his bookcases.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Carry on.”

“This boy — I think he’s a boy — is talented. He’s at least as good of a writer as I am, probably better. And my readers deserve better, or at least better than two-month hiatuses.” He spat out that last past. “Your job is to find the best talent. Find this boy, and sign him up.”

His agent tsk’ed, and shook his head. “No can do, George.”

A sigh. “Yeah, I expected as much. So go ahead. Tell me why we can’t do this.”

“Because they want a book with your name on it.” His agent stabbed a finger at the phone, leaning forward all of a sudden. “Why else do you think you get top billing over the name of your own freaking books?”

“So give him a pen name, or something!”

“Signing someone to ghostwrite for you would be like replacing Coldplay with lip-synchers. It’s just not done.” He folded one leg over the other as he sat back again.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Malcomb? Fill two hundred pages with drivel off the top of my head, and leave the other two hundred blank? Because that’s what the fourth Rewair book’s going to be like if I write it.”

Malcomb shrugged. “An Author’s gotta do what an Author’s gotta do. Just put something on paper. We’ll clean it up in editing.”

“Good Gates, man, do you realize what you’re saying? Whatever happened to ‘George, you’re the greatest,’ or ‘George, this is one of a kind?’ Does quality count for nothing? Does craftsmanship? What sets our published fiction apart from his fanfiction?”

“The fact that you’re getting paid for it, and what he’s doing is illegal.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“That’s what it’s been like as long as there’s been a market, George. I hate to break it to you, but it’s true.” His agent took off his suitcoat, suddenly hot in the enclosed room.

The voice on the phone was quiet. “Somehow, this was more fun before I was being paid to write garbage.”

“It doesn’t have to be fun when you’re getting paid for it.”

The Author hung up.

The evening was quiet as the Author went back down to the dock, the submarine having disappeared back into the depths of his imagination. No crickets were chirping; the waves were gentle and faint. There was only him and his muse … or in other words, he was alone with himself.

He stood there watching the raccoon fish for some time. So content … so unconcerned. So uninterested in anything that wasn’t fun.

The Author knew what was going on in his muse’s head as well as he did any of his other characters. And he knew what Geo was going to answer before he said “There’s nothing I can do to persuade you to help me, is there.”

Or did he? His muse surprised him with “Actually, there is.”

“Oh?”

Geo clicked a button on a remote in his bait box, and a hundred-foot neon billboard lit up out on the lake. It read “WRITE SOMETHING FUN.”

The Author sighed. “We’ve been through this already.”

“Yep, we have.” Geo clicked the sign back off. “And you still won’t see reason,” they both said at the same time.

The Author looked out at the lakewaters, still and silent and dark. “I guess I’ll have to write it myself, then,” he said. “And the next, and the next, and … ” A lump formed in his throat. He looked down at his muse, and realized that it would be for the last time.

“Remember what it used to be like?” he asked his muse. “The snark, the wit, the fantasy … ” And for a moment he was Geo, sitting there on the dock kicking his furry feet in the air, listening to this strange human state the obvious.

The Author shook his head, and brought himself back to reality. Things didn’t work that way in real life. If you were lucky enough to get famous IRL, you rode it as far as you could. Because you didn’t know when it would give out, and you’d be back to writing fanfics because no one would publish your work.

He looked down at the dock. Geo was gone.

The Author sighed, and began the long, slow walk back to his cabin.

He threw out the burnt popcorn, and microwaved some leftover spaghetti for dinner. After that he sat in the living room, polishing off the rest of the ice cream with a spoon while watching TV.

The Author stayed up too late watching it. In between he surfed the web on his laptop. He didn’t visit his online journal or microblog, or anything remotely related to his work. Just RSS feeds and webcomics, and leaving comments anonymously.

Finally he got ready for bed, still leaving all the lights in the cabin on. He left the downstairs light on as he climbed into bed, and left the door open enough to see. But after ten minutes of tossing and turning, he knew he couldn’t sleep since the light got in his eyes. So he slid out of bed, feet probing the cold hardwood floor for his slippers, leaving the covers still made to keep from losing their warmth.

The air was as chill as outdoors, except right by the space heater. He hurried like he was taking the trash out in winter, sliding up to the door with arms tightly folded and pushing it shut. Then he hurried back, and sat down on the bed and kicked off his slippers. First the one, then- wait, where did it go?

Something wrapped around his leg.

He tried to grab onto the covers but was pulled right off of his bed, kicking and flailing and clawing at the smooth hardwood as it dragged him underneath. A moment of struggle at the edge, and then he was brought face-to-face with …

A penguin.

“Heh-wo,” it said, and waved a flipper at him.

“Hi, Fluff,” he said, still gasping for breath. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

The penguin shrugged.

“M-may I … ” The Author gestured at the space outside.

Fluff said nothing, so the Author crawled back out on bare hands and feet. Then he jumped back into bed, and shivered for a moment before calling out to him. “What was that all about, Fluff?”

“Squaawk!”

The Author covered his ears for a moment. “Er, I didn’t quite catch that … ”

Fluff exclaimed a long chastisement at him, in the language of penguins that goes from melodic trills to harsh squawking. An exact translation would be as long as this whole story, but the gist of it was “Are you out of your mind!?”

“Fluff … ”

“Squaa-awk!”

“Fluff, listen!”

“Squawk!”

“Fluff!” The Author leaned on one elbow, and talked over the side of the bed as cold air seeped in to where he was. “Look, I know this is bad. Alright? I know what I’m giving up! But it’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”

“Hmph.”

“Do you see this place, Fluff?” The Author gestured around. “Cabins don’t just build themselves.”

“Squawk.”

“Build, buy, same difference. Not to mention, a couple of years ago I couldn’t have taken two months off if my life depended on it. Now I can just say ‘The book isn’t done yet!’ and no one can stop me from doing this. Who else is going to give them what they want?”

The penguin trilled something else, which basically meant “You know the answer to that.”

The Author slumped back, deflated. “Fluff … ”

No answer.

“Fine,” the Author said. “Let’s say I default on my contract and give up my rights to the book, so now anyone can write what they want based on it. And Latinofurry or someone else writes something amazing, and has fun with it, and makes a whole lot of money like he or she richly deserves. Everyone reads it, and everyone’s happy. But where does that leave me, Fluff? Because this isn’t about lakefront property, or having a car and an iPhone, it’s … ”

A questioning trill. Go on.

He sighed. “It’s about living the life that I want.”

The room was quiet after that. Almost ten minutes passed.

“Fluff?”

“Squawk?”

“What do you think I should do?”

Fluff coughed. “A-hem-hem-hem. Fish,” he said.

The Author groaned, disgusted. “No, Fluff, it’s not time for fish.”

“Fish,” Fluff insisted.

“Fluff, it’s the middle of the night! Can’t you wait until-”

“FISH!” he shouted.

The cabin creaked in the cold air. And the Author suddenly got a clue.

He got out of bed and looked out the window, shivering like mad as he did so. There at the end of the dock was his muse, fishing again by moonlight.

The Author scurried towards the door. “Where did I put my boots … ”

The Author peered out the ground floor windows towards the dock, as he was pulling his coat and boots on. His muse was still there, a shadow sitting at the edge of the dock. But as he hurried outside into the cold, hugging himself and moving quickly and wishing that he’d worn long underwear, he saw that the dock was abandoned.

“Geo?” The Author stopped at the end of the dock and called out to him. “Geo!”

There was no reply.

He ran out to the end of the dock. The moon shone on the still waters, which stretched out as far as he could see. But there was no anthropomorphic raccoon, no bait box, no fishing rod and line or nuclear submarine. There wasn’t even a hat.

The Author stood there for a long moment, gloved hands in his pockets, feeling very alone and dejected. Finally he sat down at the edge of the dock, and sighed a white cloud of steam. The motion sensor lights clicked off behind him, and he didn’t even turn to look.

“Missed my only chance … ” He leaned up against one of the pylons, and imagined a life of boredom and mediocrity. It’d seemed so compelling a moment ago. Now it felt like a death sentence.

“Maybe he’ll come visit if I work on a side project,” he mutterred.

“Like what?”

The Author turned around with a start, looking every which way, but he didn’t see anything. Then he realized where the voice had come from.

He was about four feet tall now, covered in black-and-gray fur. His feet and hands were bare, and he was covered in fur from his muzzle to the tip of his ringed tail. He reached up and pulled a red cap off of his pointy ears, and as he ran his claws and pawpads over the rough cloth half of him was in awe. The other half could only grin and say “Finally!”

He turned around and jumped into the air, waving his hat and calling out towards the cabin. A moment later the lights came on inside; then the motion-detector lights over the driveway turned on, as Fluff, Zippy, Blender and dozens more characters from his stories came crowding outside.

He threw in his line and reeled in his catch, and just as they all reached the pier the submarine surfaced, its long profile a silhouette in the dark. Dozens of hatches opened on top, with whirring noises and outlines of light. Then fireworks shot out into the night sky, and the crowd cheered.

Fluff directed the orchestra, as they played Geo’s favorite soundtrack. Zippy and Blender made juice drinks and smoothies, and served them to people from tables all strung with lights. Men in fur hats got out on the deck of the submarine, and set up beach chairs and watched the fireworks with binoculars. And Geo jumped up and down madly, controlling the fireworks by waving a baton in the air. They looped in circles, spun around in sync, dashed across the lake surface sending ripples out in their wake and exploded right above everyone, showering sparkles onto the crowd.

It was frantic. It was exhausting. And it was the most fun that he’d had all year.

Two hours later, teeth chattering in the cold, the Author stopped pacing back and forth on the dock. He looked over the story he’d typed on his phone, finger-scrolling on the glass.

It wasn’t long, but it was beautiful. And it had nothing to do with Rewair.

The motion-detector light came on as he walked back to the cabin and opened the door, savoring (slightly) warm air on his face. He closed it, inside, and set his phone down next to his computer, before writing a note on the paper beside it.

There were things that he needed to do, tomorrow. And people he needed to contact.

“What? Yes, I’m sure. I spoke with him just yesterday evening.” Malcomb grabbed another bite of his chocolate croissant, then spoke into the phone with his mouth full.

“No, there’s no end in sight … ” He swallowed. “But George knows what he has to do, and I’m confident that we’ll see some progress being made soon!”

A woman in an understated suitcoat poked her head in the door, and gestured frantically at the TV in the corner. What? Malcomb mouthed at her. But she wasn’t listening. When he stayed put, she finally walked over and turned it on, then set it to the right channel.

“ … has chosen a Creative Commons ‘Attribution / Share-Alike’ license,” the female voiceover said, as it showed people in bookstores and then a closeup of a copy of The Rewair’s Orb. “This will allow anyone who wants to to write and even publish stories set in his world, so long as they credit him for the original and use the same license for their own stories.”

Malcomb’s jaw dropped.

“He has already spoken with a different publisher-” Malcomb threw the phone’s handset at the wall, and his secretary jumped. “-and they are now conducting a search for authors, to find the fan who can write the next ‘official’ Rewair book. Mr. Holms also announced a forthcoming collection of unrelated short stories, to be called-”

The Author’s former agent got up and turned off the TV, then stood at the window looking out with his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t move or say anything else.

His secretary quietly picked up the handset, ignoring the pleas that came out of it, and hung it up on his desk. Then she walked out, closing the door behind her.

“¡Enriqué! Ven aquí! Estoy hablando con usted!”

“Sí, madre … ” A brown-skinned boy in a white t-shirt and jeans got up from the old family computer, and stepped around the piles of blankets and sheets on the floor to go out to the trailer’s front porch. He clasped his hands behind his back, listening patiently to her chastisement, then promised to take care of things for her before stepping back inside, as her attention turned to one of his younger siblings.

His cousin was still on the couch. She was watching an English-language morning news show. Enriqué tuned the words out, trying to concentrate on the scene that he’d just been writing. But then as he was sitting back down at the computer, he looked over his shoulder and saw on the TV a picture of a hardcover copy of The Rewair’s Orb … the same book he’d gotten two years ago for Navidad. The book that had changed his life.

He heard the words they were saying, but it took him a moment to understand them, and even longer for them to sink in. When they did, he found that he wanted to cry.

Instead, he pumped one clawed fist in the air, tears streaming down his slender draconic muzzle. Then he stretched his crimson wings, before hunching back down in front of the PC and writing the last of the scene he’d been working on. The end of a chapter … and the start of a new story.

Many thanks to my penguin-obsessed brother for the RP sessions that provided the inspiration for Fluff’s behavior.

That wasn’t the name he’d been born with, of course. It was the name that he’d chosen, to represent himself online. His “real” name had hardly anything to do with who he was, but Virmir was an Urocyon cinereoargenteus; a gray fox, that walked on its hind legs and talked and grinned and wore clothes (when it felt like it). A cartoon drawing, a personal brand and an identity that felt more real than the human one he’d been born with. Or at the very least, more fun.

Some days he felt kind of silly about that. Like his first few days on the job. Maybe it’d been the gray cubicles, without so much as a potted plant. Maybe it’d been his manager’s clean haircut and firm handshake, and the way he’d gone on about “fostering world-class infrastructure” and “meeting customer-centered goals.” Or maybe it’d just been the fluorescent lighting. Either way, his first few days working there had taken a lot out of him. He’d gone home and flopped on the couch, and had barely felt like a human being, let alone Kendo Virmir the fox mage.

After he’d been there awhile, though, he’d noticed something, and it hadn’t just been that the meeting room donuts were always stale. Maybe it’d been the view out the window that’d clued him into it … the row upon row of identical offices that he saw in the skyscraper across the street. Or maybe it’d been after a few minutes of hearing his boss and his boss’ boss chatting with each other, and then turning his swivel chair to look and realizing he couldn’t tell them apart.

Here’s what the-person-who-was-Virmir realized: The people he worked for talked, groomed, and dressed that way not because they were actually like that, but because the people they worked for were like that! And so on, for as far as he could see.

Somewhere at the top, Virmir imagined, was a happy, fulfilled man, who used “infrastructure” and “customer-centered” in his daily conversation. And he had a whole lot of people working for him who were trying their best to be him, even if they didn’t have a clue what those words they kept using meant.

In other words, they were all creating their own identities too. They just weren’t being very original, and they weren’t having nearly as much fun with it as Virmir was.

He felt a lot better about imagining himself as a cartoon fox after that.

Anyway, Virmir was having a great week, and it wasn’t because the PHP web app that his team had been building was almost complete. No, it was because last night he’d put the finishing touches on his latest art project, live on streaming video. On top of that, he was expecting the commission he’d ordered to come in the mail any day now.

On days like these, he wasn’t a “team member,” or a “human resource,” or a white shirt and a tie. He was Virmir, just as much as he was when he was at home in his den. And it was not just a sense of confidence, or an amused smirk at things that would have annoyed him. It was an entire way of seeing the world.

He coded faster, because server-side scripting was simple compared to runic equations and magic. He spoke up more often in meetings, because the silly humans kept digging themselves into messes and it was up to him to help them get out. And when he looked out the windows at the end of the day, at the city of concrete and windowlight, he didn’t see a vast and impersonal maze. He saw a wondrous landscape, as fantastic as any that he had imagined. And it was a bit grittier, perhaps, but it was still just as magical.

Anything can happen here, he thought, as he turned off his monitors and put on his coat.

He had no idea how right he was.

On the fourth day of this great week, something unusual happened. You see, instead of just imagining himself as the self that he drew, Virmir actually became a cartoon gray fox.

That’s not the unusual thing, though, as surprising as it seemed to Virmir. After all, anything could — and did — happen in this magical world that he lived in, including transformations. Every day, caterpillars curled up to sleep, not knowing they’d wake up as butterflies. And people became cartoons all the time, too. How else could they ever get made?

What was unusual was that he didn’t notice. He was just going about his workday as usual, a confident anthro gray fox mage, his cape and his tail tucked behind him as he typed away on the keyboard. His legs kicked the air underneath him, and his brow furrowed as he looked up at the dual monitors, trying to make sense of his coworkers’ code. It was another day in the life of Virmir, and after these last few days he’d become so used to feeling this way that he didn’t even realize he was a couple of feet shorter, until his neck finally got a cramp in it.

“Blast,” he muttered. He reached around to massage the kinks out of his neck, wincing. Then he looked up at the screens on top of his desk in dismay, and hopped down from his chair to get something to sit on.

Reaching up towards the telephone book at the edge of his desk, he saw his fox hand and thought That’s some nice shading. Then he froze.

Two hundred lines of PHP code poured right out of Virmir’s brain.

“Hey,” his coworker said, from past the partition behind Virmir’s monitor.

I love those dynamic lighting effects, said the part of Virmir’s brain that was still working right. And look at the texturing!

“Hey,” his coworker said again, and knocked on the partition. “In line 248, what did you mean by blah blah mumble subroutine blah?”

That wasn’t what he actually said, of course, but Virmir’s brain still wasn’t working. In fact, he was more in shock than he would’ve been if he’d just walked away from a train wreck. The social part of his brain said that he needed to reply, though, and so he tried. Only to find that he’d forgotten how to make words come out. “Uhhhm … ”

Silence.

Slowly, Virmir ran his long tongue across his vulpine chops, and tried to talk naturally like he’d done just a minute ago. “I … don’t … know, uh … ” He blinked, shook his head, and unfroze from the position he’d been in when he was reaching up to the telephone book. “What was that, again?”

” … are you okay?”

“Oh! Uh, yes, uh … ” Virmir’s cape flared out and his tail swished as he looked about himself quickly, trying to find a hiding place and a clear escape route to the stairs. Had anyone already seen him? What about in the building across from his cubicle? He had to somehow-

“No, I’m serious.” His coworker’s freckled face came up over the edge of the partition, and looked down at him.

“AGH!” Virmir fell on his tail, and backed away several feet on his hands and legs before getting caught in his cape. He stared up at his coworker, and a drop of sweat the size of a golf ball formed on the side of his head.
His coworker gave him a bewildered look. “Dude, you look wired.”

Virmir misheard him. “Weird … in what way?”

“No, wired. You look like you stayed up all night and hit Starbuck’s before coming here.” He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Chill, okay? Go take a walk or something. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

He ducked back down behind the partition, and Virmir just sat there, unable to move, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out the printer down the hall. Someone walked past behind him, and while his ears automatically pivoted he could not turn his head to look. He could only sit there, and catch his breath.

What on earth just happened?

Slowly, the sweatdrop vanished and Virmir’s breathing steadied. He climbed back up to his seat, turned off the dual screens and looked into them. They weren’t glossy, so the reflection was imperfect, but even with the light from the windows in the corner of his eye he could tell. He looked just like the gray fox from his drawings. A three-dimensional, cel-shaded, hundred frames-per-second rendered gray fox, but a cartoon gray fox nonetheless. He wasn’t even wearing anything besides his cape.

Then where did … Acting on instinct, Virmir reached around behind himself and pulled out his wallet and Palm Pilot, and looked to make sure they were okay before putting them back. Then he turned around in his seat and looked. They were nowhere to be seen.

How … ?

Phones rang in the distance, and the sounds of typing and clicking and shuffling paperwork reached Virmir’s fox ears. The absurdity of his situation was not lost on him.

Now what?

After a minute’s thought, he hopped back down from his seat and walked around the side of the cubicle farm. Another sweatdrop started to form on the side of his face, as he realized he was out in public walking past people and banks of windows like this. But if he was right, then …

“Tom?” Virmir looked in at his coworker, the one who’d just talked to him. He was munching cheese puffs out of a bag while glowering at his own monitors, but he turned to look as Virmir addressed him.

“Do I, uh … ” Virmir spent a moment thinking about how to phrase himself. “Do you notice anything different about me?”

Tom squinted at him for a moment, before a look of recognition lit up his face, and he nodded. “Nice haircut,” he said.

“Totally doesn’t look like you slept on it the wrong way.” He then turned back to his monitors, and wiped his hands off on a napkin before typing something in.

Virmir’s tail stopped in mid-swish, and his face turned red. “Thanks,” he said, before ducking back out, and standing there for a moment next to the Dilbert cartoons Tom had taped to the side of his wall.

Okay, he thought. So I’m myself. I mean, Virmir, I mean … blast, this is so frustrating! How did this even happen? And is it just me, or am I really …

His thoughts trailed off as he looked behind him, at a sudden, unusual sensation. His tail had been swishing with agitation, and he could feel it thump into the cubicle wall next to him.

Maybe this is a dream? Virmir pinched his arm, and it hurt. Not only that, he could feel how furry is was, past the claws on the ends of his fingertips. And if he looked closely, he could see each individual cel-shaded hair, despite the black borders at the edges of his arms. His fur rippled as he breathed out while looking at it.

Maybe splashing my face with cold water will help …

Virmir knelt on the edge of the sink in the men’s room, the one that had been up to his neck while he’d been standing next to it, and turned the cold water tap all the way to the right. Then he scooped up a good double-handful of it, and smacked it into his face.

“Aghptbb-” He fell over on his back, on the wet sink, and sputtered and slipped as he tried to get up. His cape and his back fur got soaked through, and his foot got stuck in the sink for second before he finally slipped off and landed on the floor on his arms and knees, wincing.

A couple minutes under the blow dryer helped, although they didn’t do anything about his smarting elbows and knees. He looked over at the mirror as the warm air rustled his cape, and gave his fox face a disgusted look. “If you’re a hallucination, you’re a very persistent one.”

Someone else came in just then, and Virmir quickly walked out and got his tail out of the way before the door shut behind him. He dried off his hands the rest of the way on his fur, and looked out the full-length windows, arms folded. His foxy reflection looked back at him, stern and upset on the other side of the glass.

I don’t take anything weird, he thought. So if this is my mind playing tricks on me, either I’m going crazy or somebody drugged my cereal.

Someone walked past behind him, and brushed his tail without noticing.

But my mind playing tricks on me wouldn’t account for my having a tail. Or needing a telephone book to sit on while I’m coding. Maybe I really did change, and I’m just the only one who noticed?

It seemed so obvious, and yet it was hard for Virmir to accept, just because it was so unexpected. Even if he was remarkably good-looking this way, he thought, striking a pose to see his reflection.

Hm, maybe if I downloaded Blender I could do something like this. I’d have to learn it, of course …

He stuck out his tongue, and then tried a couple of other faces.

What if I just uploaded a video, and then didn’t tell anyone how I did it? It’d have to use real-life backgrounds, of course, but still. It’d be a hit!

He struck another pose, tossing his cape out dramatically behind him.

Hmm … but would anyone be able to see me? Would whatever is keeping other people from seeing me like this work online?

Virmir furrowed his brow and put a hand to his chin, lost in thought. Maybe that can be my first experiment, then. To find out if it’s just me, or if I really did change and no one else can see it. I could do things like take pictures of myself standing under things I’d be too tall for normally, and trying to reach for things that my human self wouldn’t need a ladder for. Then I can show them to other people, and ask them to tell me what they see.

Virmir sideyed another coworker as he walked past, and it occurred to him that he was taking this pretty well. He felt a little light-headed, but on the whole he felt comfortable as his fox self, even out here in public. It helped that he’d gotten in practice, he thought … a lot of practice. Maybe that’s what caused this?

He shook his head. Nah.

Virmir’s tail swished happily as he returned to his cubicle, and stacked a couple of manuals on top of his seat before climbing back on. Then he stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles and got back to work.

That would be a convenient end for this story. Fortunately, life is rarely convenient.

What happened next started a couple of hours later. Virmir had been coding for awhile, and his throat was feeling dry. His fox ears could hear Tom munching on salty snacks in the cubicle past his, buttered popcorn and puffs with dry cheese powder on them, and the sounds and the smells were the last straw.

He hopped down and went over to the water cooler, only to find that he wasn’t tall enough to reach the disposable cups stacked on top. If Virmir had been the kind of mage who could levitate objects by casting a spell on them, he might’ve tried it; the instincts that let you do things like that are the same kind that made him become his fox self in the first place. But Virmir’s fox-self was a fire mage, and the only thing his spells could have done to the cups was make them set off the smoke alarm.

Which is why he came back a minute later, pushing his swivel chair in front of him and muttering under his breath. It got stuck on a corner, so he turned around and carefully pulled it the rest of the way …

… only to bump into a man who was standing there already, wearing a striking black suitcoat and tie and filling a huge plastic Big Gulp cup from the water cooler.

The man smiled down at him, a plastic sort of smile, his hands not leaving the controls. “Hello, Mister Robinson.”

Virmir squinted up at the man, immediately distrusting him. Maybe it was the fact that he knew Virmir’s name, when Virmir had never seen him before. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never known anyone who wore an Italian suitcoat to shop at the 7/11. Or maybe it was the black sunglasses the man was wearing … and the fact that Virmir saw in them not his cartoon self’s reflection, but the one that he’d seen in the mirror that morning.

“Having fun imagining yourself as a fox, are you?” The sound of water pouring into his cup almost drowned out the man’s words.

Virmir gave the man an amused smirk. “Yep. You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mister Robinson.” That plastic smile had not left the man’s face. “You don’t understand just how dangerous it is, to imagine something that’s not wanted.”

“Oh, I totally agree.” Virmir leaned up against his chair, and winked.

The man went on like he hadn’t heard him. “Millions of people, all imagining themselves living happy, normal, productive lives … and one maladjusted person, who tries to imagine himself as a cartoon. That sort of imagination is like a disease … a cancer, in our society. And we … ” He took a long swig from his Big Gulp, and licked at his face afterwards. ” … are the cure.”

As he was talking, two more nearly identical-looking men in black suitcoats stepped into view, one behind him and one behind Virmir. Virmir was feeling quite threatened now, so he did what a fox fire mage does when he feels threatened: He fluffed out his fur, threw out his cape, and ignited a huge fireball in his hand. “I’d like to see you try!” he snarled.

The man doused him with the rest of the water from his cup. Virmir gasped and spluttered, dripping wet, and tried to ignite another fireball in his hand. A wisp of smoke came up through his fingers. ” … blast,” he said.

The three men stepped towards him.

Virmir tensed, and got ready to spring as they advanced. Then he turned and bolted, diving around the man behind him and running past banks of windows, trying to put as much distance between him and them as possible.

Without a word, the men in black suitcoats took off after him. Virmir ducked into a hallway, sprinting towards the door to the stairwell at the far end. He looked over his shoulder, past his flapping cape, and saw the three men chasing him. But when he looked back where he was heading, all he could see was a long row of doors, and a hazy mirage at the end that receded into the distance.

Virmir blinked, looked away for a second and looked back up, but he still couldn’t make his eyes focus. “What the heck?” he snarled. There was no way that this was-

Oh. Oh. Now he knew what was going on. He’d seen this a million times in cartoons, whenever they did chase scenes indoors! Only one thing to do, then. Virmir jumped at a door shoulder-first and ran through someone’s office, ignoring the startled shouts and taking the next door he saw.

He opened it and saw another hallway … or was it the same one? He could see the men in black suitcoats pausing and fanning out to check doorways. With only a moment’s thought, Virmir dashed for the next open door that he saw, ignoring the footsteps that he heard behind him. It was like an indoor obstacle course … dodge past the furniture, run through any open door and wait for an opportunity to escape.

Which came when Virmir reached the end of the hallway. Except that there was no more door to the stairwell, unless it was cleverly hidden. There was only a windowsill.

Virmir reached up and clawed at the window, trying to pry it open, as the men saw where he was and ran towards him. Then he stopped, breathing hard with exertion, and ignited a fireball in his now-dry hands and hurled it up at the window. It shattered, the air shimmering around the empty frame in a heat distortion, and Virmir hauled himself up to the sill and scrambled through just as the men caught up and lunged at him.

The sounds of traffic and of wind rushing through skyscrapers reached Virmir’s fox ears, and the breeze rustled his fur as he edged sideways along the outside of the building. One of the men stuck his head through the window and looked out at Virmir, the light glinting off of his sunglasses. “Come back, Mister Robinson,” he said. “We want to help you.”

“Interesting way … ” Virmir gasped for breath. ” … you’ve got of showing it!” His muscles were all trying to tighten up, after the way that he’d run full-tilt, and he did not need that now when he was ten stories off the ground. He tried to control his breathing, and to move steadily towards the next window.

“Mister Robinson,” the man said, “look down.”

“Why? What’s … ” Virmir’s voice trailed off, as he looked down at his feet. There was nothing below them but thin air.
The man grinned.

Virmir flailed wildly for a second, claws scraping the outside of the building, then fell like a rock. “Blaaaaast … ”
He smacked into something, and the world went dark.

Smells crept into Virmir’s nose, of rotting fruit and decaying garbage. Car horns and engines, the sounds of city traffic, came at him from the side. Virmir cocked one fox ear towards them, and felt something on his face. He reached up and removed it. It was a banana peel.

The three men were standing around him.

“Gah!” Virmir scrambled to his feet and tried to back up, but slipped and fell. He was sitting on his tail on top of a heap of garbage bags piled up next to a dumpster, and the one behind him had split open where he’d landed on it. His left hand was deep in a pile of unpleasant things, and he removed it and brushed it off on his fur before looking up at the men in black suitcoats. They were still just standing there, watching him.

“What do you want?” Virmir asked.

“What do you want, Mister Robinson?” It was the one in the middle who spoke.

“Do you want to go your whole life looking and acting like this?” The one on the left.

“A cartoon fox, in a world designed for human beings?” The one on Virmir’s right.

“You can’t go on like this forever.” All three of them spoke at once, now.

“I’ve done a good job of it so far … ” Virmir tried to stand, and had to lean up against the dumpster for a second and wince. He had a headache so bad that it made him dizzy, and on top of that he felt exhausted.

“Because nobody else sees you as a fox,” the one in the middle said.

“Exactly,” Virmir said, rubbing his forehead, then looked up and squinted at him. “Are you saying that some people can?”

“It’s a rare person who sees himself for who he is,” the one in the middle went on, as a skeptical young human’s face reflected back at Virmir from his sunglasses. “It’s an even rarer person who sees others for who they are … Mister Robinson.”

“Instead they see … discrepancies,” the one on his left said. “Things that don’t add up. Things that contradict the person they ‘know’ that you are. Things that contradict the way that their world works. They won’t see you any differently, but they’ll know that you live in a different world than they do.”

“People don’t like their world to be threatened,” the one on Virmir’s right said, as though he knew right where the other would leave off. “They don’t like it when someone else doesn’t play by the same rules they have to. They’ll react. Violently, if necessary.”

Trying to look back and forth between them was making Virmir notice his neck ached as well. He clutched at his forehead and winced, closing his eyes and trying to put as much weight on the dumpster as possible. “So some people will notice me and attack, or something?”

“‘Attack’ is such a harsh word, Mister Robinson … ” The voice from in front of him. “More like ‘deny privileges to.’”

“Privileges like friendship.” The voice to his left.

“Money.” The voice on his right.

“A home.”

“A job.”

“A life.”

“A mate.”

Virmir’s ears pricked back and forth, trying to follow which one was speaking. When they were silent for a second, he looked up. The man in the middle was smiling that plastic smile again, and holding out one of his hands to Virmir. In his palm was a large blue pill.

Virmir took it with his clean(er) hand, and gave it a weird look. The man to his left handed him a full paper cup from the water cooler, and he took it without thinking about it. “So wait. You want me to just take something that’ll make me forget about all this?”

“Oh, no, Mister Robinson.”

The one to his left spoke up. “We have other ways to make people forget things they need not see, and places they need not be.”

Virmir gave them a droll look. “Then what’s this?”

“A choice, Mister Robinson.” The man grinned. “To have things return to the way they were-”

Virmir shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“-when you want them to be that way.”

Virmir gave the man a bewildered look. He went on. “You don’t even know what’s happened, do you? You just know that things are different now. And different is not safe.”

“This will allow you to be different when you want to … ” the man to his left said.

” … in the comfort of your own den,” the man to his right finished.

“And then to be the person that others expect, when it would be dangerous not to do so.” The man in front of him smiled.

“And that’s all it will do?” Virmir asked.

“Of course.”

Virmir had half a mind to just tell the man what he could do with that pill. But something made him hesitate. Maybe it was the fact that he really did not know what had happened, not on an intellectual level, and his instinct was hazy right now. Maybe it was the splitting headache he had, that was keeping him from thinking clearly. Or maybe it was the way the third man had said “den” … as though he were acknowledging that Virmir really was a gray fox.

Virmir saw, in the polished shoe of the man in front of him, a warped, fishbowl view of his cartoon self. And behind him, his human self in shirt and tie, waiting with arms folded to get back to work. The self that his coworkers saw … that’d he’d tried to be, every day, before he’d remembered to be his real self.

That’s when Virmir knew what he had to do.

First, he drank all the water, and tossed the cup away. Then, smiling, he placed the blue pill on the street in front of him. The men around him raised their eyebrows, and frowned. “What are you-”

WHAM.

From the same place that Virmir was storing his wallet and Palm Pilot, he produced an enormous mallet and brought it down on the pill, smashing it. Then he stood the mallet upright and leaned on the handle, and grinned. “Thanks for the help,” he said. “I feel a lot better now.”

The three men sideyed each other.

“Anything else you need?” Virmir asked.

The one in the middle coughed, and straightened his tie. “Mister Robinson,” he said. “If you’ll recall, we mentioned that some people might react … ”

“Violently?”

The men nodded.

Virmir ignited a flame in one hand, and smiled up at them. “Bring it.”

“YAAAH!”

A fireball flew past as three men in suitcoats piled unto the back seat of an unmarked black sedan, their sunglasses crooked and smashed and their faces black with soot. The last one in hastily doffed his burning jacket and slammed the door shut, just in time for a mallet-shaped indentation to appear in it.

Tires squealed and exhaust spewed as the car took off. Virmir smashed one of the taillights with his hammer before coughing, and moving out of the way of the gray cloud left behind. “Fun times,” he said, smiling weakly and coughing again. “Fun times.”

His ears perked towards the sounds of horns honking and more tires screeching in the distance. Then they faded into the background of city traffic, and Virmir was alone in the alley.

He looked up at the side of the skyscraper he worked in, leaning on his mallet and trying to catch his breath. Then, finally, he put the mallet away and walked down the alley, heading back toward the building’s front entrance.

The guard raised an eyebrow at him, as he slid his card. Inside, people waited to take the next elevator rather than share one with someone who smelled like garbage. Alone in the elevator, Virmir examined his cape and sniffed at himself, and his nose wrinkled.

The sun was beginning to set past the buildings outside the window as Virmir walked back to his workstation, in the now-empty cubicle farm. Without sitting back down, he reached up and woke his computer from sleep mode, then saved the project he was working on and logged out. One eye fell on the books stacked up on top of his chair, as he did so, and he looked at them for a long moment. Then he walked out.

The train ride home seemed to take forever. People refused to sit next to him, which was just as well since he needed someplace for his tail to go now. But they also kept glancing in his direction. A child pointed at him and whispered to her mother, and her mother whispered something back, but she continued to stare at him afterwards.

Virmir didn’t know if the attention he was getting was because he looked beat up and smelled bad, or if it was because they could tell something was different about him. Either way, after a couple of minutes he felt awkward and uncomfortable, and wished that he could just blend into the background and wait for his aches to subside.

Virmir reached around behind himself, and spend a few seconds pawing at the folds of his cape before coming back with his Palm Pilot. He turned it on and tapped on the book reader app with his claw, but then he couldn’t make himself read anything. Instead he could only look at his hand and his claws, tapping them against each other and drumming them on his leg.

Virmir fumbled with the stylus for a moment, trying to pull it out of its slot, before finally just pressing the “Home” key and then tapping the picture viewer with his claw. A list of thumbnails came up, and he tapped on one of the drawings he’d done of his cartoon self not too long ago. He looked between it and his reflection, comparing the two with an artist’s eye and not sure which one he was checking for discrepancies.

Then it hit him. His coloring had become flat, as though he’d been colored in a vector graphics program. The drawing he’d done had better shading than he himself did.

Virmir ran one hand along his arm and could feel individual furs, but he couldn’t see them anymore. He turned off his Palm Pilot and looked between himself and his reflection, scared all of a sudden and wondering if he was just going to fade away. Then he slumped back in his seat, worn out and disgusted and not even caring that he was squishing his tail. He just wanted this day to end.

It was cold and quiet outside Virmir’s house. Dried leaves crunched under his feet, and puffs of white came from his vulpine snout. His long ears heard the songs of crickets chirping, but also that blasted dog that kept coming by and barking at Terra, his German Shepherd. His ears flattened, as he spent a whole minute listening to it louder than ever before, and fumbling with the folds of his cape and the fur on his back trying to pick out his house key.

He finally got it out and walked up the driveway to the front door. The outside light came on as the motion detector “saw” him, and in it he saw that there was a package leaning against the doorstep.

Virmir’s ears perked.

He hurried up to the front door and started using the jagged edge of his house key to cut the boxing tape. Then he looked at his hands, and just tore it open with his claws. His ears were starting to freeze by the time he pulled it out of the box: His commission, just like he’d asked for, of his gray fox character looking confident and adventurous. And it was drawn even better than he could’ve done it himself.

His tail started to swish happily as he looked at it, running his thumb over the cardstock and feeling the actual materials used. His cartoon fur fluffed out and became visible again, and his cape straightened out and became shiny. By the time he got to the note that said “Keep being awesome!” his dynamic lighting effects had returned, and he noted them with approval, looking down at himself and at his reflection in the glass on the screen door. He grinned, and his eyes and fangs shone.

An hour later he was cleaned up and wrapped up in warm, fluffy towels, his tail beside him on the couch. He set his plate with the scraps on it on the floor, and patted Terra on the head as she scarfed them. Then he stretched, and woke the notebook computer on the tray in front of him from sleep mode by tapping the external keyboard.

In a chat room attached to Virmir’s website, his online self posed dramatically, spotlights shining on him as he entered.

“Hey!” someone said. “How was your day?”

“Great,” Virmir said, and winked.