One

--Pyra--

This new assignment is totally ridiculous. How does one archive culture? My job's always been straightforward: go to place A, pick op object B or sample Z, escort it back to the Archive, but this! It beggars belief.

"I'm just passing on the assignment, I have no control over them; you know that, right?" Hargreave sits at his desk, his short Rabbit ears twitching annoyedly at my apparent ineptitude. The room is small, under furnished: only his desk (brushed steel), his chair (I think an actual Herman Miller though I'm not sure where he requisitioned it, and it's most certainly been modified to accommodate his Animal features), and the chair I'm sitting in (also brushed metal and a pain in my arse, but at least my tail isn't being squished in) occupy the space. No room for sentimentality or whimsy, not a single photo or certificate on any wall, not even his approval to work as a liaison which most of the others display with pride.

The man himself is a Blue Rex and looks young despite being older than I am by a few years. Maybe Rabbits just stay youthful forever? His fur is soft and a sapphire grey, a bit lighter at the beard on his face. His eyes are solid black, and it's creepy. For whatever reason his didn't change to humanoid eyes during his transformation despite the positioning of them changing to face forward when the rest of his face shifted. The underside of his nose is lighter in colour as well, making him look like a hipster with a goatee. He's thin under his uniform, the same deep blue jacket and trousers we all were requisitioned (has he even heard of "smart casual"? He's always so bloody rigid....), with a little fringe of his tail just visible behind him. And somewhere under this desk he has massive paws because it's a pain for me to avoid them with my hooves (as much as I would like to give him a little nip right now to snap him out of his condescension).

"It's a standing assignment, not a regular one. Just... culture. _Bring_culture for the Archive. That's what WK wants, human culture. Fit it in between the myriad of other shit you've got going on." He looks smug, his whiskers are practically curling up into a smarmy grin. Just because I like my "me" time doesn't mean I don't have things going on (even if I really don't, but he doesn't need to know that).

"Troi," (and I'm trying to be as calm as I can be because right now, I want to punch him in his smug face), "Troi, can you be more specific?" I rest my hands on the table, the champagne fur of my fingers velvet against the stark black nails that at one point were my front hooves before my transformation (it seems to be a common thing with Ungulates, we get black nails like we're goth or emo or something. Now there's a human culture.

"WK wants you to acquire whatever you feel is significant human culture. Whatever isn't in the museums already, obviously since we've got those. I don't know, use your best judgment." A piece of paper the size of a business card materialises on his desk and he hands it to me. From the White Knight to Gleaner Valentin. To be acquired: significant human culture. Assignment standing, when not engaged with other gleaner duties. Deliver to any Sub Rosa satellite or main artery at your convenience. Assignment terminated upon express permission only. Hargreave gives an empathetic shrug, hands at cheek height.

So that's how I got the most infuriating assignment ever. Thanks WK, you idiot computer. Seymour needs to check his circuits or something.... I snap my fingers with intention, not a terrible idea that. It's midday, he's probably still in the lab at the museum, I just wish it was close enough to walk (I hate hiring Ubers) but the middle of London at this time is just not going to be nice to try and get through without a car. Sighing, I take out my mobile and open the app. At least for employees it's been modified to only find other disguised Animals, so no worries if my projector breaks. Seriously with how absolutely brilliant Seymour is, couldn't he have designed something a bit more durable? We have to spend a lot of time outside with the humans and one of these days one of these things is going to fail in the middle of the high street or something and we're all going to get outed. No way to interdict _that_many eyeballs I wouldn't think.

Your driver Antony will arrive in 8 minutes. Ugh,not Tony please... he never shuts his yap! Antony is a middle-aged Golden Retriever who has got to be _the_friendliest driver they have, Animal or not, and bless him, he just doesn't know how to turn it off. I take a deep breath and sit down on the steps outside the Zoological Society of London Institute of Zoology (a bit on the nose, that, but it works as a branch office for a couple Institute employees). At least it's a nice day, sunny with a few clouds. Could do worse for summer.

I quicky check the bridge of my nose for my mask. Putting this thing on is so routine I half-panic thinking I've forgotten to put on my disguise every time I go outside. But it's there, the almost flamboyant black opera mask designed specifically for my face, which projects a human body over my own Equine one, and so far, the actual humans are none the wiser. Why Troi insists on doing Institute business without it on baffles me. I mean, actual humans do work in that building, what's to stop one from walking in on him? Maybe he's even less popular with them than he is with me. Or maybe he just likes the risk? The thrill of possibly being outed as an Animal. Maybe even thinking that thought is inviting trouble, so I quickly wave it out of my head and look out across to the zoo gates. I frown without realising it, thinking about the feral animals in there. I guess what they say about ignorance is true.

"Heyo Pyra?" comes a call from the street. And there's Tony in his black Buick looking all chipper and smiley. Tony's human disguise is probably pretty benign on purpose because if he were anything remarkable he would draw _way_too much attention to himself. He looks about 40, short golden hair and dark stubble, wide plum of a nose and a big goofy grin (always with that grin). He's almost cute in a dad kinda way, but not really my type. I take a deep breath, force a smile and wave.

"Hi Tony, how's things?" I get to my hooves and walk over to the car, climbing into the back (it's surprisingly roomy, I wonder if it's been modified by WK somehow?).

"Right as rain lad, to the office then?" I nod, pulling the door closed. In the rear-view I catch a glimpse of my own reflection, or rather that of my disguise. I don't hate it. To the humans I'm tall (but obviously, I am a Horse after all), tan skin with long brown hair tied in a plait (I think I might have it changed back to silver, I can't decide). The face is pretty unremarkable but I've got a distinguished aquiline nose, which I find quite fetching since it's about the only part of me that matches my true form. The body is fit, good rugby stock I imagine but I've only ever seen it played, and freckles all over the arms, which I guess made more sense in the original design when I was a ginger but I just can't find a style that really connects with me. Whatever, aren't teenagers supposed to reinvent themselves constantly?

I guess if I were actually human I'd probably be starting uni about now. Except I've already got degrees in sociology and archival science so... oh, of course that's why I got this assignment. Did the fucking computer just take "sociology" and extrapolate "culture" as a thing that was tangible? _ Well, I guess in some fashion it is, but... _whatever. I shake my head, I'll talk to Seymour about it soon enough, maybe he can fix this shitshow of an assignment. I haven't even noticed Tony's conversation. Well, "conversation" is probably generous, he's been talking to himself almost nonstop since with left the ZSL about whatever takes his fancy. Do his human passengers not get annoyed with him? Or do they like this treatment? I'm sure he just loves the captive audience.

I quietly snort a laugh to myself and look down at the little sign he has hanging on the back of his seat: "Please help yourself to whatever you need!" with a little arrow pointing to a basket with bottles of water, a phone charger plugged into the centre console (shit, did I forget to charge my phone last night?), and some little chocolates. Well, probably not actual chocolate, even with our modified human DNA most Animals still can't handle something in it (one of the Medical branch nerds explained it once after I tried a Snickers on a night out and I got the shits like you wouldn't believe), it's probably carob, which is fine and all but... chocolate.... I shake the thought from my head. Totally worth it.

"All right there laddie, here we are," says Tony, looking out the window up at the British Museum and all its colonnaded glory. The gates are open and the outside is teeming with tourists, not unusual, but it still makes me nervous. I hate going in the front during opening hours but it'll still be the fastest way to Seymour's lab. I hop out and make my way up to the main doors as Tony's shouting something about rating him five stars, must be part of the human side of whatever it is he does (I don't even think we actually pay him; I swear Seymour's hacked the mint or something).

I walk in without bumping into anyone, amazingly (I might look like some year thirteen lad but my actual physical form is a bit more complex than that and while not visible, it's still tangible, which is why I'm always careful to keep my mane and tail in plaits to not disrupt the projection). (I guess I could always cut them, there's an Andalusian with a short mane and tail and he looks well fit, but I like mine long and more natural). There's a guard near the stairwell, I walk up and fish my ID out of my back pocket (still not sure why I insist on a physical ID card and not just use my phone, but I'm always forgetting to charge it so that might have something to do with it). Seymour or someone in the Science branch has done something to these cards so that they always look right to the human eye so there's no worry if it's not one of our employees on duty at the time. I'm waved in, hop down the three flights of stairs to the sub-basement (my hooves clicking annoyingly loudly on the tile floor, but what can I do?), the restricted area. I hold my card against the electronic lock on the door and it opens for me.

Down here are the labs, restoration suites, storage, as well as freight transfer for the large pieces of the collection that the museum can keep intact. The halls are blessedly empty, everyone must be out to lunch or something upstairs or elsewhere, but if I know Seymour he'll still be toiling away at some project or another. My hoofsteps echo loudly in the empty hall as I look for Seymour's lab.

"Oh dear, what's that racket out here then?" I freeze, back bolt upright as I slowly turn my head to the now open door I just passed. An older woman, probably in her early 60's is looking out into the hallway. She's thin, tan, with a smart grey bob cut, and thick tortoiseshell glasses. I feel my spine relax instantly.

"Hey Kath, how are you doing today?" The old dear is harmless, but a very shrewd librarian. She's often here working with the museum employees or working on her own research. I don't think she _knows_that not all of us are, well, not human, but I wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't worked out that at least some of us are more than just unusual. If nothing else, this episode certainly lends credence to that.

"Oh Mr. Valentin! Are you in the stacks today?" Her smile could warm a room, it really could.

"Not today, I'm just in looking for Dr. Angalis. Do you know if he's in one of the labs?" Then, quickly remembering why she came out to the hallway in the first place. "Sorry about the noise, I forgot to silence my phone before coming in." My hand is automatically rubbing the back of my head in nervousness.

"And when are you getting your PhD? You're so young! You could have it before you're 25! And you're so much friendlier than Dr. Angalis.... Oh, sorry dear, got a bit off topic. I think he's in his office actually."

"Thanks Kath. Don't forget to eat lunch, okay? You know how you get when you've got a project." I smile and wave, eager to move along, but walking softly as I can to not clop down the hall and cause more problems. A few doors down I find his office: the same identical door to every other in this wing but the placard next to it reads "Dr. Seymour Angalis, Archive Liaison," which is actually almost accurate. I don't even know if Seymour is a real doctor. I mean, I didn't get my degrees from a real school... well not really. It says University of Oxford on my diplomas, but it's not like I really studied for them, the knowledge was just... there. Whatever, I'll worry about that later. I knock on the door.

"Come, Pyra," I hear Seymour's voice from inside. How he always knows it's me when I come to see him, I'll never know. It's like he's got some extra sense or something... or just ears like dear old Kathy... yeah, that seems more likely. I quickly open the door, slip inside, and close it behind me, eager not to draw more attention to myself. His office is surprisingly small, barely bigger than a broom closet. He's got a hand-me-down wood veneer desk at the back wall upon which sits an ancient boxy beige computer from the early 90's maybe. The walls have hastily tacked up shelves lined with books on every topic imaginable. In a peeling wooden chair near the door is his bag: like proper mountain climbing bag complete with a bedroll and a... it's either stoneware or metal, hard to tell by looking, I'd call it a stein if it looked German, but instead it looks well-worn. Even the chair he uses at his own desk looks like it probably came third-hand from some local school.

"Remind me to fit you for some indoor shoes," he says over his shoulder, looking up from some papers on his desk. I roll my eyes, as if shoes are an easy thing for a Horse, but what do I know? Maybe he's come up with something brilliant!

"You going to hire a farrier to put them on me too? 'Cause I think that would be outside my budget unless I'm about to get a_substantial_ pay rise."

"Are you not getting enough from your speaking engagements?" Now that was just mean, honestly.

"Well first, I'm a teaching assistant with no teacher this term, and second, it's summer. Besides, who wants to learn from someone who's supposed to be a first-year in uni? I still don't even know if my degrees are legit!" I can feel the heat rising in my face, both real and simulated. Seymour laughs softly and properly turns to look at me. His disguise looks to be around 35, long auburn hair that flanks a kind of long, melancholic face. His eyes are a dazzling silver, flanking a narrow nose and a thin-lipped mouth that seems to naturally rest at half-frown. He's thin, like too thin almost, especially given he and I are nearly the same height, but what of him I've seen looks fit enough. I mean I don't think I've seen any bones poking through even without his disguise. He does have the black fingernails though, same as me, and just about every Ungulate. For whatever reason his disguise has them too, just varnished black human nails. Maybe he's a fan of the goth look? He's wearing a button-down shirt, collar wide open, with some odd geometric pattern I can't parse in wild colours, and black jeans that cling tight to his legs. Far too casual to be a doctor, right? He lets out a small chuckle.

"They're real, you have the actual knowledge, just maybe you took a little shortcut to get there. But that's not why you're here, I presume?" I take my archive assignment card out of my pocket.

"I'm hoping you can help clear this up, it's mental." I hand the card to him, the smile (such as it was) vanishing from his face upon inspecting it.

"I see...." I can tell by the look on his face that he's not sure what to make of it. He seems lost in thought, processing something maybe. Then, as if he can feel my eyes burning into him, he looks up and hands the card back to me.

"Would you like my advice?" I take the card back from him with more than a little hesitancy. I was hoping that he'd just say 'No, this is weird, don't do this' but that doesn't seem to be where this is about to go. "Do what it says. It isn't specific so, to me, that means it's up to you to decide what is relevant. Is there a particular aspect of human culture that you enjoy?" I cross my arms, thinking. Is there something specific that I enjoy?

"Or maybe think of it this way," he continues, crossing his arms. "The museum is a bastion of cultural artefacts, but they're all... physical things from ancient histories. Maybe narrow your focus to the modern, or even contemporary. Consider art, or music, or_experiences_. Things that are inextricable from human nature as it is today, even if it might be something more mundane than, say, Mozart's prodigious career, or Rodin, or Picasso. Do you have many human friends?"

That question strikes a chord, and painfully at that. Of course I don't, why would I have human_friends?_ But then the question spirals itself wider, do I have many friends at all? I mean I was pretty close with a bunch of us in the CQC classes I took before I became a gleaner, but I guess they were into more... physical activities than I was. Thinking about it now, I can't name a single person, human or Animal, that I'd really consider a close friend. Fuck you, Seymour.

"Can't say I do," I say, forcing a smile. I know he can feel every ounce of bile I'm intending behind it too, which makes me feel both better and worse about the whole thing. He doesn't let on, though, simply shrugging, his arms still crossed.

"Well maybe that would be a good place to start. You're the youngest gleaner we have, surely it shouldn't be difficult for you to make some human friends that can help with a mission of modern human culture. Yes, your human ID says you're 18, but that isn't actually too far off the mark for how much experience you have with the world. We all have been made to be incredibly intelligent and apt, but our interpersonal skills are not something included in that genetic memory. Go live as an actual teenager for a while, not as the Archive's youngest gleaner. You already have more than a few advantages, I'm sure." He has such a cocksure grin, and I hate it because I know he's right. I sigh in defeat.

"But I like working, solving the puzzles the Archive needs."

"And you're not stopping anytime soon, I promise you. This is an unusual assignment, and I'm not sure why the White Knight gave it to you, but honestly? I think you probably need it. You've always spent too much time with the adults, as it were, you resigned fun and joy as bygones when you were barely transformed. For all intents and purposes, you are a teenager, take a few months and find yourself as one. The Archive still needs your skills, and I promise you we'll have a more normal assignment for you soon, but for now this is your only assignment. Go be a teenager, learn from the humans that are your age, and bring that experience to the Archive. That is my advice to you."