FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Disclaimer: Contains M/M furry smut. Don't partake of the naughtiness if you're of sans legality. Part III of my homage to 1980's Cyperpunk. I'm high-lighting the following because furs seem to keep missing it: Please note I'm emulating everything about the genre here, including its criticisms: the shallowness, the sexism, right down to its inherent nihilism. Please rate accordingly. Basil is copyright NautaCeta. All other meatbags copyright Eldyran. Unless your willing to trade Flesh for Chrome, Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Ball (tm) !!!!

Moral Obsolescence and Motor Oil

Part III- Writing Zero's into the Liability Matrix

2006 by Eldyran

War has a habit of returning when you least expect it. Although the New Canadian Coalition and the guerrilla fighters of the Venezuela / South American conflict officially signed a cease fire agreement in 2027, just ten months after the brutal Tetro Offensive, the gun sights aimed at members of the 23rd Steel Lynx mechanized infantry never lowered.

One by one, their ranks fell to a shadow war, borne from the fallout of the VSA conflict, and its instigators. Sixteen hours ago, a mysterious assassin gave Lance Corporal Micheal Peers, squad leader for bravo element, 23rd Steel Lynx support division, his very own Columbian necktie, right in the comfort of his favorite easy chair. Specialist Kylson Reese, last remaining member of his division, now stood in his former squad leader's split bungalow apartment, not one room away from said chair. Although the death of his former squad leader and lover affected him more deeply than he could have imagined, he had a more pressing issue on his mind at the moment.

The barrel of an AMR X-22 medium pistol.

The coyote growled at the thing holding the pistol against his forehead, his muzzle lips tight against his teeth. Whatever this thing was, its left paw crackled with purple flame, ready to flash fry him in the blink of a mind's eye. Although the sights of his Glock landed square on the skunk's ... raccoon's ... whatever this thing was ... nose, he sincerely doubted he could get off his shot before this ... skoon ... could turn him into a purple roman candle. For a few moments, neither said a word as the flickering pyrotechnics cast dancing purples shadows within the darkened apartment's den. The tension reached crescendo, then broke.

"What the HELL are you, and what are you doing in this apartment?" The stocky coyote snarled, the metal paw of his partial right cyberarm tightening on the molded grip of the 9mm.

"I'm the merry FUCKING maid," the lean hybrid barked back, the fireball held in his left paw flaring, "and I'm about ready to clean house unless you get that piece out of my face ..."

"Last chance ... Sato," the canine growled, the silicon myomers of his synthetic index finger contracting around the Glock's trigger, "now tell me how you know Micheal Peers before I give you a third nostril."

Basil, the AMR skoon mercenary, knew many things, on a wide variety of topics. He knew from ballistic physics that his body could absorb the impact trauma of a 9mm slug at point blank range, at least everywhere expect his muzzle. He knew little about cybernetics, however, and even though the skoon knew he could channel destructive mana in less time it took for the coyote's nerves to fire, he didn't know if the neural grafts in the artificial paw would depolarize if the dead canine's nervous system collapsed.

Would the bionic trigger finger pull in dying reflex if the skoon decided to make coyote flambe?

Before Basil could test this joyous little theory, Max, the lion Artificial Intelligence contained within the iMod on Basil's hip, spoke up through the earplugs in the skoon's ears.

"If you b-b-boys are done comparing the size of your pistols, I'd like to inform you that I've found Micheal Peers listed in the AMR directory. S-s-seems he worked as a consultant on AMR's research on small unit tactics. Now if you don't mind, nobody is going to be cleaning anyone's third nostril on my w-w-watch ..." Basil let out a slow, tense exhale. At least he had a bargaining chip now.

"I'm here on official AMR corporate business. My boss ordered me to pick up the last remnants of the last research project he was working on ..." The coyote's chrome colored irises focused on the skoon's florescent purple eyes with an unheard whirl. Whatever he saw in them made the 'yote's adamant grip on the pistol relax slightly.

"Micheal said he hooked up with a nice corporate gig after VSA," Kylson said, lowering the pistol from Basil's muzzle. "Now ... if you don't mind ..." The coyote slowly put his piece away, before drawing a cigar and lighting it with the skoon's flaming left paw. Basil started and flipped his paw, extinguishing it in annoyance.

"Name's Reese," the coyote said, taking a deep pull off the lit cigar, the tendrils of sweet smoke waifing away in the darkness of the apartment. His paw never extended, however. He didn't exactly trust the hybrid, but right now this joker was the best lead he had in finding out who killed his squad leader, and why they wanted to frame him for it.

"Raies," the skoon nodded before flicking on a light switch. He regarded the coyote in ripped blue jeans and frayed military surplus poncho. Hobo chic must be the new trend this year. He didn't exactly trust the coyote, but he seemed to know this Peers from the war. Perhaps the canine knew where the disk was, and could send Basil on back to his merry life of tedium in short order. They stared at each other for a long minute, until Basil's stomach grumbled. He put a paw to his belly, and looked over to the kitchen entranceway. With Kylson staring after him, Basil walked into the semi-dark kitchen and opened up the fridge.

"You think your friend Micheal will care if I raid his fridge?," the skoon asked. His accelerated metabolism required almost continuous nourishment. Sometimes it was a boon; sometimes, like now, a bane.

"Hold on ... let me ask him," the coyote shot back in annoyance and peeked his head into the next room to the empty, blood soaked easy chair. "Hey Micheal, you care if numbnutz here eats your leftover Thai?" The coyote leaned back into the den and glowered at the hybrid. "He declined to answer on a slight account of rigor mortis. He's DEAD you prick!" Basil's paw froze halfway with the soy milk carton up to his muzzle.

"Hey ... I'm sorry ... I didn't know. My boss didn't inform me of the circumstances, I'm just the courier." Basil tilted back the carton, the Adam's apple of this throat sliding up and down as he drank, his purple iris locked on the infuriated canine. He replaced the carton and wiped his chin. "You have any idea who did it?"

"Oh yeah," the heavyset yote said as he took a picture of the war off the den wall, looking at it. "I have a good idea of who did it ..." He thought back to the wolven detective who arrived at his front door only an hour ago. Definitely Yakuza. But, why? His optics focused on the picture he held in his paws.

It was of him, working on the track of an APC, in some long since abandoned makeshift repair depot, somewhere just outside of Ciudad Guayana. Something off camera distracted his attention; the light green of his natural eyes unfocused, his look, clueless. Micheal later said he took the picture because he thought the 'caught unawares' look was priceless. Neither of them had any idea that only two hours later, pieces of shrapnel from the left track would take the coyote's right arm. The synthetic myomer of his replacement paw twitched. Somewhere, off in the distance, he thought he heard light machine gun fire.

"So ... I take it this Micheal and you were pretty good pals then?" Basil asked, his paw full of leftovers. Kylson never heard him. His eyes wore a blank expression as he continued to stare into the picture; the chrome pupils of his optics dilated. Somewhere, from far overhead came a shrill whine, which only increased in pitch ...

... as the artillery shell exploded behind him. Darkness swallowed him, and he seemed aloft in weightlessness. The feeling went on for an eternity, the screams around him, muffled. He found himself sitting, staring forward, as if his eyes never closed in the first place. A shrieking, flailing, burning body lay in front of him, the feline's screams of agony so loud they breached the thick wads of cotton that seemed to muffle his deafened ears. A terrible thirst overcame his disoriented body, which ached from the shell's concussive blast.

He turned around to see what happened to the APC he had been marching in front of, the cha-cha-cha of constant machine gun fire drowning out his division's screams and orders. The APC had disappeared, but a smoldering, smoking crater filled with a burned out tracked chassis took its place. Small bits of metal and light grit continued to rain down on him from the smoke filled blue sky. The coyote licked his dry lips, and for the first time realized vomit covered the fur of his chin.

He followed the trail of puke down the front of his shirt, until the harsh, blurred static of pain from his right forearm broke through his shock. Kylson looked down at the shredded, bloody stump; the white gleam of his shattered radius and ulna jutted out like the broken arms of a tuning fork. His right paw was missing, but he still felt a ghost pain of its presence. He tried to flex his ghost paw, and a squirt of blood flew from the ragged stump.

Other soldiers from his division ran past him, firing off bursts from their assault rifles, the dirt around their feet kicking up in small fountains with arms fire. Another chorus of cha-cha-cha, and a few more soldiers dropped; their breathless corpses twitching as their threepenny souls exited, stage left. Someone grabbed the back of Kylson's jacket and hauled him backwards, dirt and blood mashing into the fur of his precious tail. When his ass bounced on the rough ground, he puked again, his vision wavering as his traumatized body went into convulsions. The raccoon yanked the coyote back down a embankment, and his squad leader looked down deep into his unfocused light green eyes with beautiful, crystal blue ones, checking his vitals.

"MEDICCCCC!!!!!," Micheal screamed out, his shrill voice breaking as it tried to overcome all the explosions of artillery fire around him. As his squad leader looked down at him again, Kylson wondered if this handsome, masked face would be the last one he would ever see before the reaper came to claim him ...

The sound of shattering glass snapped Kylson out of his daze, and he looked down to the broken picture on the floor. He looked at his partial cyberarm, which trembled continuously. Time for that electrical diagnostic he kept putting off, now six years overdue. The skoon poked his head into the den, a fork loaded with noodles halfway up to his muzzle.

"Hey, pal ... you okay there? I didn't mean to upset you." the hybrid said while carrying in the Styrofoam box. He glanced at the other pictures still hanging on the wall. Basil nodded to one of Kylson in a cot, green eyes wide with the unexpected flash of a camera. His squad leader grinned back to the camera, the procyonid sitting comfortably close to the surprised canine.

"I take it that is Micheal then?" the mercenary asked, talking another bite from the leftover container.

"Yeah ..." Kylson replied, the world around him fading away again, the humid jungle air creeping into his ...

_... semi-private tent. One good thing about being a recent causality, a soldier got some small measure of alone time, until the field pysch and medic gave their squad leader the green light to throw them back into the grinder. It was cooler that night than it had been since he came back from the M.A.S.H. unit two nights ago, proud owner of a brand-new-fresh-of-the-shelf OCP C-12RA cybernetic arm. The coyote looked up from his paperback of "Mona Lisa Overdrive" when he heard someone enter his tent.

"Hey ... Chrome Coyote," Micheal laughed, as he waltzed in and sat down in the empty cot next to Kylson. The fit and muscular coyote sat up on an elbow and gave his squad leader a pained expression.

"Is that what the squad is calling me now?" the canine bemoaned. "That's the lamest callsign I've ever heard of ..." The raccoon gave a voracious grin, shuffling an empty clip between his dexterous paws._

"Are you kidding?" Micheal said, putting the empty clip back into a shirt pocket. "I'd give my right arm for a name like that. So, how did the butchers of the 12th M.A.S.H. treat you?" Kylson threw the paperback on his cot at the raccoon, who ducked it with little effort on his part.

"Come closer and you'll experience them for yourself," the coyote laughed. Despite the good natured threat, the raccoon jumped up and slid over to sit on the edge of Kylson's cot. The curious procyonid ran a paw over the smooth metallic sheath of the new prosthetic, and the canine found it difficult to hide his slight tremble. While the raccoon's attention focused on his alloyed paw, the coyote took the time to admire his squad leader.

His light green eyes took in the shape of the cute, prefect button nose. His gaze walked up Micheal's muzzle to the well groomed black and tan mask of his face fur, and then drifted down to his lean, chiseled body, the toned muscle pressing tight against his camouflage BDU's. Despite the overlaying odor of gun oil and dried sweat, the racoon's natural scent stirred something, something deep inside him ...

Kylson realized he had fallen for his squad leader.

"They did good work," Micheal observed, before letting go of the arm, "You're lucky you know, thats the latest model, synthetic myomer instead of servo's. Less maintenance they say." Kylson continued to look up into the raccoon's crystal blue eyes in thrall, speechless. "Hey, 'yote, is everything okay," Micheal asked, his brow furrowing in light concern.

"Hey, corporal, thanks for dragging me off the front line," Kylson fumbled out, trying desperately to hide his arousal underneath his sheet.

"I'm not going to lose you ..." Micheal said, placing a gentle paw on Kylson's shoulder, "... not in this war ... not ever ..." The coyote's muzzle lips trembled a bit as the paw lingered on his shoulder. He felt his resistance to those beautiful, crystal eyes crumble, and before he realized it, his body leaned forward, ever so slightly, toward his squad leader's soft muzzle lips ...

Before he could make contact, however, Micheal turned to a sudden shuffle of the tent flap entrance, and the surprised coyote got a glimpse of one of his squad mates holding a camera up to his muzzle, moments before a bright flash filled his world ...

Basil grabbed another picture off the wall and looked down at it. In it, Micheal and Kylson stood together outside Fort Rekall, back in the reestablished Northwest Territories, their BDU's swapped for full military dress and combat medals earned in VSA. While Micheal draped his arm around Kylson's shoulders, grinning into the camera, the stocky, muscular coyote gave a blank, emotionless expression, the camera flash bouncing off the cold, chrome colored optics sitting in Kylson's eye sockets.

"So ... if this Micheal meant so much to you," Basil began, peering over to the short canine with curious eyes, "how come there aren't any more pictures of you together after this?" Kylson grabbed the picture and stared deep into it. A maelstrom of feelings, emotions, surged through him. His gut clenched tight, the color of the world around him draining from his vision. Even as he assured himself that it was just the wavelength receptors of his optics frizzing out, the phantasmal, cyclic chorus of the twin Vulcan auto cannons ...

_... beat into his head with earsplitting pain. A series of bright, multicolored flashes splashed across his retinas, the rest of his vision burned away into a black, vague haze. The backs of his eyes tingled as the whirling, blurring barrels spat out their twin hoses of cyclic auto fire, spent casings spilling from their ammo bins like miniature, bass waterfalls.

The coyote closed his eyelids, but the pulsing, throbbing strobes of muzzle fire remained. He sank to his knees, paws flying to his ears, attempting to muffle, hide from the world shaking whine of the turreted, assault weapon on the half track only two meters away. A set of familiar paws latched onto his shoulder, hauling him back. Kylson couldn't hear the screams of Micheal over the thumps and nearby explosions of guerrilla mortar fire, but he knew the raccoon was calling for retreat. The ambush came from out of nowhere, on a by the numbers patrol, but in the few brief moments he witnessed of the trap, he watched in stark horror as half his patrol's ranks fell to tactical, well planned bursts of concealed fire._

As the acrid odor of spent ammo clogged his nostrils, Kylson stumbled blindly forward, his squad leader half pushing, half dragging him along. The ground underneath his hind paws abruptly disappeared, and the coyote pitched forward, limps flailing about. After crashing through a thin layer of vines and thick bush, he landed with his left arm underneath him, and it twisted around at the elbow. Kylson yelped out in agony, and he flipped over on his back into a bed of slick mud, the wet earth oozing up around his body. The coyote cradled his sprained joint close to his chest as soft whimpers escaped his trembling muzzle lips, his sightless green eyes staring up at nothing.

He listened to the gunfight above for what felt like an eternity, unable to crawl out of the muddy pit he found himself in, and unsure how he would navigate the jungle terrain once he got out. Sporadic, thick raindrops continued to fall down from the overcast sky, occasionally splashing on his square, sensitive nose. The canine remained motionless, fear hitching in his lungs, waiting for a guerrilla to walk by, and aim his assault rifle down into the pit.

He wouldn't even be able to see it coming.

After a while, the gunfire died down, and the mortar fire ceased. Kylson's breathing evened out, and he eased into his mud cushion. The canine's metal paw groped about in the area around him, but he couldn't feel if the gush between his artificial digits was that of more mud, or the splattered guts of his squad leader.

"Kylson?" Micheal's soft voice mumbled next to him.

"W... where are we?" the coyote stammered, trying to keep quiet. He licked his muzzle lips, but the pain of his elbow and fear of being discovered gave him cotton muzzle. His eyes still itched, and his ears felt like they were bleeding.

"An old foxhole I think. An ambush point the guerrillas don't use anymore. I think we'll be safe here until they move out."

"Micheal," Kylson said, his heart skipping a few beats, "are we ..."

"Whats left?" His squad leader finished. There was a brief moment of silence. "Yeah. I think so. The half track got taken out by a mortar round. That trap was too well planned out to be simple a simple guerrilla operation. I think they contracted out mercenary consultants."

"But ... how could the Venezuelan opposition afford that kind of collateral? The NCC has had control of all their oil fields for months now."

"I don't know. Maybe they didn't like the sweep and clear of the last two villages we went through." Micheal replied. "Maybe we went too far, and got the attention of a third party. Right now all I care about is getting back to HQ in one piece. When its time, do you think you can crawl out?"

"I ... think so ... " the canine replied, his words uncertain.

"How are your eyes?" the raccoon asked, a little worried. Kylson suddenly broke into tears, heavy sobs racking his tight chest.

"Kylson ... what ... what's the matter?" The coyote felt the mud near him shift a bit as the raccoon leaned over him, his paws flying to the coyote's cheeks. Salty tears slid over the nimble, slender procyonid paws from sightless eyes.

"I ... cant even feel you right now," the 'yote said as he slid his metallic, unfeeling digits through Michaels facial masked fur, "but ... oh Gods Micheal! I'm never going to ever see you again!" The coyotes sobs deepened, his chest pitching even more. Kylson felt Micheal lean down, his muzzle whiskers brushing against the canine's square nose.

"Shhhh ... its going to be alright ..."

"No! No Micheal ... it's not!" the coyote cried out softly. "I'm never going to see that masked face of yours again! That ... beautiful face ..." Micheal stopped breathing, but for a moment.

And then locked muzzle lips with the coyote.

The coyote gasped, the sensation of his squad leaders soft lip's pressing against his own caught him momentarily off guard. His sharp intake of air slipped past their intertwined muzzle, before Kylson eased into his bed of mud, his fur matted with the slick earth. As the canine wrapped his good arm around his raccoon friend, his comrade, their muzzle parted, their wet, soft tongues dancing with each other. Kylson forgot where he was. He forgot the war. And even for a brief, sacred moment, he forgot about the mass graves he helped his squad dig in the last two clean and sweep operations.

All that mattered, was the here and now.

Michael's paws slid down the broad chest of the squat 'yote, past his taught, hard stomach, and fumbled ... yes fumbled ... for the buttons of his BDU pants. The raccoon panted a bit through their locked muzzles, his fiery arousal mixed with the breaths they shared. Kylson sucked in a sharp inhale of air as a slick, muddy paw grasped his hardness, already spilling from his furry sheath. His squad leader's paw stroked gently, the mud coating the sensitive flesh of his member, before pulling it free from the confines of the canine's pants. Micheal tore his lips from the coyote, before biting down his muscular chest, past his trembling stomach fur.

Kylson groaned out as the racoon's warm, enveloping muzzle lips encircled him. The coyote whimpered a bit as Micheal's omnivorous teeth scraped slightly against the sides of his canine cock, sending a small spurt of pre into his commander's muzzle. His squad leader's lips sank down to the root of his sheath, where they touched the mud matted fur there. Kylson's member hilted Micheal's warm, saliva slicked muzzle, where the raccoon ran his bumpy tongue under the base of the coyote's tapered glands. The mechanic's metallic paw grasped at the mud around him as soft moans escaped his slightly parted muzzle lips, before he brought the prosthetic up to grip his commander's head fur, mashing the slick earth into it.

Micheal's muzzle pulled off Kylson's canine shaft a bit, before sliding back down once again. The coyote's hips arched up to meet his commander's black lips as they drove down on his thick meat, the raccoon's button nose pressing deep into the his musky pubic fur. As the squad leader's head bobbed up and down on his comrade's cock, Kylson whimpered out, his eager hips bucking up to meet his superior's gentle rhythm. When Micheal felt Kylson's knot base start to swell, he gently pulled his muzzle off, thick strands of clay mixed spit connecting his muzzle with the rock hard 'yote shaft only a centimeter away from his quivering nose.

No words were necessary.

Micheal gentle paws gripped Kylson's camouflage jacket, flipping him over. Kylson gave a short bark of pain as his bad arm jolted slightly, but otherwise pulled his muddy rump up, his knees sinking deep into the thick mud. His chest shoved the bed of wet clay apart, his muzzle threating to disappear into the muck. Micheal's paws yanked his subordinate's BDU pants down to his knees, and the coyote's tail flopped against his bare furry ass, weighed down with all the mud mashed into the bushy tail. Kylson rolled his soiled muzzle out of the muck, his hot pants making small ripples in the semi-solid clay there. His perked ears caught the sound a pair of impatient paws fumbling with a military buckle, before falling to the mire underneath them with a soft splat.

When the slick tip of his squad leader's shaft pressed against the cleft of his furry cheeks, a slow exhale of satisfaction slid out from between Kylson's muzzle lips. The Specialist couldn't think of anything else he wanted so much than this, right now. As one of the Lance Corporal's paws gripped the fur of Kylson's hip, the other inserted two mud coated digits deep into his tail hole, and the coyote groaned out in pleasure as the probing paw tips rubbed gently across his prostrate. When the paw tips left his slicked tail hole, Kylson gave a whine of protest. It was short lived however, as the tip of Micheal's shaft pressed against the loosened, muscular ring of his pucker. The tip sank in almost at once, the coyote's tail ring stretching to accommodate the raccoon's girth, flexing around it in instinct, and both soldiers moaned out in quiet ecstasy.

Micheal drove his hips forward, but his knees slipped in the muck, and he collapsed on top of the Specialist, spearing his mechanic's tight, hot bowels. The force shoved the coyote forward, driving him deeper into the clay, and when he opened his muzzle to howl out, mud oozed into it, stifling his cry of pleasure. Micheal pulled back on Kylson's hips, and the canine slid free from suction of the earthen mire with a low slurp. Kylson spat out a muzzle full of mud as Micheal withdrew slightly, before thrusting in deep again, liquid clay lubing the length of the coyote's clenched fuck hole. Kylson yipped softly with each deep thrust, his commander's prick spreading apart his sensitive insides until the raccoon worked all of his thick meat into the coyote's bowels.

Micheal bucked into Kylson again, arching his thrust to grind hard into the canine's throbbing prostrate. Micheal already felt the familiar stirring deep within his furry sacs, churning with thick, molten procyonid seed. The 'coon reached around the 'yote's hips and wrapped a slick paw around Kylson's pulsing, tapered shaft. As Micheal worked his deft digits down till his paw pads gripped the swollen orb of the coyote's knot, Kylson thrashed backwards, driving his squad leader's thick prick deeper and deeper inside him.

Sizzling pre churned with frigid mud in the coyote's tight heat.

Their mud slicked, furry bodies undulated in sensual rhythm, rocking, groaning in the clay bog. Micheal's other paw grabbed Kylson's scruff and yanked backward, forcing the canine's hips to angle so that the raccoon felt even more of what his soldier had to offer . The coyote yipped in short series as climax approached; and his commander's strong paw bore down on his swollen knot, simulating a tie.

With a grunt, the squad leader's fiery cum hosed down his mechanic's quivering insides, yanking back hard on the coyote's scruff. The combination of the vice around his knot and the harsh yank on his scruff proved too much for the bitch underneath, and his shaft pulsed once, twice, before thick ropes of white, viscous 'yote cum splashed into the boggy, frigid mud underneath them. They rode out their mutual climax, the only one whey would ever share, until Micheal collapsed on top of Kylson. They panted for a long time, mud oozing up around their intertwined forms, until the raccoon whispered into the coyote's bleeding ear.

"I'm never going to lose you."

"Ever."

But even as he studied the picture in his paws with emotionless, chrome colored optics, the coyote realized he had lost his squad commander the moment the cyber-surgeons ripped out his dead, useless eyes from his skull. When the replacement Cyberdyne optics first blinked on, and the static from his field of vision cleared, Kylson couldn't help but feel as though he watched the outside world through a set of miniature cameras. Everything seemed so ... distant.

Even Micheal.

His squad leader took him out to small corner pubs a few times after they got back home from VSA, but the change in Kylson was too great, and they soon drifted apart. The years rolled on, blurred as Kylson watched the world pass by in his theater chair, his camera eyes capturing the images, but not the essence. That vital spark was left behind in VSA, buried in mass graves alongside the unrealized dreams of village children.

But it was too late now. Micheal was nothing more now than a rigid corpse on a frigid morgue slab somewhere at the downtown precinct. If the coyote ever had the opportunity to love, it was gone now. The silicon myomers of his paw clenched, his pent up anger, rage flaring outward, shattering the repressed emotional barrier of latent shell shock. The picture in Kylson's paws exploded in shards of glass, and Basil covered his purple eyes from the flying fragments.

"Hey! What was that about?" the skoon barked, "You mental or something?" Kylson's paw relaxed, and a rain of glass fell down to the carpet, along side a broken frame, a crumpled photo, and a holo-vid disk. The hybrid mercenary knelt down and carefully picked it up, examining the label.

'Simulation and Simulacra'

Kylson blinked down, his emotional outburst drained away just as fast as it had come. Why was there a holo-vid disk hidden away like that? What did it contain? Why stick it in THAT particular picture, the last one taken of Micheal and himself together? It didn't make sense. None of this did. He didn't seem to be any closer to figuring out who killed Micheal, and why they wanted to frame him for it, than when he started.

"This is the research I was sent here to recover," Basil said with a grin, sliding the disk into one of his leather vest pockets.

"Hey, hold on there Sato," Kylson growled out, his muzzle lips curling up in a snarl, "Micheal died over what that disk contained, and it has something to do with me, I want to know what's on it."

"Hey, you don't know that," the skoon replied, smiling down to the stocky coyote, "besides, this is AMR classified data, we don't have the access code to unlock its encryption."

"Fine. Whatever. But I still want some answers, and your not leaving this apartment ..." Max interrupted the coyote in mid sentence, although Kylson kept talking over the lion's synthesized voice.

"Incoming c-c-call from Mr. Yohanson."

"Pickup." Basil replied, shutting his eyes, trying to block out the yammering, obstinate coyote.

"Hey don't you ignore ..." Kylson continued, but the Jr. Executive was already rambling on. Basil wondered how the dingo knew he just recovered the disk only moments before.

"Hey! Ace job there Bitzer!"

"Save the small talk. What do I do with it now?"

"Seems Mr Tall Poppy himself, Dr Tyrell came back from his trip early. He wants you to deliver it to him at the 'Sizzler at the corner of Thirty St. and Burchan Ave. ..."

"Max, hangup," Basil growled, and the line in his ear piece clicked dial tone, silencing the corporate sleaze.

"Hey, weren't you listening to me?" Kylson said as he stepped up into Basil's personal space, their muzzle's only centimeters apart.

"Chill there Wile E." the skoon said, frowning down at the coyote. "I just got word my father wants me to get this disk to him ASAP."

"Your ... father?" Kylson said, stepping back and frowning back at the gene spliced hybrid, "You want to explain that one to me?"

"The one who created me, Chimpira," Basil said as he turned to leave, "He's the one who has the encryption codes to unlock whats on this disk. If your still want your answers then you'll have to come with." The canine stepped in front of the skoon, blocking his way to the door.

"Hold on there, if we're going anywhere, we need a decent set of wheels. That crotch rocket I saw you drive past with may be fast, but we're going against furs who have access to police grade weapons and equipment. We need something a bit more durable ..."

"What did you have in mind?" Basil asked with a quizzical look ...

Half an hour later the pair pulled up on Basil's speed bike to a ramshackle mechanic's shop on the western edge of Glow City's radiated sprawl. It was now four o'clock in the morning, and the faintest hint of pink sky broke through the rainy overcast to the far east. A rusty chain link fence, mostly eaten away from the constant acid rain, ran the perimeter of the junkyard next to the shop. Crumbling blocks of old style concrete comprised the dreary warehouse's exterior, covered with rust seepage from rain off the shop's patchwork tin roof. What remained of the business sign proclaimed: 'Mad Max's Trans-Axle's and Terrors'.

"What are we doing at this dump?" Basil said as Kylson got off the bike and opened up one of the overhead garage doors with a key. The door slid up with rusty protest, and Basil and Kylson walked inside the darkened garage. The coyote flipped on a switch, and a few banks of overhead florescent lights flickered and hummed to life. A modified dune buggy chassis sat in front of them, in a 'creative' state of assembly, still up on its jack. One door hung off on the passenger side by a few spot welded hinges. Two other doors, mostly welded pieces of cobbled scrap sheet metal, covered the sides of the extended cab. The front bumper was held to the chassis with barbed wire, spit, and a prayer to the Gods.

"Picking up Toecutter, of course." The mechanic got down on a knee and started attaching the missing wheel to its axle. Basil looked down under the vehicle and noticed the standing pool of old motor oil. Somehow he didn't think the slick was deliberate, nor was it going to cause any mercenary spy ninjas in close pursuit to spin out of control anytime soon. "There's a rack on the back if you want to stow your bike," Kylson said, putting the lug nuts into place. By the time Basil brought back his motorcycle and attached to the cargo rack, Kylson was already in the drivers seat, flipping a series of switches.

"You're not serious about driving this scrapyard reject down actual 'plex streets are you?" Basil said as he jumped into the passenger seat and gave the coyote a worried look

"Hey, three out of four doors ain't bad!" The coyote grinned back over the console between them, and a turbine under the cargo rack fired up with a flick of a switch, the whine and rumble echoing in the spacious hold of the grimy garage. Basil's keen nose curled as he sniffed the exhaust fumes billowing around them from the turbine seated just behind them.

"Is that ... pig shit?" Basil asked, taken a bit off guard, "I thought pigs were endangered because of the NAS-Viral epidemic. Where did you find real pigs?"

"I know a guy over in Australia by the name of Master Blaster, he runs a place called Bartertown." Kylson smiled. "You can get anything there."

"Can you get ... bacon there?" the skoon asked, dead serious. The coyote shot him a weird look before gunning throttle, and the buggy peeled out of the garage, heading back into the neon heart of downtown Glow City.

Half and hour later they pulled into a fairly empty parking lot next to an upscale steak house. Some of the overhead lights had turned off with the creep of dawn, creating intermittent pools of shadows along the lot. Kylson pulled the buggy into one and shut off the turbine, the overheated engine clicking as the morning dew condensed on it. The constant downpour seemed to taper off into a fine drizzle, and a bank of gray mist hung in the moist air just a a meter above the lot's wet asphalt. Kylson unbuckled himself, and was about to get out before Basil put a paw on his shoulder.

"Reese, better let me handle this solo. Tyrell doesn't know you, and if he thinks I was brought here against my will, he wont unlock the encryption on the disk." The skoon mercenary said. "My father has always been a secretive ocelot." The coyote gave him a stern look.

"How do I know you'll share the info that you recover?" the suspicious canine replied, his brow furrowing. The hyrbid flashed him a sharp grin and hopped out of the buggy, making his way across the lot. Kylson leaned back into his bucket seat and let out a weary sigh. He hadn't slept in over eighteen hours, and the shock of tonight's tragic events suddenly hit him. He closed his eyelids and without realizing it, fell asleep. Little did either of them know thirty meters away in a bank of hedges on the edge of the lot, a pair of slender and feminine skunk paws snapped off the safety to a covert-ops submachine gun.

Wetwork in Motion.

Basil meanwhile strolled his merry way to the entrance of the steakhouse. As he opened the heavy oak doors, the light bustle of wait staff and light chatter of late night businessmen greeted his keen ears. The immediate seating area was almost empty, and he stood next to the reservation desk until a female cougar showed up, her head fur a little disheveled.

"Do you have a reservation this morning?" the feline asked, smoothing out the wrinkles of her white blouse and black slacks.

"No, I'm looking for a Mr. Tyrell." Basil asked, looking around. Something didn't seem quite right, but he couldn't place a paw tip on it. "I was supposed to meet him here for an exchange." The cougar blinked, stared at the hybrid for a moment, then nodded her head.

"Oh yeah. He just showed up. He's at the other end of the private serving area, booth thirty four." Basil's purple eyes locked on her bloodshot amber ones, before he simply nodded and moved on, leaving the wage slave zombie to her graveyard shift. He made his way through the upper crust restaurant, his gene-spliced heightened senses suddenly on edge. As he passed the bar, he noticed it was abandoned, even though three Asian businessmen laughed and caroused with each other, empty drinks in paw. Basil passed several tables with half eaten meals, their aromas still fresh and warm, and his hackles raised a bit as he entered the private serving area.

When he spotted the old, wrinkled ocelot in fine business attire, he gave a slow exhale of relief. As he approached the feline, however, Tyrell looked up with bloodshot, drugged eyes over the rim of his thick bifocals. Basil halted, frozen in his tracks, the situation going from unsettling to deadly in less than a slotting millisecond. When the aged ocelot spoke, his words came out with in a thin wheeze, a slow tear falling from dilated, saucer like eyes.

The wide eyes of a fur about to die.

"Everything ... is disposable ... Mr. Raies. Even you ..."

Outside, the war veteran's body twitched in the drivers seat, his nightmares filled with the screams of burning children and wails of anguished mothers. The buggy suddenly rocked to one side as the steakhouse exploded into a huge fireball, flaming debris raining down from above. Kylson shot up in his seat, his eyes wide, unsure if the timed bursts of close proximity submachine gun fire was phantasmal or real. The shock wave hurled something heavy and smoldering into the windshield in front of him, which exploded inward, showering him in shards of broken glass. His paw tips trembled on the steering wheel, his optics unfocused, visions of VSA springing to life before them.

War had returned, and the casualties were already mounting.

~ Fin Part III ~

What does the disk contain, and why is the mercenary corporation AMR willing to kill Basil to hide its contents? Why was Kylson's squad leader murdered over data contained within, and why did he hook up with AMR after VSA? All this and more in Part IV - Of Wetwork and Wickerman