FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I wake up every morning with the same routine.

Shower.

Teeth brushed. Shave if I need to.

Toast. Waffles. Bacon. Coffee. Papers.

Shirt. Tie. Pants. Shoes.

Then it's off to work on the 7:55 bus, traffic be damned. One long ride later and I'm seated at my desk, surrounded by blue cubicle walls, Post-It notes and papers tacked onto a notice board on my wall. Another cup of coffee sits nearby, along with a stack of papers and a computer, a remnant from years gone by. Every day it's the same damn routine, and today is no exception. By 8:30 everyone else here is seated and trading gossip and news, while my partner goes right behind me, a bagel in one hand and the day's reports in the other, at an identical desk with identical walls and furniture. Guess the blue boys ain't got a budget for style these days.

Eddie Riggs is a simple man. He's six feet five, built like a truck, skin black as the night, and generally everyone he questions gives him the straight and easy. No wonder the chief assigned him as my partner. Two years running and he's been by my scrawny side the whole way, providing muscle to compliment my skin and bones. The whitest cop in the building with the darkest, ain't that a joke. He's been on the force longer than I have though, knows his way around things, has that intuition that most other guys don't. I hear stories from the other suits that Riggs is the best damn detective in the whole of Vice, that he built his career from the ground up but won't go anywhere else except here. Vice is his calling, he says to me every now and then, and he wouldn't have it any other way. I don't blame him, there's a certain kick about Vice that all the other desks don't have. Nailing bad guys that deal in all sorts of nasty substances like coke or heroin, these cases are the adrenaline pumpers, the ones that either make you famous or dead. Today is a slow day though, and it starts out small. Riggs hands me a sheet of paper listing several locations where we have to go flush out a dealer and his stash. Easy pickings on an easy day. He settles some paperwork, gives me a nod, and off we trot.

Collaring these jerkwads never gets any easier though. I had to run after a dealer once, chased him down four blocks before the idiot decided it would be a good idea to get acquainted with a trash can. Long story short he went ass up on the pavement and I got the arrest. These guys never make it easy on themselves, always think defending their stock or running away is a better option. To be fair, I'm no athlete either, there's only so far I can run before Riggs has to take over, and I swear that man was an Olympic sprinter in a past life, he can cover a block in a few minutes. Today's no exception either, as I watch him speed past me as we chase down a dealer clutching his stock in two plastic bags hugged to his chest. He yells at me to head left to cut him off and I comply, charging down the nearest alley before being stopped by a fence.

I hate climbing these things.

So it's up the wall and over the fence I go, swearing all the way as I land and resume running, my heart screaming obscenities at me as I race to the end of the alley, and just in time too, cause here comes the perp. I lower my shoulders and give a great leap forward, burying my weight into his pelvis and bringing him down hard. His head whips backwards and cracks against the asphalt, and I barely see a trickle of blood before I'm on his chest, Beretta shoved right in his face.

"Don't move, sugarcube, else you want a third nostril."

Riggs slows to a stop, panting and perspiring like a waterfall. I automatically turn our man over onto his belly and cuff him, and we both drag him onto his feet as he struggles. A stern look from Riggs calms him down some, and we proceed back down the street as my buddy calls for a car to come pick up our latest jailbird. And so the morning and some of the afternoon goes by in a similar fashion, most of the running and cuffing is done by Riggs, but I get my fair share of collars. Add a few more notches to my handcuffs why not. After a long, grueling day chasing lowlifes and dumbasses, we arrive back in the station, where we give our reports to the chief and settle down at our desks with an early dinner. I watch Riggs unwrap his greasy burger and wonder to myself how he doesn't gain weight from all the crap he eats, and I stare at the Subway sandwich on my table and wonder the same. Then it hits me.

We both have fast metabolisms.

I chuckle to myself and tuck in, but it's not five minutes before the chief's secretary calls us, and the rest of the Vice team, into his office.

Oh boy. Something serious. The last time we had the whole team together was when a high key drug smuggler went on the run here, and that was a few months ago.

I turn and Riggs gives me a look. I shrug and we both get up, dinner briefly abandoned. The rest of our team is already in the cramped office, so it gets even more cramped when Riggs squeezes his considerable size in. Our chief is seated behind his desk, as usual, but upon seeing the two of us enter, he stands and grabs a stack of folders, distributing them amongst us. I stare down at the big red CLASSIFIED stamped on the front of the manila file, as cheesy as it may be, and give the chief a look. He sits back down and laces his fingers together, leaning his bulk back into his expensive leather chair. After a pause, he speaks.

"Now all of you should remember that idiot that got himself caught on charges of drug smuggling a few months ago, correct?"

A chorus of nods.

"Well we found his boss. And it's a big fish. Which is why you'll be working with another division on this case."

My heart catches in my throat. Surely you jest, chief. I open the folder and the first bit of information I catch pertains to a man named Church. Ties to the mob family here in Manhattan.

Oh god, we're gonna be working with Organised Crimes. The big boys. Trouble is, I happen to be in love with one of them.

Was two years ago, my rookie days on the force. Happened to work with a detective from Crimes, a nice looking chick named Evelyn Troy. I managed to contact her out of uniform, and she was kind enough to give me a chance. We've been dating ever since. We don't really get to see each other in the workplace, for good reason, but the times that we do are the best work days ever.

I want to marry this woman. She's everything I could've ever wanted.

Her team's hardass, badass and straight as an arrow. So far all of the cases they've worked have ended up in arrests and court hearings. No one ever mentions the amount of body bags they leave behind though, I suppose that's a given for Organised Crimes. The chief's briefing fades into the background as I pore over the file. Lots of photos, evidence of his dealings with the local dealers and runners in the district. Call logs, credit card bills, addresses and known aliases, the whole works. The research boys must've been real busy compiling all this, cause when the chief's finally done I don't notice, and it takes an eraser to the forehead to snap me back to attention.

"You gonna listen to me now, Anderson?"

"Yes chief, sorry chief."

"Good, now as I was saying, Organised Crimes already has a lead on where this guy's going to hold his next business meeting. It's down in a warehouse over at the docks, empty place no one really uses except for junkies and homeless people. All we gotta do is batten down the place and lie in wait for this asshole to show up with roughly half the dealers in this city. Then we bust them and cut the dealings in this town in two. We show the mob who's the boss here and we haul in half our problems at the same time, sounds good fellas?"

Another chorus of nods.

"Good, now move out. The boys from Crimes are waiting in the conference room. Don't be late."

The team files out of the office and heads on over to the meeting room, where the Crimes team is already discussing strategy. Their team leader is up at the board, outlining a plan of attack on the warehouse when we enter. Greetings are exchanged all around, which is when I notice something: Evelyn isn't around. One of the other guys catches my confusion.

"She's staking out the place, Daniel. Has been for the past two days."

Stakeout duty. Figures. Only she'd have the patience for that. I simply nod and sit down in an empty chair as the briefing goes on. It continues well into the evening, and by the time we're dismissed the sun is gone, replaced by a full moon and a cloudless sky.

I don't know why, but full moons make me feel weird. Good, but weird.

Tomorrow is the strike. We're hitting the place quietly, then settling in for a long wait. The expected meeting is a week from now. We have all the time in the world to make this warehouse ours.

---

Five days in, and I'm bored out of my skull. The rest of the team is stationed around the area, but here I am rotting my ass off in this stuffy old warehouse. Up in the rafters where no one can see me, with no company other than the rats and flies. My gaze is trained on the warehouse floor, where a homeless man sleeps in the corner and leaves blow around in the afternoon breeze. It's so boring, and all I have for entertainment is my phone, a CD player and a book. I've already read the book twice, and played all my favorite music several times over. Trust me to pick the short straw when choosing duties for the rest of the week. I flip a page on the book and keep reading, when a familiar presence parks itself beside me.

"Hey."

She leans against my shoulder and smiles at me. I'm surprised beyond words. I drop the book and kinda start reflexively, but calm down on realising that it's her. I can't help but smile back as she stares at my book, smiles and shakes her head. I give her a shrug as she looks back up at me.

"What, it gets boring up here."

"I expected as much from you, Danny."

She smiles that heart melting smile and gives me a gentle hug, sinking me into a reverie for a short while. Her body is soft and warm, almost like a marshmallow or a pillow in my arms, but once she's done she's all business again.

"Spotted anything unusual?"

"Well other than that homeless guy lying in the corner there, nothing else."

"That's good."

I sat there, speechless, for what seemed like an eternity while the love of my life at next to me, checking over her plans and her role in all of this. I let her finish what she was doing, letting my gaze linger on her form. She was so perfectly built, not too tall and with just the right amount of meat on her to give her a nice, voluptuous figure without overdoing it like some supermodels. Soft, round hips and narrow shoulders. A face like a cherub, almost baby-like in how beautiful she looked. Everything about her was just right. She turned to look at me and I held her hands gently.

"I miss you, Evey."

"I missed you too, Danny boy."

"Y'know, if work weren't in the way..."

"I know, sweet cheeks. I know."

We spend a long time staring into each other's eyes. We both know we were meant for each other, we just didn't know how to get things done right. Then we both get a call on our phones. It's the boss. We give each other a look and move to separate ends of the catwalk, both of us answering the calls.

"Fellas, we're moving the plans up to today. We got some fresh intel, the meet's been moved up to tonight. Everyone get in place and keep on your toes. We're making this happen."

She puts down her phone and gives me a sad smile.

"Guess it's time, Danny boy."

"I guess so, Evey. You better go get to your place. Mine is up here."

She gives me a hug and leaves. I'm stuck there with an aching in my heart and an emptiness in my soul.

God I love that lady.

---

Several hours pass. The sun sets behind the skyscrapers and apartment blocks. I'm woken up from my nap by my phone alarm vibrating against my chest. I see a text message from Riggs. It's go time.

I've only got simple gear. A single combat shotgun and a box of shells. I grab it and load up the gun when I hear tyres. Crap. I throw on my combat vest and stuff the pouches with shells, moving my way to one of the darkest corners in the rafters. I send Riggs a message saying that I'm in position. He gives me an okay back, and says in an additional message that we have sharpshooter support. Unbeknownst to me, one of the Crimes team is up on a roof a few blocks away, staring at me through a thermal scope. He asks me to wave. I do, then I sign to him to keep his eyes on the warehouse floor, because a show's about to start.

A car, an expensive car, pulls up inside the warehouse. The engine goes out, and a few burly men step out, armed with expensive pieces. Then a guy steps out and I dislike him instantly. Rich, tailored clothes, tasteful but utterly unbefitting of the man that wore them. Too high a nose and eyes squinty like the old Asian lady that stays in my block. Hair slicked back with way too much gel, so much so that it shines like an oil slick. This was a slimy bastard alright, and I could smell the money on him from my perch. After a few minutes the dealers start filtering in, and they gather around this man. The muscle moves in around the lot, keeping them in check, while the man, who I assume is our Church fella, climbs up onto the roof of the SUV and faces the crowd like a preacher giving a sermon.

"Alright you lot, here's your keep for the month. Don't go selling it all at one shot, and remember to keep your prices just right to make the kids and junkies come back for more. The gentleman down below me will hand each of you your bags. Each contains your fair share of stock and your month's pay. Don't rush now, keep it clean and orderly and we won't lose anyone tonight."

He sounds like a James Bond villain. British.

One of the muscle goes to the trunk of the car and pops it open. From it he hauls out a small black duffel bag and hands it to the first guy he sees. The rest of the dealers form a line, partly due to fear of the expensive kit the men in black are packing.

Riggs sends me a message. We're a go on his signal.

I ready my shotgun. In the distance I hear more cars. Must be the team arriving with backup. From my corner I slowly advance to where I have an overlook on the crowd beneath me. The dealers that have their bags are rifling through the contents, checking their product and their pay, so no one notices when several men in black combat gear sneak their way into the warehouse, staying in the shadows as they surround the crowd. Then the lot of them come out of the dark and into the light, rifles up and aimed right into the crowd. Out of the din, I hear one sound above the rest.

"Police! Hands up!"

For a moment, time stops. My shotgun is aimed at the bulk of the crowd. The dealers stand stock still, caught like deer in the proverbial headlights. The muscle are just as stunned. Only our man on the car is smart enough to make a move. He pulls a heavy duty pistol from within his jacket and points it at the nearest lawmaker. That's when his gun disappears from his hand, crashing across the cold concrete, the shiny chrome dimpled inward by a high powered rubber bullet. A gunshot cracks across the silence and glass tinkles to the floor, and then all hell breaks loose. My backup starts peppering the crowd with fire, containing the chaos within their loose circle, and it's up to me to knock down escapees. I spot one and fire a rubber slug at the small of his back and he goes down. I plug him with one more for good measure. I catch another runner with a slug to the ankle, and as non-lethal these things are, physics is a cruel mistress. His ankle snaps one way and his foot goes the other way and down he goes. The muscle around are lost, confused, and our sniper takes his time downing each one with precision shots to their center of mass. With most of the action winding down, I grab my rappelling kit, hook up to the railing and leap down, pointing my weapon at the man on the SUV, stunned as he is.

"Hey, slick, they did say hands up, so put up your damn hands!"

He gibbers and I take that as a noise of compliance. I take a step onto the car's hood and haul him off, bringing his hands behind his back and slapping on my cuffs. I give him a quick pat down. Another hand cannon inside his jacket. I take that from him and keep patting. Wallet. Phone. Pocketbook.

Oh this will be useful. I grab all the stuff from him, but I leaf through the book a short while. Names, phone numbers, information, locations, payoffs. Jackpot.

I look up and search the crowd for Riggs. Not too hard, he's the tallest guy there. I wave to him and call him over. He ambles over and I slap the book into his hands.

"Good stuff in here, Riggs. Have a look."

He thumbs through the book for a few seconds and a smile grows on his face. He hands me the book and nods in approval.

"Not fair that I take the credit for this. You found it, you got it. This one's all yours."

First time he's said that to me in two years. I start to wonder if I'm finally worth a damn. The team packs up and throws all the collars into the waiting vans, we grab all our gear and make to leave. I run into our sniper on the way to my ride, and I give him a pat on the back.

"Nice shooting, Tex."

The shooter takes off his balaclava and a shower of golden hair falls out. That familiar smile appears again as her eyes have that twinkle of pride in them.

"Thanks, Danny boy. You weren't too bad yourself."

She saunters away and I'm left with my jaw on the floor. It's a while before Riggs comes over and jerks me out of my reverie.

"Hey, bright eyes. She's left already. Let's go."

"Y-yeah."

---

Tonight was a good night. At least twenty collars and we got ourselves a whole new avenue to pursue. The book I found on Church led us to a huge ring of drug operations within Manhattan and the rest of the Big Apple. Chief told me to take a break, so I am. The cab pulls up to my apartment block, I give the guy a tip for being fast and I head upstairs. Today was tiring, yeah, but at least we did something productive with our time. I reach my floor and insert my key and freeze.

Something's off. Within my apartment I hear a rattle.

Someone's in there.

I slowly unlock the door and push it open, thanking whoever would listen that I oil the hinges regularly. My hand strays to my Beretta, sitting against my side. I find the pistol in my grip, pointed forward, my body going into autopilot as I clear my living room and kitchen.

Another soft noise. Coming from my room.

I swivel and advance down the short hall, coming up towards my room. I kneel and push the door open, my gun pointed at the opening.

I hear a scuffle. My window being popped open.

I abandon stealth and crash the door open. Ahead of me, a figure, cloaked in a large white sheet, clambers out of my window and leaps off.

Shit.

I rush past my bed and peer outside. Below me the figure lands on the pavement and runs off, leaping over a parked car before disappearing down an alley.

What.

What just happened.

I don't even-

Focus, Danny, focus. This guy was rummaging around your room for something. Check your room.

I swivel round and sweep my room. Nothing at first glance, but a shine on my desk catches my eye. I can barely see it in the moonlight, but as I switch on my lamp, it snaps into focus. Or, rather, they do.

Two objects. A big metal lockbox with a letter on it. A machete, long, rusty and chipped. I set my handgun down on the table and pick up the letter. In big, black and bold type are the words 'Read Me First'. So I do. Grabbing a letter opener from my desk, I tear open the envelope and pull out the papers within. At first glance, the handwriting is clean, tidy, very formal, but as I read the words that were carefully written on the yellowed paper, I realise a very sobering truth.

This is my dad's handwriting.

But why in the hell is a letter from my dad sitting on top of a box that I can't confirm as not a bomb, a rusting machete, and all this apparently placed by a someone who jumped six storeys down to concrete and lived without any broken bones?

By this time I'm seated on the edge of my bed, questions flooding my mind faster than I can come up with answers. As I read the letter, something becomes startlingly clear: my father had meant for this set of items to be given to me at my 18th, but this was a contingency for if he and mum perished before then. He had planned this years in advance, maybe before I was even born. These items, and the stuff inside the box, are incredibly important to me and apparently, I quote from the letter, "will change your destiny and future from what it is now to something completely different." What did he mean? Tears are filling my eyes but I continue on, for fear that if I stop, I won't finish what my dad started.

I keep reading. At the end, the letter instructs me to open the box, so I do. Inside are two pistols. Springfield M1911 model. Old, extremely old. Above them is a locket, small and ornate in silver and gold. On top of them is another letter. It says to read it next, so I tear it open. The handwriting is even more familiar: it's my mum. Uncontrolled tears well up in my eyes and roll down my cheeks as she pours her heart out to me on paper, words that I hear in my head in her soft, demure voice, almost as if she's right there with me. She tells me that the locket is her most prized possession, and she wanted me to have it if she ever went away for good. But she warns me that it also is quite fragile, and I imagine its contents disintegrating if I so much as opened it wrong. Choking back tears, I read the last bits of the letter, which is a final statement from my dad, saying that I should open the locket only when I think I'm ready to brave what's inside it. What the hell, I've already spent most of my life being brave, or at least trying to.

I sit with the letter for a while, letting my emotions roll over me. It's not pretty, watching a grown man cry, but seeing myself in my wardrobe mirror, I'm reminded of myself as a kid, and I know I haven't changed at all: I'm just a kid in a man's body, scared and unwilling to face the waking world without the comfort of those I've lost.

God I'm such a sissy.

I wipe my tears away and grab the locket, heading into the washroom to clean my face. If I want to face what's in this thing, I want to be focused as I can be. I splash water onto my face several times and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes stare right back, wide and boy-ish, above a thin nose and high cheeks, dusted with freckles, thin lips and a square chin. Short, brown hair in a crewcut, all military style too. Not exactly the picture of male beauty, hell I look horrible, especially with those bags under my eyes.

I look down and see the locket, resting on the white porcelain. I briefly wonder what's inside. I hold it aloft, squeeze my eyes shut, and open it.

I hear a gentle noise. I open my eyes to see a smaller letter resting on the sink, about to get swallowed by leftover water. I grab it and toss it on my bed to read later, then I turn my attention to the locket. Inside the small, thumb length piece of jewellery, is a sepia photo of my parents and me as a kid, all happy and cheerful and full of hope and joy. It's at this point my dam breaks and I go down sobbing, holding the cold thing to my heart as I lose it.

Wait, this thing was cold but not this cold. It's like frostbite.

Stopping for a second, I try to lift the locket to look at it again, but it's fused to my chest.

Oh god what

It's stuck to my chest and it's freezing my damn pecs off. It's almost like it's sucking the heat out of me and replacing it with an almighty cold, converting my blood to ice.

I stumble to my feet and make it into the shower, where I turn on the hot water, full blast, not even thinking at this point. Something impossible happens. The scalding hot water instantly freezes as it impacts my shivering body.

Oh god

I try and try to get it off, but my body's going into shock, no, something beyond shock, as my arms, hair, hands, body, everything gets covered in a thick layer of ice. The shivering goes out of control as I sink to the shower stall floor, curled up around myself as I freeze. The next thing I know, my arm is reaching up to turn off the water, which is the last thing I do before everything goes black.

A cold, deep, dark black.