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I took a few seconds longer than I'd wanted to, staring at Johnny's appearance. When he shifted a little on his hindpaws, I came back to myself, holding my expression neutral. I unlocked the door and ushered him into his apartment, following in without any invitation beyond our history as lovers. He pulled off his jacket, hanging it carefully in its customary place. I closed and locked the door securely, putting his keys on their hook nearby. When I turned to look at him -- he was still clad only in his filthy BDU dungarees -- I saw his upper body more fully, watching the way he moved. It was clear that his ribs were bruised; from the way he held himself, I could tell that he'd taken a helluva beating. On the heels of that thought came the old phrase, You should see the other guy. I suppressed a shudder.

The silence stretched. Johnny stood utterly still, neither ears nor tail twitching a centimeter. I had a variety of options to try handling this situation, none of them particularly good. I tried for something neutral. "Good to see you, Johnny."

"Thanks."

Another few moments. "How're you doing?"

He turned to look at me, his forepaws still limp at his sides. "Doin' good, Abram. Fucking fantastic. Speaking of which..."

With a leer that couldn't reach the places on his muzzle that were injured, he popped off his trousers quickly, kicked them out of his way, left them on the floor. He was already starting to peek out of his sheath as he moved toward me.

"I think I owe you something."

I placed a very gentle palm to his chest, managing to get his attention. "You need to get cleaned up, kit." A facsimile of a smile appeared on my muzzle. "C'mon, we've done this before. Let's make some foreplay out of it."

Johnny attempted to grin at me; his muzzle did its best to cooperate. "Your clothes'll get soaked."

"Not if I take them off."

"Now you're talkin'."

I took as much time as I dared, given what I could glean of his mental state. I had no idea how he could be in that physical condition and still be horny. I followed his lead and let clothes fall where they would. Johnny practically pulled me into the bathroom, where he climbed into the shower with only the slightest grimace on his muzzle. He was one of those guys who could stand there and turn on the water, putting up with the cold blast until the hot water kicked in. I stayed outside of the tub; it was too small for both of us. When the water reached an appropriate temperature, I helped get his fur properly doused, then got the fur soap onto my forepaws to begin cleaning him up. It also allowed me to make a closer inventory of his injuries.

The kit had been in a helluva fight. I had already seen how his face had taken a beating, and his chest and belly showed signs as well. As I squatted on my haunches, I took inventory of cuts and bruising consistent with scratches and pummeling by aggressive hindpaws. His own hindpaws showed small droplets of blood on his fur; if anything had been on his claws, padding through the streets had taken it off of them. I was careful not to rub the muscles too much, unsure what might be too sore to benefit from it. Johnny gave no particular cue to whatever pain he was in, and he let me wash him front and back without assistance or hurry. I rinsed out his fur carefully, readied his towels and the wall blowers, helped him dry off. His wounds were sufficiently scabbed that they didn't reopen or weep. I continued to treat him as tenderly as he would allow. The combination of the blowers and towels made quick work, as usual.

"Clean enough for fucking?" he asked as I put the towels onto their racks again.

"Is that what you want?"

"Always worth coming home for."

He had approached from behind as I hung the towel. He wrapped his arms around me, pulled me close to him, making sure that I felt his swollen member near my tail. I swiftly weighed my options, again finding none that was truly satisfactory. I hesitated to use even the simplest magic on him, as I'd done before -- lowering the heart rate and respiration very slightly, to help calm him. In this case, I felt that his adrenaline must be pumping by the bucketload, and trying to reign that in might actually do more harm than good. From what I could tell, he seemed amped enough not to feel his injuries.

I prepared myself, mentally and physically, and took him to bed. The coupling was frenzied, fast, without even a pretense of knowing who I was. When finished, he rolled off of me, onto his back. At that point, my uppermost feeling was of wanting to shower, give my mind space to heal, put some distance between us for a while. I watched him as he regained his breath, as he released himself from the grip of his adrenaline rush. Masks began to fall from his face; as he approached sleep, his face registered pain, perhaps from his wounds, perhaps otherwise. Finally, in the strange way that he had, he passed into oblivion.

After maneuvering out of bed, I padded my way to the bathroom and took a long shower, shaking out my tails, giving myself plenty of time to think. I had withstood far more brutal attacks, in terms of physical assaults; what had disturbed me was the utter lack of recognition, the sense that I was unknown, an object to be taken, a thing to be used. He had retained some sense of passive connection when in the shower -- I had the sense that he took it as submissive adoration -- but he was completely isolated during the act itself. Separate, uncaring... conquering.

The word made me blink. I turned off the shower, considering, feeling over what had happened. Drying off, I knew that I was coming to a decision, and it was not one to be made lightly. I had developed deep feelings for Johnny, and I had some idea of what I was letting myself in for. I had been prepared for the likelihood of his slipping back into old behaviors; I hadn't been prepared for the severity of the fall, nor for being so soundly pushed away, emotionally. I still wanted to help him, and I would need information from him in order to do it. He was outside of words, whether asleep or awake. Hiding my extra tails again, I made the choice and returned to bed.

His sleep was profound. The usual cliché would joke that he wouldn't hear a bomb going off; in his case, he probably would respond to that ahead of anything else. I had seen him in this state before, and I knew that he would be too deep in sleep to wake from dreaming. Night terrors were coming, and that was when I would act. I took some time to review my decision yet again, staring at the ceiling, the usual issues of wondering if I were acting in Johnny's best interests or mine. The usual lies and conceits rallied forces, convincing me of the rightness of my actions. The elder part of me knew better; he stayed quiet, simply watching, waiting for me to learn what I needed to learn.

I felt Johnny's body twitch, and I turned my head to look at him. His eyes darted under closed lids, his breathing quickened, and I saw his legs beginning to shake. It looked to be a bad one; ironically, that would make things easier for me. I got back out of the bed, to give him room to thrash if he needed it. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I closed my eyes and moved myself into his dreaming mind.

The first image confused me. A small, dark enclosure; hot, humid, close; two bodies, partially clothed in BDUs, the leopard penetrating the fox, above him, muzzle to muzzle; soft sounds, grunting, panting; a feeling of anticipation; the fox, his hindpaws pressing against the cat's chest, gripping the leopard's shirt to pull him down into the kiss that he nearly folded himself in half to complete. A sudden trembling, a sense of climax, a sound--

Stealth in steaming jungle. A hut, seen from outside. No movement within. A swift series of images, three canine throats slit open with rapid, silent, surgical precision. Sire, dam, bitch... and a sound from a small cot. The image slowed, painfully clear, looking down at the tiny yowen. A soft voice: Too young to live without your dam's milk. The small pup carried out of the cot, placed against the bloodied bare breast, trying to suckle. The sense of waiting long moments, then the removal of the pup from his last meal, held up by his headfur as the blade slashed once more. The pup was kissed reverently on the lips before being returned to his dam's breast.

Flashing return to the two soldiers, then back to another hut, more deaths, more throats cut open, more carnage, over and over, some impossibly gory, the incidents of memory being overwritten by emotion. Through it all, the flash of that moment between the soldiers kept recurring, incongruous, out of place, the recurring flicker of a moment that had no connection to the rest.

Fighting. Bare-knuckle fights. Hard punches, fast, precise, roundhouse kicks, flashing paws both fore and aft. One opponent at a time, but the faces and features before his sight changed rapidly, a rogues gallery review of a short, powerful career of extreme violence. In his dreaming, Johnny exaggerated the results of his attacks, the grotesquerie of blood and physical sensation that shouldn't be part of ordinary dreaming or even night terrors.

I could sense the cycle returning yet again, and I withdrew myself from his mind. Inhaling deeply, I opened my eyes and considered, watching the twitching and thrashing slow and, eventually, stop. He was done with that round, at least. I, on the other paw, had to decide what I would do next.

When I rose, I found myself shaky; considering things, that was no real surprise. I made a quick study of Johnny's stash of clozapine, finding a full bottle from a recent refill and another bottle still about half full. His refrigerator had a modest amount of beer, nothing to indicate bingeing. There were a few items that were past their prime, and I made short work of getting rid of them. I dressed, wrote a note for him to call me, and left the apartment, locking up with my own key. I considered waking Lily, across the hall, but I let her sleep. It was too early in the morning to burden her with all this.

A small diner that was on my way home stayed open 24/7, and I ordered two breakfasts; they were astonished when I finished eating both, then asked for a waffle for dessert. All that, plus coffee, finally sated me. It was still dark out when I left and made it back home, far less wired from the coffee than I would ordinarily be.

Alone in my own city-dweller's demesne, I took off my clothes, shook out my tails, breathed deeply, padded into my workroom. There, a mandala decorated one wall. It provided a mental touch-point during my working hours and, at times like this, a focus for my meditation. I'm able to reach my deep state quickly (decades of practice), and I gave myself over to the healing space of No-Thought. I roused myself later, finding that over half an hour had passed. It was enough. I was finally able to get to bed and sleep. I don't remember my dreams from that night, which might have been a mercy.

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

Johnny called two days after all this happened. He spoke as if nothing was different, no problems, when do you want to come over again? I asked casually how his wounds were doing, and he brushed it aside with the comment that he was feeling fine, no problems, how about tonight? I suggested the next night instead, saying that I wasn't feeling well. In the brief silence that followed, I felt a change, even over the wires.

"Oh," he said. "I guess tomorrow's okay."

"You'll be okay tonight?"

"I'll find somethin' to do."

"I'm sure you will."

He rang off without saying anything further. Enacting a cliché, I held on to the handset for a few more moments before putting it back in the cradle. I must, after all, have the occasional nod to drama; when, as the Bard put it, "all the world's a stage," it seems churlish not to do the occasional bit of performing, even if only for oneself.

The mannerism is one of reflection, pondering one's next steps, which was precisely what I was doing. I felt certain that Johnny's "finding something to do" was likely to be more of what had gotten him so beaten up. It was possible that it was some random street violence, perhaps even a fight started by the other party. Given all that he had told me about his experiences, however, and what I had seen in his dreams, I had a good idea of what had happened. It was what he had said when he saw me at the door to his apartment: It's good to be back.

It might have been possible to follow him, depending upon when he left his apartment; given how he managed to creep up on me that night, it would have been difficult without "tagging" him, and I'd have to do that by being close enough to touch him. Before you ask, yes, I could probably have located him mentally and transported myself to his location. Such magic is possible, and it also costs a great deal of energy, not to mention making waves of force in the world that could attract all sorts of unwanted attention. It seemed more prudent to take up the mantle of Holmes And Company, reasoning it out and working backward.

Like anyone living so many lives, I had my share of identities and glamours to suit them. I made my way down to the seedier section of the city. More famous examples would be the Tenderloin, Hell's Kitchen, a dozen different monikers. Getting the information I needed was easier than I thought; I ended up with an embarrassment of riches. Bare-knuckle fights were popular in that place and time, venues plenty. My best chance of finding Johnny was to pick the one with the most violence, highest risk, therefore the most covert. The sum of the stories told of a large building in the warehouse district and a showtime late into the evening. I went home to gather myself and prepare for what the night would show me.

Most people passing by (if they even had ventured so deeply into the maze of warehouses) would see a building that looked to be abandoned, though still secure. Two large bovines served as bouncers, and a compact bull terrier chomped an unlit cigar, overseeing what sort of customers were fit to be allowed in. I took on a weasel-like glamour, one known by some of my less reputable contacts. I dropped a name, made an insinuation, cajoled and wheedled a little, and finally was let in.

The smell hit me first, even before the roar of the crowd, perhaps 150 or so. The air was hot and thick with the stench of sweaty bodies, male musk, the chlorine scent of semen, the coppery aroma of blood. Shouting, stomping, chants of names and specific, violent actions echoed off the walls. Although there were some lights above the crowd, the majority of fiery bright lights were focused on a space further into the warehouse. I pushed my way through the bodies until I could get a clearer look at what was happening.

Ropes tied to wooden posts made the approximation of a boxing ring; I couldn't tell if it were regulation size, but I doubted anyone here would have cared. Within it, a wiry Doberman danced around a well-formed rottweiler, both stripped to the fur, both sweating, grunting, showing signs of damage both current and recent. Punches were thrown, kicks made, some connecting with great force. The dobie dropped to one knee, rolled to avoid another attack, got back to his hindpaws quickly enough to mount a return attack with some vicious punches to the rottie's jaw and belly. I heard numbers being shouted, dimly realizing that odds were being adjusted, bets placed. Even in Bedlam, someone has to make a buck.

As I looked along the walls of the space, I saw that others had found ways to make some cash in a more old-fashioned way. Crates were set up to give certain viewers a better look at the violence in the ring. They also provided sufficient height for hustlers to service those viewers who enjoyed their vicarious mayhem with a dose of sexual gratification. A greater, truer demonstration of capitalism, I cannot imagine.

The noise changed with the shifting fortunes within the ring. The rottie and dobie were still giving the crowd a good show, but it was clear that the dobie had bitten off more than he could chew. Speed and limberness were not a good match for the sheer ability to withstand so much physical punishment over time. There came a point where the dobie fell to the mat and didn't bother to rise again. I could see that he was panting heavily, bleeding a little from his muzzle, perhaps not fully conscious. The crowd began cheering and booing, depending upon whom they had bet their money. There seemed to be no referee or announcer to call an end to the proceedings and, given the shouted chanting from the spectators, I began to see why.

The rottweiler towered over his opponent, fists held high above his head to signal his victory, and he grinned ferociously at the crowd. With a callous gesture, he kicked the Doberman's hindquarters until the dog moved to keep his muzzle to the mat, maneuvering his knees under him, lifting his tail, presenting. The rottie moved into place and made a spectacle of claiming his prize. I saw the dobie's maw open wide, but I couldn't hear his cry over the yelling of the crowd. The act was harsh, fast, finished quickly; I had the idea that the few along the wall succumbed at nearly the same moment. The rottweiler stumbled out of the ring a little drunkenly. Someone had the minimal decency to send a large stallion into the ring to carry the Doberman into the back part of the warehouse where, I hoped, he would be allowed to recover.

"That wasn't much of a surprise."

The comment came from a gruff black panther, middle-aged, dressed in dock-walloper's gear. He had the sort of body that fools mistook for "going to seed"; what might be considered belly flab covered still-strong muscles that could probably take a few punches. I scrunched down, gave him the idea that I might be afraid of him, my glamour helping convey the message even further.

"How'd they get matched up there?"

"Somebody runs the place." The laborer volunteered a grudging shrug. "Keeps the punters betting, wondering if there's a ringer in the works."

I looked around, furtive, nervous, playing the role carefully. "You a regular?"

"Regular enough. Newbie, huh?"

"Heard about this place from... never you mind."

The panther regarded me, chuckled. "You a bettin' sorta guy?"

"S-sometimes."

He looked toward the ring where two new contestants had entered -- a college-aged tiger, lean and solid, and a gray wolf, a few years older and with more meat on his bones. Like the first pair, they were stripped to the fur, and they worked the crowd to get more betting action.

"Those two. Who would you bet on?"

I pretended to give it serious consideration. "The wolf."

"Why?"

"Bigger. Harder."

"And virginal." The panther snorted softly. "I've seen the tiger fight before; the wolf is new, doesn't know what the fight is about."

"Does he know what will happen to him if he loses?"

"Everyone knows that, going in. Part of the attraction. The rest of it is what the purse is worth. Winner gets a cut of the betting."

"Loser?"

"A band-aid and an icepack for his tailhole."

The laborer offered to lay a bet for me, and I gave him a tenner to invest on my behalf. After a match that took less time than the crowd wanted, the tiger claimed his prize; the wolf, to his credit, managed to make his own way out of the ring, if unsteady on his hindpaws. My new friend brought my winnings to me, and I told him to let it ride on the next fight, letting him pick the fighter. He obliged, for that fight and the one after it. I had to pretend to get into the spirit of things, which should have won a few acting awards. Inside my glamour, I was doing my best to keep my gorge from rising and to guard my spirit against the ugliness around me.

When the next fighters came into the ring, the crowd grew even more insane than before. Even the panther cheered wildly before turning to me with a wicked grin on his muzzle. "Not likely to get much action on this bet," he shouted at me over the roar. "The bookies know the favorite."

"The puma, right?" I hollered, knowing I was wrong.

"You'd think so, woodnya? He's strong, half again the body weight." The laborer's grin got nastier as he looked back at the ring. "The fox. 'Nam vet. Story is, he's got a few wires loose. Fights like he's still over there. The punters pay for this round, betting on the opponent. The bookies could jack up the odds like crazy, but they keep 'em low so the newbies think there's still a good chance. I'll take your winnings over to Bennie and--"

The panther glanced at me, blinked, looked around for me. I'd shifted my glamour in favor of another seedy character of mine, a Dalmatian (larger in appearance than the weasel) who was rumored to be a runner for a numbers outfit. I had my back to him, seeming to be counting out cash from a bet, walking slowly away and ignoring him in favor of looking at a the boards for odds on the next fight. He continued to look around for "me," trying to figure out what had happened to his new protégé. Perhaps he was honorable enough to want to pass along the night's winnings. I didn't want them. The night had cost me ten and a whole lot of faith in my fellow furs.

I kept up the act and the glamour long enough to get me outside and around a few corners. After that, I found some back stairs on the nearest building and climbed up to the roof. The gust off the harbor was freshening, cold, crisp. I released the glamour, stripped to the fur, threw the clothes over the side of the building. I felt that I'd never be able to clean them well enough to suit me. The wind helped to take at least some of the stench out of my fur; I could use a glamour to give the appearance of being clothed until I got home, where I would bathe for as long as it took. I wasn't sure it would ever be enough.

...to be continued