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This isn't particularly explicit, (certainly more sensual than sexual, really) but is more something around which I feel miss Dante has some concern and wishes to explore, being the nature of how she came to be who she is, and the many problems one does not neccesarily realize exist with the furries of this world of 'The Spirit of '67'

Not 100% pleased with this, but hey.

Any (repsectful) comments or feedback are entirely appreciated.

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//: 2105, City of San Iadras, Spirit of '67 adult club/theatre.

The anteroom to the 'littlest theatre' at the Spirit of '67 was decorated in an old-world fashion, with soft red carpets protected by plastic sheeting along the queue lines to the 'littlest theatre's' doors. Old style wood panelling lined the walls, along with marble statuettes of nude women. But with a little further examination, these weren't, per-se, human woman - just an idealised humanoid form, with animalistic heads and tails.

The luxury of the room was deliberate -- on nights when the 'littlest theatre' was not used, its anteroom was in fact used as a small and quite pleasant lounge, with long couches, armchairs, and coffee tables. This night, however, it was quite busy, as men and women dawdled with drinks in hand, and a small classical band played to pass the time until the performance would begin.

To one side of the anteroom, beyond the queues of patrons there was a bar tended by a young woman in a tight fitting dress shirt and bow tie, the shirt tight and perfectly tailored to her every curve. She, with a pair of false cat-ears made of velvet on her head, was not the centre of attention. That privilege was for the small band, in one roped off corner. The ensemble was simple-enough, a violin, baby grand piano and a lounge room singer. The players were not. They were not, one might politely say, human.

The fellow with the violin and the other, playing the piano, were almost interchangeable in their tuxedos. They both had the same grey fuzz, the same muzzled heads, the same slitted green eyes, for they were both furries. Both furries of the same genetic run, looking like tall humanoid tabby cats. The third, the singer, was slimmer in build, but no less feline. Indeed, there was a sharpness to her character the two men did not possess. She sang a simple vocal accompaniment, often trailing a hand over the back of the piano player, almost possessively, or, more accurately, territorially.

Time, however, was passing. A suited butler, an unassuming man wearing a masquerade mask with the visage of a fox, entered the room briefly with a bell in one hand, the striker in the other. He brought these two together, and departed as quietly as he came.

The young lady at the bar finished her last order, dimmed the bar lights, and began to carefully wash out mugs of coffee and cocktail glasses. The patrons hurried to finish their drinks, and enjoined the queue ahead of the littlest theatre's doors.

Many checked their ticket-cards with apprehension. They were printed with a papery surface texture, and in the manner of a miniaturised old style carnival poster, which read :

The Spirit of '67's littlest theatre is proud to host E. Dante's one woman tale,

Who Am I?

An animal in man's streets.

Admit One

The main difference between this and the posters of old was that the image of the image of the performer's face, usually quite human, was in fact the stylised head of a now extinct predator, the Thylacine.

Eventually the fox-masked butler returned. Moving to the head of the queue for the doors with great dignity, he threw them wide. He reached within a small cupboard beside the doors, and withdrew a card-reader wand. In deference to the decor, it had been given a dark wood casing. The technology was no less effective, emitting a simulated bell chime as, one by one, the patrons' tickets were authenticated.

Ushers, young women in form-fitting tuxedos, guided patrons to their seats within the 'Littlest theatre.' The theatre was indeed small, with seating for only sixty. Comfortable chairs, arranged in three plush rows of twenty with an aisle down the centre, one by one took their patron's weight. Soon, the only space was at the front, where a lady fur sat, beside three un taken seats. She was a white-furred bunny, whom, in deference to the avoidance of obstructing the view of the other patrons, had carefully weighted her ears down with simple jewellery. She was not the only fur in the audience, but for certain, the only one there not on the arm of a finely dressed human man, or rarely, woman.

The last patrons to sit were the three felines who'd been playing the band in the antechamber, whom took their seats with the bunny-femme at the front.

Shortly, the theatre doors were closed, and the lighting over the audience went black, leaving the theatre stage illuminated, though dimly by the standards of the theatre, by lights shining from behind the audience.

Slowly, the stage curtain, billowing folds of red velvet, lifted.

In one corner of the stage, there was a series of hat racks and coat stands, with one stand, illuminated by a steady spotlight, empty. To the other side, there was a desk. The stage was back grounded with a simple white sheet.

A woman's voice, or very nearly a woman's voice, spoke loudly from the stage. "What anguish did God wreak upon men, I ask you, that man felt the need to pass it on?"

The almost cartoonish shadow of a walking 'funny animal', a silhouette in the style of 1940s cartoons, projected onto the white sheet, stalked across the stage, swishing its stiff tail as though in thought. "What indeed? Perhaps I shall ask, and perhaps I shall find an answer."

The silhouette disappeared off one side of the stage, then appeared once more, though this time not a cartoon at all, but flesh and blood on the stage. This woman, this 'E. Dante', was no woman at all - but another furry. Her face, though bearing human features, was far from human - her own head was close enough to the theatre ticket's depiction, however, with her yellow-brown fur and muzzle, the main difference being her long red hair. She wore the garb of a Victorian Englishman, with pinstripe pants and tailed jacket. She reached up, briefly, to the hat stands and pulled down a top-hat, which she placed reverentially upon her head.

"Perhaps it was something from the past, which told those men to bring me to life!" she announced, now pacing the stage, picking up a cane from a small umbrella stand as she passed it, looking out at the audience, which must have been near invisible in the pitch black, with lights shining into her eyes.

"Peter Rabbit! Come out here now," she called, stamping the cane to the floor beside her foot demandingly.

Another projected shadow, this time of a small bunny, seemingly wearing a coat, hopped up on stage, and from the perspective of the audience, climbed up onto the desk.

"You're very old," she announced, to which the shadow-rabbit nodded its head exaggeratedly.

"So then. You must be very wise," she said, pointing the cane at the shadow-rabbit. She stalked across tot he table, leaning on one end of it. "Why did man make me?" she asked, leaning close, and cupping a hand over one ear, leaning close as though to listen to the shadow-rabbit. It leaned closer, and seemed to whisper to her.

"A sweet fantasy? To engage the minds of children?" she repeated, as though in shock. "Then how do I stand here? Flesh and blood? Do I look like a fantasy to you?" she asked, standing back, hands on her hips as she addressed the shadow-rabbit.

It shrugged its little arms helplessly.

"You don't know very much at all, Peter Rabbit! Go back to your burrow then," she sighed, waving her cane at it dismissively. The little rabbit sulkily stooped away.

The performer walked back and forth across the stage, "Hello? Anyone? Can any of you who were made before tell me who I am? Why I was made?"

Slowly, bit by bit, shadows began to crowd the stage - silhouettes of more cartoons, Mickey mouse, bugs bunny, a hundred recognisable and unrecognisable characters until the wall behind her was a seething mass of shadows.

She turned and surveyed the shadows, hands on her hips once more. "What do you all mean? To be laughed at? I don't want to be laughed at! Can't any of you make any sense?" she chided.

Bit by bit, the movement of the shadow-characters stilled. One by one they began to sulkily leave the stage.

Abruptly, she leapt forward, thrusting her cane at the wall, and she pinned one fleeing shadow, a man-sized rat, who struggled to pull away from where she had it 'caught'. "Come now, don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

Once again she mimed listening, and the shadow-rat settled down once more, and waved its hands as if speaking. "Yes, yes. A dream, you say? A long running tradition of fear and fantasy, stretching back to even the earliest men?"

The shadow rat solemnly seemed to continue, whilst the performer continued to speak on its behalf. "No, no, I didn't know that even in cave paintings men made animals who looked like man, did things as man does," she said thoughtfully, leaning back and releasing it from the wall.

"So then. You say man has always had us, at least in mind? Either as protector or enemy or entertainer? Hmm. This is very interesting."

The shadow-rat nodded in agreement, then seemed to offer another point for her consideration.

"Ahh, I see! Men look for mirrors, and seek to understand the world by imagining themselves a part of it, even those parts they cannot join? And so as men seek to understand animals, they view them as more man-like?"

The shadow-rat nodded, then waved its hands expressively once more.

"So if we have always been fantasy, and now I am not, I should ask those who made me real, rather than try to find out who made us in the first place? You are very wise!" she exclaimed, leaning forward now and kissing the air - there was a slight jump of the shadow as the projection moved to line up with the performer's shadow, but, none-the-less, the performer's shadow kissed the shadow-rat's, and there was a dim red glow on the shadow-rat's embarrassed cheeks as it turned and hurried off.

The performer waved one hand in parting, as the shadow-rat fled, and she turned again to the audience, squinting a little against the light in her eyes. "The past and fantasy cannot tell me what I want to know. Who am I? Despite what I look like, what I am, I am no made-up thing," she said, moving back to the coat and hat-racks, carefully replacing the top hat, the cane.

"Who am I, I ask? Not a Victorian creature of coat-tails and gas-light, thieving from farmers and outwitting cretins," she said, peeling off the jacket, and setting it carefully on the coat-rack, bending over, rear to the audience as she untied her shoelaces, tore them off, then removed the pinstripe trousers -- unbuttoning a clasp of cloth through which her tail emerged, and lowering it to reveal her bottom, clad in a common pair of wide white panties. Trousers off, she folded and tossed them at the floor.

Her upper thighs were tiger-striped, as they lifted up over her hips... she seemed to tease the audience, remaining bent over as she arranged the dress shoes just so on the floor. She then stood, pulled down the hem of her long dress shirt down over her hips, and began to pick through the other clothing on stage. "I know now what is fantasy, but what is the reality?" she asked the audience over one shoulder, pulling down a surgeon's garb, sliding her long legs into the coveralls slowly, one at a time.

She quickly pulled down a hair cap over her ears, bundling up her long red hair into it, and donned a surgeon's face mask, sticking her feet -- almost like foot-shaped paws, really -- into paper slippers.

The desk became a surgeon's table, as shadows formed on the white background behind her. A heart rate monitor's lines moved across the top of the background sheet, while surgeons picking over a patient materialised in shadow around the desk. The patient seemed very small, very vulnerable.

"Here," said the performer, "is just after I was born."

She walked around the table, pointing out something on the desk, the surgery table in the shadow. "I don't think I'd really want that extra toe, mister surgeon."

The shadow-surgeon seemed startled, shook his head at the performer's intrusion, and got back to work.

"Thank you!" she told the surgeons, before facing the audience again.

"After being born, or rather, decanted, I was very lucky. The Gene-processing used to make furries is really very hit and miss, you see. People like to think that genetic engineering and cloning is a precise science. But you have to understand, when people have children, naturally... well. Over three quarters of all pregnancies fail, generally very early on," she explained.

"Something doesn't click properly, sperm and the egg just disagree, and an embryo doesn't even develop. Or maybe an embryo starts, but doesn't form properly, and doesn't grow into even the beginnings of a baby... even when there is one, it might die halfway along," she said, pacing now, occasionally 'glancing' over the surgeon's shoulders.

"Now, when it's done artificially, there are a lot more problems... mostly mutations, misformed organs...." she continued, pausing now. "For the first six weeks of my life, I had to have surgery to remove the beginnings of tumours... stem cell injections to try and reform organs properly..."

"Almost half of my body got taken out and replaced. Sometimes with 'spares' from the other girls who'd been decanted, but were worse off than me. My real heart, for instance, had weak walls, and would have ruptured if I'd ever actually used it. I don't know who I got mine from... but I'm very thankful."

"It took, probably, more than eight thousand fertilisation attempts to start the 'batch' of embryos I was a part of, which was five hundred and twelve. Out of that, about two hundred survived... It's a lot of work," she continued, moving now to 'tap' the shadow-surgeon's shoulder. "Excuse me! Why would you do all that work, mister surgeon? To make little old me?"

The shadow surgeon glanced over his shoulder, seemed to rant and swear, pointed at the patient on the table, and leaned forward again, taking a toll from a shocked looking shadow nurse.

The performer, for her part, seemed shocked. "Such language from a man of education..." she mumbled, then strode off, shaking her head, as the surgery table faded away. She began to strip off the surgical gown.

"One doctor described furries as 'the frankenstein's monsters of our generation'. Natural abominations of technology. After Marika Estian, the first furry, was revealed to the Tri-corp special interest group, there was a general outcry." The performer, keeping her back to the audience, began to strip off her dress shirt. Shortly she dropped it, leaving her bare back to the audience, covered in stripes that began just below her shoulders, curved down over her rump and down her tail. She continued to explain for a moment. "There was similar research globally. In Europe, North America, and in Australia these projects were terminated. All in all about five hundred and eighty two 'test animals' were 'destroyed'," she said somberly. "Only in the 'corporate preserve' in Central America, like here in San Iadras, did corporate interests manage to continue their research in public."

She reached up, for a boiler suit, the curve of her breast just visible as she turned slightly. Pulling it down, she began to put it on, keeping her back to the audience. "The early experiments were even more difficult than the production of my generation, the 'fourth' generation."

"The first generation was made up of thirty six individuals who were selected from a viable grouping of ninety 'animals'. The remaining grouping was 'destroyed'. After vivisection, which gave the first generation opposable thumbs, they were taught a form of sign language rather than allowing them to speak as Marika Estian had."

She turned, zipping the suit up over her breasts as she did. "Acknowledged as sentient, the charter law on furries had, under its first article, a list of reasons why, despite being sapient creatures capable of language, they should have no rights nor existence as legal entities."

The performer pulled on a large hard-hat. "The first generation furs were used in neurochemistry research, ultimately resulting in the first viable 'nerve-bridges', a type of stem-cell implant capable of re-fusing, for example, a broken spinal cord. Other related research cured a myriad of brain related diseases. Lethal brain-tumours are something that now belong to history, as is paralyses."

"The second generation, which is still with us, was built from profiteering," she said, moving to one stage-edge to reach behind the curtain and pick something up. She walked back onto stage, now miming something heavy on her shoulder. Upon the shadow-sheet, the shadow of a long I-Beam was visible, being marched across the stage, with a grizzly wolfish creature, more beast than humanoid, carrying the other end.

"Using the original charter, the furs became a new slave race. Over twelve hundred were produced, although the numbers aren't certain. Genderless and freakish," she continued, miming the wiping of sweat from her furry brow, as she set down the shadow-girder, "about eight hundred were used as labour in a project supposedly intended to determine their problem solving abilities. Some were builders, some were servants, but all were slaves."

The shadow-monster, a 'second generation', sat down on the iron-girder, almost doglike.

"Some were released into a preserve of Costa-Rica in a sociological experiment, and are the famous 'beast men' of the jungle. The rest however were 'used up' in the production of the third generation," she explained. "Also bereft of any kind of rights, the third generation, no longer in production, spawned three thousand individuals, over eighteen 'batches'."

"Most were used in cybernetics related applications, again, in research that may have been impossible otherwise. Most are still alive, although they require extensive chemical and medical therapies to remain alive."

She removed her hard-hat, and stared at the shadow-monster of a second generation fur, who gradually morphed into something that seemed quite human, much like the performer herself.

"My generation, the fourth of roughly sixteen thousand, was intended as a successor to that of the third. I am, chemically and medically speaking, whole. I could in theory live my whole life without outside influence."

She paced the stage again back to the racks of clothing, and the shadows faded away.

"Except the fourth generation were intended for much the same uses as the 'second' generation," she said, putting her hard-hat onto the hat rack again. "However we were modified to have genetic predispositions for the types of purposes we were intended for. The exact information on how we were 'tuned' was never given to us in any shape or form," she continued, peeling off the boiler suit once more. She kept her nude back to the audience, switching from hat to hat trying one on, abandoning it for the next, a chef's cap, a French maid's bonnet, on and on she switched.

"There are rumours, of course," she explained. "Beyond instincts unlike those of others. A fur's genotype, the original base animal their genes were drawn from for modification, plays a large role. Carnivorous genotypes tend to prefer meat, may be more aggressive, and most have better reflexes..."

She finally replaced the last hat on the stand, a cashiers visor, and picked off a coat rack a woman's green business jacket. "Doing a little research," she said, pulling it on, and taking a skirt from one hook, which she began to pull up over her legs, "indicates lines of talent across each of the runs."

"There was a run based on a red mongrel mix, for example, with acute marksmanship abilities. Which makes you wonder," she said, turning as she zipped up the side of the dress, her jacket buttoned chastely over her breasts, "who wanted a private army."

"Then there was a run of particularly empathic furs, who all had very high immune systems. Back in twenty eighty or so, when the fourth generation was being coded, there was a projected need for, around now, nurses and other medical professionals. This was mainly due to an increasing geriatric population. It may be why every white-haired bunny I know of is either a nurse or a physical therapist."

She glanced across the stage, then moved to its centre. She faced the audience, and her shadow was suddenly joined, forming a row of identical shadows across the stage.

"Every single one of the girls who were part of my group are in a public relations position," she said.

"Informally, probably about two thirds of us are personal assistants, maybe more," she said, moving back to the desk, the line of shadows dissipating. She hopped up, sat on its edge. "Me? I can type at a hundred and sixty words per minute," she said, holding out her hands to the audience, flexing out her fingers. "And I tell you, I make the best damn coffee in the world."

"If you wanted one of me, and things hadn't changed, furs hadn't gotten re-classified as real people, you'd have been able to buy one of me for about one point two million new dollars. About what it'd cost to buy a nice home on the beachfronts," she smiled.

She smirked then, sliding off the desk again, leaning over its side. "And, uhh.... mmm. I never really... really... minded what must have been a nice little by-line in the intended sales brochure..."

She ducked her head, rear held out high, stiff tail up, as a shadow formed behind her, a silhouette of a man, his shadow and hers seemingly enjoined in sex -- the illusion completed as the performer rolled her hips back, mimed thrusting back,

She stood again, slowly, appearing a little flustered as the shadow-partner faded away. "It's a little sordid," she breathed, "and we're not all the same. But gossip with 'sisters' of mine is that we've all had little urges about men in power... though not all of us act on them."

She scooted back up onto the desk, crossing her legs as she sat. "Back at the turn of the century there was a little subculture dedicated to 'anthropomorphics', as it was termed back then. There was a fairly high rate of interest in the subject matter, sexually speaking, which may be a great part of the inspiration behind me..."

"So, do I like sexuality, sensuality, because that was wired into me? Who am I? A girl who was carefully bred, had careful surgical operations, was carefully wired into being a capable, intelligent, and sexy little beast?" she asked, smirking.

"If I am, what is that morally? I didn't have much choice in the matter, but I like who I am enough to share."

"There's an attraction to the unknown," she said, moving to a stand once again. "A great deal of interest in the exotic, and people don't know what it's really like to be a fur. Some will tell you it's fleas and and body-grooming and trying to find a way to get your own fur out of your clothes when you shed."

She paced the stage briefly. "So. We've gone from fantasy, children's stories and all, to the other end of the spectrum. The harsh reality, that we furs were basically made for money as an offshoot of something research that scared people."

"I bet when Jerry Ford thought up mass production, he didn't think it'd ever be used to make people, now did he?" she quipped with a smile.

"Who I am lays somewhere in between there. Somewhere in between a Victorian era dream, and a desire to have a secretary to bend over a desk and fuck," she explained, returning to the clothing rack, where she began to disrobe, back to the audience, removing the jacket and skirt till again she stood there in those panties of hers, until she bent over, removing those as well, tail held low and legs together to protect her modesty as she stood, back to the audience. Her fur was a yellowy-brown, she was built like a human, all the right muscles in all the right places, more or less.

"Every day of my life, I know that I am a person. But a person from a difficult background, one deliberately built out of slavery and greed, fantasy and love."

She turned to face the audience, presenting her nude body for display, her fuzzy white stomach and chest, the whiteness trailing down between her legs, where at her crotch there were curls of red fur, body curved like the ideal of a woman's. "Who am I?" she carefully asks the audience.

"I am the imperfect result of man playing at God..."

She bowed her head.

"... and that is a lot of weight, on these slender shoulders of mine," she said, shoulders dropping in exhaustion.

The curtain fell.