Shifti - User contributions [en]

User talk:Alex Warlorn

2009-09-03T16:56:50Z

Phaedrus: /* Copyright Concerns */ "Abandonware" stories?

Welcome aboard. You may have noticed we're fixing a few things. We'll make sure your story posts are neat and tidy as you learn how the wiki works. --[[User:JonBuck|Buck]] 17:01, 20 May 2008 (EDT)

Normally I don't edit user pages without explicit permission, but since yours didn't exist yet I hope you didn't mind me moving the text from your category to [[User:Alex Warlorn]]. That page is your "home" page on Shifti where you can put descriptive stuff like that. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 17:46, 20 May 2008 (EDT)

I actually only joined because those two stories of mine got rejected for reasons I felt were both absurd, and other reasons that weren't explained to me until -after- the door was closed. And the profile owner the story is on has a grudge with me over me getting him to remove a line from a chapter of his that completely destroyed the character development of a character he hates, I wrote a chapter where said character evolved as a person, and his one line reverted her back to a delusional obsessive compulsive. So I had to basically use harsh methods to get him to remove the line, and he's never forgiven me it seems. So I felt I had to post them somewhere. 21 May 2008 [[User:Alex Warlorn]]

== Copyright Concerns ==

The people who run Shifti do not have the money to face a copyright suit and your recent uploads of numerous Xanadu stories that you could not find the authors of is worrying. I do know that 'Liquid Courage' was written by Ed Beccerra (I hope I got his name spelled correctly) but beyond that I am in the dark as much as anyone. When it comes to copyrights we are very particular and if any complaints arrive the stories will be pulled without any hesitation. In the future please be even more careful about things like copyright. -- [[User:ShadowWolf|ShadowWolf]] 16:14, 22 August 2009 (UTC)

" 'Liquid Courage' was written by Ed Beccerra" just going by the by-line that included in the story. -Warlorn, August 22 09

:Would it be possible for you to contact the original authors for permission to post these here? If they're up on the net elsewhere, perhaps consider using external links instead of posting the content here if you can't get permission. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 06:03, 3 September 2009 (UTC)

I posted these stories here BECAUSE the websites they were on no longer exist! They were deleted by a hacker who left a comic book character showing the finger. And I contacted what authors I could and indeed got their permission. -- Warlorn Sept 3 2009

:Well, that's a good start. Which ones were you able to contact? Also, where's the hacked site? Perhaps we can contact the site admin and get it fixed. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 14:11, 3 September 2009 (UTC)
:: It sounds like what you're describing is the literary equivalent of "abandonware" software -- a work that is covered by copyright, but where the copyright owner can no longer be found, and where the work is no longer in publication (and thus cannot easily be obtained in a strictly legal way). If you look around the net, you'll find a number of abandonware sites. And if you look at them, you'll find that they tend to share a number of common characteristics: they tend to be kept separate from sites that carry more conventional types of copyrighted works; they tend to be very careful to explain what they do, and to describe how they determine that the software is really "abandoned"; they have a very clear mechanism through which someone who claims to be a copyright holder can object; and it is not uncommon that they run into legal problems anyway. Personally, I think that preserving abandoned works like this is a great thing to do. If you were to set up a site to preserve abandoned fiction of this sort, and take the risk involved in doing so, I would cheer you on. But it really needs to be separate from a more conventional site like Shifti -- think about how bad it would be if a legal problem forced all of Shifti to be taken down. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 16:56, 3 September 2009 (UTC)

Talk:Ami's Song

2009-09-03T06:03:09Z

Phaedrus: Link to it on the category page?

I hate to be That Guy, but since the original poster said "I don't own this, wish I did", shouldn't it be removed per [[Shifti:Copyrights]]? [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 05:30, 3 September 2009 (UTC)

:Indeed, quite right. Alex, do you know the original author and/or can you contact him for permission? If not, this will quite sadly have to be removed (it's an old favorite of mine too so I don't say that with any eagerness, sigh). If it's up somewhere else on the 'net feel free to put external links to it anywhere on Shifti that they might reasonably go, links are fine. But we can't copy without permission. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 05:58, 3 September 2009 (UTC)
::Putting a link on the Xanadu category page would make a lot of sense; that way people interested in the setting would still find the story. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 06:03, 3 September 2009 (UTC)

Talk:Ami's Song

2009-09-03T05:30:18Z

Phaedrus: Copyright problem?

I hate to be That Guy, but since the original poster said "I don't own this, wish I did", shouldn't it be removed per [[Shifti:Copyrights]]? [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 05:30, 3 September 2009 (UTC)

Help talk:Posting stories

2009-09-02T05:44:14Z

Phaedrus: A few suggestions

== User Subpages ==

A note on the User Subpages... posting stories under User:username/storyname categorizes the story title under "U" instead of the first letter of the story, and the "User:username" shows up on the Category:Story page. Kinda ugly. :) Did I do something wrong? (Other than that, everything looks great!) Thanks. -[[User:Virmir|Virmir]] 00:43, 19 July 2007 (EDT)

:You didn't do anything wrong, I just hadn't got around to creating a page describing some of the little gotchas of MediaWiki's categorization scheme yet. :) I've just banged one together as a result, you can find it at [[Help:Categorization]]. Basically, if you want to change how your page is sorted in the category listing you can provide an alternate sort key either for that one specific category (<nowiki>[[Category:Story|Slips of Paper]]</nowiki>) or as a new default for all categories on that page (<nowiki>{{DEFAULTSORT:Slips of Paper}}</nowiki>). [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 00:47, 19 July 2007 (EDT)

::Excellent. Thanks for the help! -[[User:Virmir|Virmir]] 17:01, 21 July 2007 (EDT)

==Tutorial==

BD, I think we need a very basic primer on how to create pages in a wiki format. It's not really intuitive for new users. It's not really intuitive for myself, for that matter, and I've used it more often. It needs to be laid out in plain language. --[[User:JonBuck|Buck]] 15:32, 21 July 2007 (EDT)

==Special characters==

I'm working on adding a bit about the use of smart/curly quotes on pages. Beyond "Don't use them in page names" are there any other "gotchas" I should mention? — [[User:ShadowWolf|ShadowWolf]] 16:07, 14 August 2007 (EDT)

:The only quote-related gotcha I can think of is if one wants to combine italics or boldface with a single quote, as in "that is the ''llamas''<nowiki>'</nowiki> scepter! It belongs to them!" MediaWiki is Unicode compliant and in theory should be able to swallow practically any character one wishes to throw at it without problems on our side of things. The only risk is that some peoples' browsers won't be able to display them properly. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 20:20, 14 August 2007 (EDT)

:Now that I think of it, we don't really need to "ban" obscure characters in titles either. If there's a title that's hard to type on a common standard keyboard, one can simply create a redirect from the easy title to the correct one. [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 20:26, 14 August 2007 (EDT)

== Re: Buck's Confusion ==

It's like this, Buck...

According to the Help files on posting your stories, it says that in order to create a new story, simply create a link on your existing user page and it will make a new page for the story to be edited. But if the story is to be part of a series, then the help files say that you should make the link on the user page go to a page that all of the stories in that series will stem from, which is why it appears that there is a normal page for it.

But then, the Help files say that in order to get your story listed into the proper 'quick links' section, Categories for example, that you have to place a (category:TITLE) link at the bottom of your story page, which creates a NEW Category page that AGAIN must be edited, therefore, it appears on the site that there is two of these pages.

As I said before, the Help files are not very clear on this AND if you think you're confused over it, then you should try to use the Help files as-is, posting exactly as it says, and you, too, will get the same results that I am getting. It simply makes no sense in the way it is written.

When ShadowWolf deleted my normal page for the TFA stemming page the first time, it screwed up the link leading to that page on the user page, and the Help files go on to say that it is the user's responsibility to make sure that all links lead exactly where you intend them to lead. And because it became ShadowWolf's fault for deleting that page, it should have also became his responsibility to make sure the User Page link led to the actual page that he intended the link to lead to. Because he did not update that link, I had to remake the page, because the Help files said that it was my responsibility to do it.

You people really should re-read over your own Help files. It isn't very clear at all. And THAT is why you're confused, Buck.
--[[User:Darjamvan|Riptide the Rat]] 21:46, 27 September 2007 (EDT)

:If there is a blank page (or a page that, as a result of a move, contains nothing but a redirect) I will delete it. Doubly so if more than two hours have passed since the changes happened. I don't exactly remember this specific page, but if I deleted it soon after the move then I'm sorry about that. In any event, please don't create "holding pages" ahead of time–the namespace for titles is still very open. And with it being a standard practice to create stories as user-namespace subpages namespace collisions will be a long ways off. — [[User:ShadowWolf|ShadowWolf]] 23:19, 14 October 2007 (EDT)

==Possible tweaks==
I'm nowhere near comfortable enough with this site to even think about editing help files, but here's a few areas that might need tweaking, since they seem to be inconsistent with other help files and/or the way that most pages on the site are written:
*The Categories section says that once you create a category for yourself, you should edit the category page and add <nowiki>[[Category:Stories by author]]</nowiki>. From looking at the other help (and at the vast majority of the author category pages), it looks like what you really want to do is just set the text of the category page to <nowiki>{{author category}}</nowiki>, since that adds the standard text to the page as well as adding the page to the category.
*The Categories section also mentions that admins can help you out with categorization, but doesn't mention the <nowiki>{{needs category}}</nowiki> template you can add to the talk page to actually request this help.
*The Categories section mentions <nowiki>[[Category:Adult]] and {{XXX}},</nowiki> which makes it sound like these are appropriate for all mature stories. It doesn't mention <nowiki>{{Violence}}</nowiki>, which tripped me up -- I wound up flagging a violent story with <nowiki>{{XXX}}</nowiki> instead, and possibly traumatizing someone for life. :)
*Here we get more philosophical: A new author who's not used to the concept of wikis is probably already going to be struggling with the basics of formatting and stuff. Telling the new author that they have to make a decision of whether to put their story in the main namespace or in a user subpage -- and throwing around words like "disambiguation" when discussing the pros and cons -- has probably sent at least one would-be author screaming into the night. :) From looking at the comments on other pages, it looks like most folks have concluded that creating new stories as a user subpage is usually the right decision. And if that's the case, then rather than having the current open-ended discussion about it, it might be better to put the description of creating a user subpage first, flat-out say that this is the way it should be normally be done, and then list the exceptional cases where it shouldn't be done that way. ("If you're going to want others to edit your story, or if you're writing a collaborative story with multiple authors, then here's how to create a story page that anyone can edit...") [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 05:44, 2 September 2009 (UTC)

Talk:A Flash of Lightning

2009-09-02T05:28:13Z

Phaedrus: Still looking for help/suggestions?

I guess this is the start of the "Sound of Thunder" idea we've been discussing. Good start. --[[User:JonBuck|Buck]] 23:40, 29 July 2007 (EDT)

:Yup. Main character turned out to be a monkey-cat instead, though. Will add lizardy goodness soon I think. :) [[User:Bryan|Bryan]] 00:41, 30 July 2007 (EDT)

Are you still looking for help/suggestions on this? It's listed on the [[Editor's corner]] page, but it looks like you've put things on hold for now. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 05:28, 2 September 2009 (UTC)

User:Phaedrus

2009-09-02T04:25:15Z

Phaedrus: Tweaks to description

I used to be a fairly active denizen of the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I have a [http://www.lycanon.org/stories website] with some of my own stories (which I've also copied over here), as well as some very good stories that were written by others for various [http://www.lycanon.org/transcontest/index.html contests] (which I can't copy over here since they aren't mine).

I went for years without writing any fiction, but a recent storyverse on TSA-Talk has me writing at least a little, so I might get started again -- we'll see what happens.
==Story Series==

*[[User:Phaedrus/A_Trickster's_Tail|A Trickster's Tail]] (ADULT)

==Completed Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Commission|Commission]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Field_Trip|Field Trip]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation|Reinkarmation]] (ADULT)
*[[User:Phaedrus/Transitions|Transitions]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Wishes|Wishes]]

==Unfinished Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Outfoxed|Outfoxed]]

{{author page}}
[[Category:Phaedrus]]

Category:Phaedrus

2009-09-02T04:22:41Z

Phaedrus: Switching category to the standard template

User talk:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-31T17:38:28Z

Phaedrus: Response to WolfyDrake95

I strongly advise that you remove the Adult tag from this story and simply use the author's note as a disclaimer. The "adult" material is minor and I would hate to think someone missed out on your wonderful story because they were turned off by those three red Xes. --[[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 03:14, 30 August 2009 (UTC)
: Thank you so much for the advice (and for listing this story in your favorites -- that's a real honor). I'm not at all sure what to do with this. It seems to me that there are two ways that something can be 'adult'. One way is by being explicit. There's not really any of that in this story -- there's some foul language, but nothing out of the ordinary these days; and there's some sexual content, but it's left to the imagination. But it seems to me that something can also be 'adult' purely on its themes, and I still have the feeling that that's the case here. I mean, it does have sexual intercourse going on ''during'' a transformation (a transformation to full-animal form by both parties, no less), and I think that the mere concept of that would be offensive to a substantial number of people. And I'm inclined to err on the side of caution. So I think I'll leave the 'adult' tag for now. But I'll definitely think it over; when I become more familiar with the site and see how other similar stories are tagged, I might change my mind. --[[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 03:40, 30 August 2009 (UTC)
::That makes sense. I guess my definition of adult comes from having to sift through the stuff on CYOC >< --[[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 13:18, 30 August 2009 (UTC)
:::I've revised the author's note, though, to make this as clear as I can without venturing into spoiler territory. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 15:50, 30 August 2009 (UTC)

I don't know what to say, but I just want to tell you that I enjoyed this story very much. It's a huge pity that you've stopped writing it; it certainly is a very good story. Oh, and I agree with Lloyd...it's not really ''that'' explicit. Still, once again, great story! :) —[[User:WolfyDrake95|Drake]] 14:14, 31 August 2009 (UTC)
: Thank you so much! I don't know how likely it is that I'll ever do another proper Trickster's Tail segment, but I have to admit, the odds recently rose from 'zero'... there's a storyverse called "Dire Warning" going on right now on the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I've written a few pieces for that. I'm not posting them here because they make no sense outside of the context of Kris Schnee's stories (heck, I'm not sure they make sense ''within'' that context), but Kickaha and Keith do make an appearance... and after ten years, they're understandably a little cranky. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 17:38, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

User:Phaedrus/Commission

2009-08-31T17:28:57Z

Phaedrus: Fixed formatting glitch

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Commission}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Fox}}
{{title|name=Commission|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

Greywing smiled to himself. It had been a good con, well worth showing up for. The crowds had been reasonably well-behaved, the organizers were on the ball, and the ventilation system in the hall was wonderful. The hall was nearly dead now--it was a Sunday night, the last night of the con, and people had lives to get back to--and many of the tables were empty now, their occupants already heading home, or for the next con. But the aisles had been packed for most of the day, and for Friday and Saturday before that, and sales had been good.

And, if he was any judge of character, they were about to get better.

''Go ahead. Make the first move. You know you will.''

The man in the grey Erma Felna T-shirt had already passed his table three times, maybe more. Each time, he had stopped for a few moments, looking at the table out of the corner of his eye, then moved on. This time, he had stopped two tables away... but he was still looking this way.

''Not quite ready yet? That's fine. I'm not going anywhere. And I bet you aren't either. Go on, have a look at his stuff. It's good. But you're after something else, aren't you?''

He was old for the room--in his mid-thirties at least, maybe even his forties. His T-shirt and jeans were new, and his shoes were expensive Nikes. And he had that little look of wonder and discomfort on his face, that screamed "This is my first con" to anyone with the eyes to see it.

''You've heard the stories about me, though, haven't you? Don't worry. See? I don't bite. I'm not even making eye contact. Wouldn't you like to meet me? You're not going to do it standing over there, you know.''

A midlife crisis, probably; too much money to know what to do with, and out to recapture his lost childhood. Perfect.

''Still wondering whether you'd rather spend your money somewhere else? Take your time. Take all the time you need.''

Smile never wavering, Greywing picked up a sketchbook from the pile, flipped through it. A theme book--Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! He chuckled, considering his options. A lyin', bare tiger, perhaps? No; wouldn't fit with the rest of the book. He sharpened a pencil, then started on an anthro lioness, holding the book where the man in the Felna shirt could almost--but not quite--see what he was doing.

''Wouldn't you like to have a look at this? This is nothing, you know. I have so many wonderful things to show you. Just a few steps this way...''

He was about a third of the way through the sketch when the man in the Felna shirt finally walked up, grinning nervously.

Greywing closed the book, put it back on top of the pile. "May I help you?" ''You know I can.''

"Um, yes. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Greywing... I've seen some of your work, and I'm very fond of it. I understand that you do commissions? I have something in mind..."

"That I do," Greywing replied, handing him The Binder. His best stuff. Not the originals, of course, but good color copies. "I've got about a six-week backlog right now, but I can certainly schedule you in. Why don't you have a look through here? If you can point out something that's close to what you want, it'll help me know where to start. And if you happen to find exactly what you're after, well, then you've saved yourself some money."

''No, you won't find exactly what you're after. You know it, and I know it. You don't want something that ten people already have. You want an '''original'''. It's all over your face.''

"Sounds good," the man replied, and opened it. Greywing watched his reactions carefully.

''In two pages, you'll reach the price list, and one of two things will happen.''

''You'll keep going, and you'll be mine.''

''Or you'll put the book down and give me an excuse for why you'll be back in a few minutes, and I'll never see you again.''

''But you don't want to do that, do you? A man like you won't let a little money stand in the way, will you?''

The man turned a page, turned another... paused for a few long seconds, then continued, turning pages slowly.

''Told you so. There, see how easy that was?'' Greywing smiled just a bit more, and went back to his lioness.

Ten minutes later, he'd sold three portfolios to a bunch of kids looking to blow the rest of their money before they headed home. He was putting the finishing touches on the lioness when the man reached the last page.

"See anything you like?"

"Well, there's one here that's close to right."

''Someone who doesn't say, "Oh, I like everything." A point for you, sir.'' "Then let's have a look."

The man spread The Binder open on the table; the colored ribbons glued to the spine were tucked in between various pages. ''And someone who can figure out what a bookmark is for. Another point.''

He flipped to an anthro fox. "This is just about what I'm after... the eyes, the proportions, the stance. But the style isn't quite what I had in mind; it's a little bit too cartoony. I was hoping for something a little more along the lines of what you did with this otter..." He turned to another page.

''Good taste.'' "So, you're after something realistic, but still not crossing over into 'grim'? Just a little bit on the light side?"

"Yeah, that's it exactly. And the color scheme... the red is a little strong. Could you mix in a little more brown, like you did on this one?" He flipped back to the fox, pointed out a natural one on the next page.

"Okay, I see. That might make the white in the chest seem a little brighter; do you want me to mix a little more grey in that?"

"No, I don't think so; leave it like that. And the tail... maybe it's just the perspective, but the tail seems a little shorter than I had in mind."

"All right. Let me get this all down." Greywing pulled out a pen and an order sheet, wrote down several lines. Most of it was gibberish, even to him. ''Doctors and lawyers have it right... if the patient can understand it, it loses half its appeal. If someone wants to spend their money, help them feel like they're spending it on something deep and Byzantine, something they couldn't possibly understand. They'll enjoy it all the more.'' "Everything else looks okay? The posture, the hands and feet, the ears, that sort of thing?" ''This is where you come up with one more little change, so you feel like you had the last word.''

"Well... the ears could be a little bit wider, more rounded. Other than that, it all looks great."

''Very good.'' Greywing drew a few quick ear curves on the sheet. "Something like one of these, then?"

"That last one is perfect."

''Of course it is.'' "All right, I think we're set." Greywing circled the last curve, added a few more nonsense abbreviations, dropped the pen on the form and pushed them both across the table. "Just fill the rest of this out... and your check, of course..."

''Not a bad choice, actually. It'll be more than worth the money, won't it? You'll show it off at all the parties, and tell your friends where you got it. Trust me.''

----

Some weeks later, George was at his desk, leaning into his speakerphone. He was not a happy man.

"Dammit, Jay, you were supposed to have this fixed three builds ago! QA is breathing fire down my butt... we were supposed to go beta a week ago! What is the damn problem here?"

"Boss, we've been through this... I've traced it every which way, and it's NT screwing up, there's no other explanation. I've got Micro--"

"Jay, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard 'It's an OS bug', I'd be on a beach in Hawaii right now! I don't care... who..."

He ground to a halt. Something was tickling his ear.

He reached up, and felt... fur.

For the first time all day, he smiled.

"I'm turning into a fox, Jay. Could I call you back?"

There was a long pause. "Umm... sure, boss. Good luck with that." The line went dead.

But George didn't hear it. He was already halfway to the bathroom. Thank God, it was empty. He stood at the mirror, and watched.

The change had already covered the top of his head, spreading downward in smooth, steady strokes. His ears had just the curve he was after. He turned his head to one side, then watched in fascination as his muzzle rippled out from his face in six quick lurches.

His arms came next. followed by his chest and back. He had been so wrapped up in watching the change that he had forgotten to remove his shirt; no matter--it simply disappeared, bit by bit, as the fur encroached on it. He hurried to a stall and pulled off his shoes and pants, just before his new claws sprouted from his hands.

He sat on the toilet, watched as the wave of reddish-brown slowly worked its way down, as his legs and feet gradually twisted into their new digitigrade shape. He stood up, marvelling at how natural it already felt. As he did, he felt a tingle; he looked behind him, and saw his new tail lengthening, stroke by stroke, until it touched the floor. He wiggled it experimentally. It felt good.

He went back to the mirror--leaving the remains of his clothing forgotten in the stall--and stared again at the mirror, at his face, at his now-green eyes. Just as he had imagined. And even a little bit better.

He felt one last tickle, on the front of his left leg, just above the ankle. He looked down, and saw it... a greyish marking, subtle, but clearly visible in the reddish fur. He didn't recognize it at first; then something clicked. He smiled, and lifted his foot up to the mirror. Sure enough; in the reflected image, it was perfectly clear... a flowing "G", and the stylized curve of a bird's wing.

He nodded to himself. Perfect. He couldn't wait to show it around.

But first, he headed back to his office. Jay was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that...

----

Greywing smiled, waiting for the ink to dry, admiring his work. He stretched his arms, feathers ruffling against the chair. ''You know, he's right; that color scheme does work. You learn something new every day...''

He muttered two Words, then passed a hand over the page, locking the Matrix in place. He stamped his address on the back of the drawing, slid it into a sheet protector, slipped that into a mailing envelope--along with his catalog, of course. Thirty seconds later, the envelope was sealed, addressed and in the mailbag.

''Another satisfied customer.''

He scanned the next order sheet in the pile--an Appaloosa stallion. He licked the edge of his beak, mapped out the color scheme in his mind, and started to draw...

{{author note|I included this note when I originally posted this story to the TSA-Talk list. Despite my misgivings, the reaction was actually pretty positive.

I usually don't think of myself as an author. If I called myself an author, that would imply that I come up with my own ideas--that I think my own characters up, for example. And sometimes, I believe that's true. But most of the time, I can't shake the suspicion that the characters think themselves up. Then they show up on my doorstep--probably because the people on the list who can actually write are already booked solid--and wait for me to do something intelligent with them. So I feel kind of bad when a story misfires; I feel like I've let the character down.

Greywing showed up a few weeks ago. This is the best home I've been able to come up with for him so far. It's far from my best--it has pretty much every "wrong thing to do in a short story" from our recent discussion on the list. Please don't hold it against him.}}

User talk:Phaedrus/Commission

2009-08-31T17:06:55Z

Phaedrus: Response to WolfyDrake95

Isn't this story on the TSA Archive? It was one of my favourites there. I'm not sure why I like it so much; I think it's because of the way Greywing seems analyse the man, George, and predict his actions so accurately. Everything Greywing thinks will happen, ''happens''...the feeling that Greywing is some all-knowing person (or at least close to that) is present, and I think that's cool. Anyway, this is a great story...I'd have told you that when I read it on the TSA, but I didn't have a clue how to. —[[User:WolfyDrake95|Drake]] 13:53, 31 August 2009 (UTC)
: Thank you so much! I was trying to convey the impression of someone who's been doing this for a long time, someone who's seen it all but hasn't quite become jaded and cynical about it yet, and I think I came close. I don't think that Greywing is all-knowing -- heck, he seems quite unsure about whether George will even go through with it -- but he's more than happy to convey that impression, because that's what his customers want. (If ''you'' were going to risk your body and your money on this sort of 'commission', would you want an artist who seemed unsure of himself?)
: As long as you've got me talking about this story, a couple of other things that leap to mind: First, this may be the only story I've written where I've tried to slip something past the reader and actually had it work -- nobody seems to notice that there's no physical description of Greywing until the end of the piece. If the reader knew what Greywing looked like up-front, it would be a very different story. And second, Greywing is not modelled on any particular real-world artist. Over the years, three people who've emailed me have been passionately convinced that they knew who Greywing 'really was'; the irony is that in all three cases they picked artists that I'd never even heard of. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 17:06, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

User talk:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-31T14:58:22Z

Phaedrus: Response to WolfyDrake95

Talk about unbalanced punishments (I think, was he planning to kill his marks?) -- Alex Warlorn August 30 2009
: That's an interesting observation. I'm not sure I can really answer it, because I'm not sure that I can ever really get back into the headspace I was in when I wrote that story. But let me do the best I can...
: First of all, it was intended as a nasty story. If the victim deserves everything that's coming to him -- if the punishment fits the crime -- then a lot of the nastiness goes away. In fact, the fact that the victim was a criminal at all was a weakness in the story, a concession to my own squeamishness at writing it; I couldn't have written this sort of story about a truly innocent victim.
: Second, the transformer character is pretty clearly psychotic. And sure, he says a lot of stuff about his intentions that could be described as noble. But then again, there's no real evidence anywhere else in the story that what he's saying is true; and he's saying those things to someone he fully intends to double-cross in the worst possible way, in order to build up false hopes. And if we needed any further reason to be distrustful, note that the entire beginning of the story revolves around an elaborate lie set up by this same character. So rather than thinking of this as "punishment", it might be better to think about it as "preying on a predator".
: And third, I have to admit that I've always had a hard time with the notion that financial crimes -- especially large ones -- are somehow fundamentally different from violent crimes. In a capitalist society, money is just as much a part of a person's wellbeing as their physical health. Suppose that Mr. X works hard all his life, saving his money and living well below his means, so that he can enjoy a dream lifestyle after he retires. And suppose that, on the day that retirement finally arrives, Mr. Y comes along and kills him. Obviously, that would be really really horrible. Now suppose that Mr. Y comes along and steals all his money (and that the money is never recovered). How much less horrible -- and how much less reprehensible -- is this? The golden years Mr. X has worked so hard for are wiped out either way. In one case, Mr. X's life is over on the spot; in the other, Mr. X, who is now too old to work, faces years of poverty and hardship. How much worse is one than the other? How much less reprehensible is it to steal from the vulnerable and defenseless than it is to beat them up?
: And, of course, having pointed out the horrors of financial crime, note that the story is highly ambiguous here. We know that the vast majority of Scott's stolen money was moved beyond the reach of the investigators. But we don't know when that happened. Did Scott do it himself? Or did the coyote steal it, and leave only a fraction of the innocent victims' money for the investors to find? There's no answer -- though that satellite dish raises questions. I'm only mentioning this as one more case of "If you think you've found anything 'good' in either of the main characters, you may want to look at the story in a different way." 01:20, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

You might want to change the XXX tag to a Violence tag: <nowiki>{{Violence}}</nowiki>. XXX usually means explicit sexual material; Violence is more along the lines of "gore" and "disgusting things" that this story seems to have (no offense). —[[User:WolfyDrake95|Drake]] 14:00, 31 August 2009 (UTC)
: Thank you; I was completely unaware of that tag. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 14:58, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-31T14:57:42Z

Phaedrus: Changed XXX to Violence

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Gorilla]][[Category:Horror]][[Category:Adult]][[Category:Mental change]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Reinkarmation}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Gorilla}}
{{title|name=Reinkarmation|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1998 Phaedrus

{{Violence}}
{{author note|This story was written for a contest on the TSA-Talk mailing list. The theme of the contest was "nasty stories." This story won. It is indeed nasty, involving a variety of distasteful acts. '''Please''' don't read this if you're young or easily offended.}}

When Scott returned from his day at the beach, there was a paper bag on his doorstep. A note, in a familiar handwriting, was attached:

: Darling,

: Is there something wrong? Now that we're engaged, we're supposed to be seeing ''more'' of each other, aren't we?

: I hope you haven't forgotten about the costume party tonight at six; I've been ''so'' looking forward to it. Remember, it's at Fourth and Ivy--you can't miss it. Please do be there; I'm so concerned about you...

: Debbie

Scott sighed, crumpled up the note. Costume party? Of all the dumb ideas... But, dammit, he had to go. Anything to keep her happy--for the next three months or so, at least.

He looked at his watch. Shit. 5:15. And the cab was long gone already. He grabbed the bag without a second, went inside, called the cab company--they'd have another cab there in 15 minutes--it would be close, but he'd make it. Then he opened the bag, pulled out the costume.

A gorilla suit.

He was halfway through dialing the cab company's number again when he got hold of himself, took a deep breath. It was all for Debbie. All for Debbie. That beautiful face. Those beautiful eyes. Those twelve million beautiful dollars. His biggest haul yet, by far, if he could pull it off.

One night of utter embarrassment was a damn small price to pay.

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, he quickly stripped down to his underwear, and slipped into the suit. He was half-hoping that it wouldn't fit--but, knowing Debbie, it would. And, sure enough, it did. He had to admit, it was a ''damn good'' gorilla suit. It was made from some kind of stretch fabric; it was tight, but comfortable. It put just the right amount of pressure on his knees and waist, pulling him down into a realistic-looking half-squat. The hands and feet were nicely detailed, and the head was incredible; he could see clearly out the eye-holes, and the jaw even moved with his own. Some nobody in Taiwan had worked overtime on this thing.

There seemed to be only two problems. First, he could barely hear a thing. But, with Debbie's friends, that would be a big plus with him. Second, there were no pockets.

The taxi honked.

Scott cursed a blue streak. No time to worry about that. He grabbed a twenty from his wallet, and the note. He'd get a ride back with Debbie. Those eyes. Those lips. Those bank accounts.

----

Sure enough, the party was impossible to miss. The taxi arrived at six on the dot--but Debbie must have wanted him to be fashionably late. Things were in full swing, and nobody batted an eye as Scott shuffled through the door. Even with his ears covered, the music managed to be loud; he doubted he would understand the lyrics even without the suit, and didn't mind in the least.

He saw no sign of Debbie--of course, he had no idea what she'd be wearing, so that didn't mean much. Well, he'd just have to mingle; as long as he was embarrassing himself, there was no reason to do it halfway. And she'd recognize him; he was the only gorilla in the room...

There was only one other "animal" in the room--in some kind of humanoid dog suit, the sort of thing a mascot would wear. As good a place to start as any. So he headed that way, walking on his knuckles as best he could, and ook-ing up a storm.

As he got closer, his target turned, saw him, and immediately started clapping. It was a coyote, not a dog; and he--it was definitely a he--was at least nine inches too tall to be Debbie. Still, Scott thought, it would be nice to have someone to be embarrassed with; and this fellow seemed agreeable enough.

Between the suits and the music, conversation was impossible. But the two of them seemed to synthesize an act from thin air--the coyote and his pet gorilla--and started working the room with it. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.

Wherever they went in the room, there were ripples of applause. People shook the coyote's paw. People patted Scott on the head. People talked to the coyote; Scott couldn't understand a word of it over the music, but it seemed very pleasant, and everyone would smile and laugh. People would lean down to try to talk to Scott; he couldn't understand a word of that either, but he nodded and ooked in reply, and everyone laughed.

Many people brought them drinks; and they accepted graciously. Thanks to the marvelous mask, Scott found drinking out of a glass to be no problem. And he realized that this was one of those wondrous times in life when public drunkenness can actually be an advantage; the more he drank, the less embarrassed he felt. The more he drank, the easier it got to shamble around the room on all fours, and the more convincing his hoots and grunts became. He was having a blast.

When he started having trouble holding the glass correctly, the coyote disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bowl; people simply poured the drinks into it, and he lapped them up. The applause doubled.

The evening spun happily on. More people arrived. The music blared. Scott couldn't see straight anymore, but that was all right; he could still hear bits and pieces of the laughter. He just smiled, and grunted, and licked the bowl clean. Everybody was happy...

Everything faded to black.

----

Some time later, Scott came to, slowly. He was under a table. The music was gone. Every cell in his body screamed in agony. He howled. Somebody walked over, petted him; it was the coyote. He said something, and poured something from a bottle into Scott's bowl. Almost without thought, Scott slurped it down, and within moments everything felt warm and wonderful again.

Something poked him, softly. He looked up; the coyote was gesturing towards the door, and saying something--Scott could make out the word "home". The coyote took a few steps toward the door, holding the bowl and the bottle, and beckoned for Scott to follow.

A ride home. That would be nice.

Scott shambled out after the coyote, walking expertly on all fours.

Outside, the jumble of cars had long since cleared; just a few scattered vehicles were left. One of them was a green van with tinted windows. The coyote opened the rear doors, and beckoned Scott inside. Scott hopped in happily. There was something odd about the van, he thought; but he couldn't think of what it was. And just then, the coyote put the bowl down next to him, and filled it up again; and Scott stopped paying attention to the van. As he slurped up the contents of the bowl, he barely noticed the doors slam shut.

Scott slumped to the floor. Everything was so hot all of a sudden; and he was so tired...

In a few seconds, he was fast asleep.

The van smoothly drove away into the night.

----

By the time Scott woke up again, the sun was high in the sky.

The pain was back, but nowhere near as bad as last time. Scott managed not to cry out. He had had many, many hangovers before, and he knew what to do. He waited for his senses to report on how bad things were.

He could hear the van's engine rumbling, the gentle vibrations from the road.

He could feel the pain in his muscles. His bladder throbbed with pain, full to the bursting point; and he could feel the dampness in his skin, smell the gentle stench of urine.

''Oh, God. A bad one.''

He finally managed to open his eyes...and he saw a blur of silver.

''Huh?''

He pulled himself up a few inches, got his eyes to focus.

He was in a cage.

Adrenaline surged through him. Almost instantly, he was fully awake.

He looked around. The cage filled the rear half of the van, with solid metal mesh on all six sides. The floor was lined with straw; there was a rubber ball and a big bunch of bananas in one corner, and a feeding tube poking through one wall, hooked to a large bottle of clear fluid. He was still in the suit; the fur at the waist was damp with urine.

Gods, he hadn't even noticed that the suit was anatomically correct...

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead! It's nice to have you up, the road getslonely."

He whirled to face the front of the van. The coyote was driving.

"What the '''''fuck''''' are you do..." yelled Scott, and ground to a halt, eyes wide. He had meant to say that; but it had come out as an incomprehensible mishmash of hoots and grunts.

The coyote laughed. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't speak your language."

There was something different about the coyote. His head was smaller, more refined-looking; the padded paws were gone, replaced by clawed hands, still covered with golden fur.

What the hell was going on?

Then Scott noticed the two bundles of fur on the floor next to the driver's seat--one of them golden-brown, the other a very familiar, deeper shade...

A few seconds of utter panic followed, as Scott groped for the zipper that was no longer there, pulled at his own head in the desperate hope that it would come off. His hands caught on something, but it wasn't a suit; it was a collar, tight around his neck--a collar that didn't seem to have a buckle...

"Whaddaya think? A pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

Scott rushed towards the front of the cage, slammed his massive shoulder into it once, twice...

It didn't budge a millimeter.

"Unless you think you can pick those locks back there, I'd listen reeeeal carefully to what I'm about to say."

Scott ground to a halt, muscles still quivering. He stared at the coyote--the coyote glanced back once, in the rear-view mirror, then turned his eyes back to the road.

"You're probably wondering why I've called this meeting," the coyote said, conversationally. "Well, I'll be happy to tell you--it's a lot more fun to watch if you know exactly what's happening...

"You've been a real asshole, Scott. You've done some pretty damn nasty things, and you've managed to fuck up a lot of decent people's lives. You've made yourself a problem, Scott. And I'm a problem-solver from wayback.

"You've got one thing going for you. I don't kill people. Death is messy, and it's bad karma. Life is a precious thing, even when it's wasted on a shithead like you. And frankly, killing you would be letting you off pretty damn easy. So, when I run into useless specimens of humanity such as yourself, I just find a way to make 'em useful. There's not many things out there that are so damn useless that you can't find ''something'' to do with 'em if you try hard enough. We coyotes are kinda resourceful that way.

"In your case, the answer is pretty damn simple. You've been a completely useless specimen of a human being, but with a few weeks of training, you'll make a very nice gorilla. Before you know it, you'll be in a zoo somewhere, providing cheap amusement value to thousands. For once in your life, you'll actually be useful. Won't that be nice?"

Scott slammed into the walls of the cage; the coyote just laughed. He tried to find the latch to the door; the coyote just laughed. He screamed and howled until he was hoarse; the coyote just laughed, and turned up the radio. Finally, he stood at the front of the cage, and pissed until his bladder was empty; he hosed down the coyote, the seat, the dashboard. The coyote laughed harder than ever. "You're getting the idea already!" He even leaned to one side, away from the seat, giving Scott a better angle of aim. Then, when Scott finally ran dry, the coyote got up, turned around--the van rolled on, apparently driving itself--and expertly returned fire. The barrage went on for minutes on end, impossibly long and impossibly strong; the whole cage was damp with urine, and Scott was a dripping mass of wet fur huddled in the back corner of the cage. Finally, the coyote sat back down in the damp driver's seat, and turned his attention back to the road, still laughing.

For long minutes, perhaps an hour, Scott sat in the back of the cage, glumly staring out the windshield at the unfamiliar road. The coyote howled along with the radio, and hurled good-natured profanities at the other drivers, who never heard or saw a thing.

Gradually, Scott found himself staring less and less at the road, and more and more at the bananas.

He started across the cage towards them... then caught himself, and returned to his corner.

A few minutes later, he went halfway across before he stopped. Then he howled, slammed into the front wall of the cage once more. He grabbed the mesh with both hands, reared his head back, as if to smash his head against the iron... but as he started forward, he came to a halt, as if he had lost his will at the last moment. He tried again, with the same result.

He crawled back to the corner of the cage, and put his head in his hands.

Ten minutes later, he crossed the cage once more, pulled a banana from the bunch, peeled it, and began eating it. Halfway through, he looked at it, threw it down, and retreated to the back corner... but a few minutes later, he returned to finish it off.

A few minutes later, after eating another banana, the gorilla was sucking the feeding tube, enjoying the sugary fluid.

The coyote just smiled. Everything proceeding according to plan.

The van rolled on, into the sunset.

Some hours later, it finally arrived at an isolated ranch. It backed up to a large, caged enclosure, already fitted out with food and straw. With minimal encouragement from the coyote, the gorilla placidly emerged into the larger quarters. The door swung shut, and the locks clicked into place on their own.

"Well, I must say you've been a thoroughly enjoyable guest so far, Scott," the coyote said, chuckling. "Get a good night's sleep; we do have work ahead of us tomorrow." With that, the coyote turned and walked towards his own house, whistling off-key.

To the gorilla, the words were just soothing sounds; as the coyote disappeared through the front door of the house, the gorilla calmly inspected his new surroundings. He picked a comfortable-looking corner, quickly gathered some of the straw into a nest, curled up in it, and drifted off to sleep.

----

Scott woke up just as the sun poked over the horizon in the east.

He rolled over, stretched. ''God, what a weird dream.''

Then he looked down at his furry chest, saw the iron bars surrounding him...

It took just a few seconds for the events of the previous day to sink in.

Then he attacked the door. When that failed, he methodically worked his way around the cage, trying every bar, every weld.

Then he howled at the top of his lungs, for long minutes on end, until he collapsed, gasping, to the dirt floor...

The coyote just rolled over in bed, and smiled.

----

A lesser man would give up hope. But Scott was not about to be a lesser man.

His life settled into a routine. Every morning, he would wake up, knowing what he would see. The straw was always clean; the piles of leaves and fruits were always there, and the feeding tube would always be full. And there, next to the cage door, would be the morning newspaper... and, neatly placed on top of that, a chocolate mint. The writing on the wrapper was always the same: ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US.

He could not break out on his own; there was no question about that. Every morning, he made the rounds, testing every bar and weld of his prison, climbing methodically up the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Every day, he seemed to be a little bit larger, a little bit stronger; but the bars never moved.

He could not yell for help, even if there was any hope of being understood. Wherever he was, nobody seemed to come here... nobody but the coyote. In his first few days here, he had hooted and screeched for most of the morning; and sometimes the coyote had come out to howl along with him. There was never a reply.

Several times, he had tried to kill himself--and had found that that was not an option either. Every time he deliberately tried to hurt himself--by slamming his head into the mesh, or by choking himself on fruit--his will would weaken at the last moment. He wasn't sure whether the magic was responsible, or whether he simply couldn't really conceive of dying--at least not while the coyote lived. For that was his goal now. He doubted that he could ever be changed back. But at least he could have the satisfaction of choking that coyote until his tongue turned blue, until those eyes of his turned red with ruptured blood vessels, until he lost control of his muscles, until his neck finally snapped...

So there was only one course available to him. He would simply have to wait for his captor to make a mistake. And when that mistake happened, Scott would be there to capitalize on it.

But the mistake never seemed to come. Sometimes, the coyote wouldn't even show his face in the morning. Other times, he would sit next to the cage, and watch Scott for hours, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking nonstop about anything at all--the book, the weather, current events, the keepers at the zoos Scott might be visiting. He never sat within reach of the cage. But sometimes, he would sit within a few yards, as if inviting Scott to take a shot at him--and Scott would drink his fill at the tube every morning, just to be ready if that opportunity arose. It clearly didn't faze the coyote in the slightest--in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. But Scott enjoyed it too, and he didn't care what the coyote thought.

But there was one more thing that was constant, every day. Within a few hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Scott would feel his mind start to wander--the gorilla's thoughts creeping in. For the first few days, he fought it--sitting in the corner of the cage, gripping the bars with both hands, concentrating on nothing but don't move. But soon, he learned that it was useless, and switched tactics; he would deliberately act dumb, hoping to lull the coyote into a false sense of security. But the coyote never bought it; in fact, he would almost always leave Scott to himself for the next few hours, as his thoughts spiraled downwards, as his movements in the cage became more and more meandering. And by midafternoon, Scott would be gone, and only the gorilla would be left, gorging itself on leaves, playing with the rubber ball.

It was then, in the evening, that the coyote would enter the cage. The gorilla loved him. He would make soothing sounds to it, and it would placidly watch him as he changed the straw and replenished the food. Then, some nights, he would walk over to it, and smile, and wave a hand; and the gorilla would go limp. And the coyote would kneel down next to it. And one hand would stroke the fur on its chest, while the other hand gently massaged the top of the gorilla's head, sending waves of pleasure that seemed to penetrate all the way into its brain, gently rearranging things...

Eventually, the coyote would finish up its tasks, and smile once more, and leave, taking the old newspaper with him. He never left the new paper, or the mint; they just seemed to show up on their own, during the night.

The gorilla would pace the cage for a few more minutes, then curl up in its corner, and go to sleep.

The next morning, Scott would wake up, and remember all this. He would fantasize for a few minutes, about breaking the coyote's back, about shoving a long stick up his ass and seeing how hard he could twist it, about slamming him into the cage wall until his skull came apart and his brains flew out.

Then, he would go to the door of the cage, and begin methodically testing the bars...

----

That first morning, Scott had urinated on the newspaper, thrown it out of the cage. These days, he read it; there might be something useful, and besides, it was something to do.

Some of the stories were about himself. For the first three days after his disappearance, he was front-page news; after that, he shifted to page two, then farther back. But the stories were always there.

That second morning, when he first read the paper, the stories were about his mysterious disappearance. Police had been called to his residence when his fiance, Deborah Danvers, had gotten no answer to repeated phone calls. There was possible evidence of foul play, police said; there was clothing strewn around the living room, as well as his wallet and identification. There was a photograph of Debbie crying, pleading for any word. Scott had hoped; ''maybe they would look here.'' But there was no mention of the party, no last known whereabouts. The police had no leads.

And the next day, the lead story wasn't about the search. It was about a taxi driver, who said that he had picked Scott up at his home, taken him to the bank, then to the airport. He had said that he was leaving for two weeks in Bermuda; but he had no luggage, just a briefcase. He had seemed nervous, irritable. He hadn't tipped. The police hedged; there was a strong possibility that his disappearance was voluntary, they said. The search continued.

The day after that, the nothings started to come out of the woodwork, and they were talking. His old boss in New York, and those "accounting discrepancies". The geezers in Pensecola, and their "investment fund". The DA in Orange County, who thought that he might be the "Gregory Scott" wanted for insurance fraud. A search warrant was being sought for his bank accounts, as well as for a storage locker near his residence...

The day after that, the search had been called off; he was believed to have fled the country. Fingerprints were being sent to the FBI, for comparison to those of other wanted felons. Debbie was interviewed once again, this time wondering how she could have been so close to a man, and been so wrong about him...

By this time, Scott was losing interest. There was only one detail that concerned him; and, in the next few days, it played itself out. One by one, his bank accounts, his brokerage accounts, his safe deposit boxes, were turned up. Almost a million dollars was found in two accounts; and the lawyers were already lining up for their cracks at it. But almost everything else--at least eight million dollars, the papers estimated--had already been cleaned out, the funds transferred through shell accounts, leaving nothing behind but convoluted paper trails that seemed to lead nowhere. He had clearly been planning his disappearance for some time, the police said; and when the time came, he had executed his plan quickly and professionally. He would likely never be seen on US soil again...

Scott crumpled up the paper, threw it in a corner of the cage. He knew who was responsible. He turned to stare at the coyote's house--only to see his captor on the roof, happily tightening the final bolt on his new satellite dish...

That was the final straw. No, he wouldn't shove a stick up the coyote's ass; he'd use his fist. He'd pull out his intestines and shove them down his throat...

But the days passed, and the mistake never came.

And within a week or so, Scott found himself having more and more trouble reading the paper. He could still sound out the words, but the meanings seemed to be sliding away. And when the coyote sat by his cage and talked to him, the words seemed to run together as well.

He knew exactly why this was--every time the coyote would visit the gorilla in the cage, and run his fingers into its scalp, a bit more would be missing from Scott's mind the next day. And there was absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it.

In another week, Scott couldn't read the articles in the paper anymore, or follow what the coyote was saying; he could pick out the individual words, but he couldn't put them together in his mind anymore.

In another week, even the words were gone--they were just a stream of ink and sound.

And a few days after that, as the sun set, the coyote pulled the van up to Scott's cage.

----

The new arrival had no name--just a number. But within a week, one of the keepers had suggested Aries, and the name had immediately stuck. Like a ram, he would lower his head and charge at the walls of the enclosure, only to pull up at the last moment. And he was like the month of March--in like a lion, out like a lamb...

In the morning, he was utterly unpredictable. He might attack the door, trying to batter it down. He might climb up the front wall of the enclosure, and piss on the signs and the railing. Or he might do something completely inscrutable--like painstakingly collecting leaves and straw, and arranging them into meaningless patterns, then crouching by them, and staring at the visitors as they walked by.

But by midday, he would start to settle down. And by three o'clock, he was the kindest, gentlest gorilla you could ever hope to meet.

The keepers had never seen anything like it. He was transferred to San Diego, then to Portland, in the hopes that a change of scenery would calm him; but nothing worked. He couldn't be kept with other gorillas--he would frequently attack them in the morning, only to be attacked in turn at night. Finally, he was placed in a separate enclosure with Tanuki, a female who had also shown difficulty socializing; the two of them worked out better than expected--she could fend for herself in the morning, and seemed to hold no grudge. And before long, the two of them would be playing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

A year passed. They were not expected to mate; Tanuki was barely ten, and Aries looked to be fairly young himself. But, as animals were prone to do, the two of them surprised their keepers; they were seen experimenting with each other, and before long, Tanuki was obviously expecting. The keepers were overjoyed, but the sight seemed to throw Aries into a rage; he had to be kept isolated. Sometimes the keepers allowed him to see Tanuki, but only in the evenings...

----

Early one morning, Scott paced his cell.

"I have a proposal for you. Are you interested?"

It took Scott a moment to realize that he understood the words. He turned... and saw the coyote standing there, just a few feet away, on the other side of the iron mesh.

Every fantasy he had ever had flashed through his mind. But he never moved. He knew it was useless; he had tried those bars so many times before.

Instead, he simply turned back around, facing away from the coyote, and sat down, paying no attention whatsoever.

"Suit yourself."

A few seconds later, when Scott grudgingly turned to look, the coyote was gone.

----

More months passed. Tanuki gave birth to a female; she was named Star, after a light mark on her forehead. Aries had to be kept far away. But Tanuki showed poor mothering skills, and before long, Star was taken away, to be hand-raised. Aries was carefully returned to Tanuki's enclosure; and before long, things were back to normal--or at least back to what passed for normal around Aries.

The months turned into another year, then two. Aries and Tanuki mated again from time to time, but no new young were produced. The keepers were disappointed. They tranquilized Aries, took semen samples. His sperm count was low, almost zero. The keepers were disappointed--but perhaps, with time, things would improve. And in the meantime, at least Aries was manageable.

Every so often--perhaps once or twice a year; Scott had little interest in keeping track--the coyote would appear, always early in the morning. Each time, the question was the same--"Are you interested yet?" Scott would studiously ignore him, and he would go away.

Another year passed. Aries was back in isolation. An interior door had been left improperly latched; Aries had managed to open it, and had made his way into the service corridors. He was captured. Better locks were being installed.

"Are you interested yet?"

This time, Scott didn't turn away. He stared at the coyote. Whatever he had to say, it might be useful. And besides, it was something to do.

"Have you ever wondered what else I do with my time?"

Scott just stared. He couldn't say that he had. And it didn't seem interesting.

"The world is a damn big place, Scott. Damn big. To say nothing of the universe. Like the song says, there's much more to see than can ever be seen. You of all people should know that, right?"

Scott thought about turning his back. But he didn't move.

"There's no way that anybody can ever know everything that's going on. So there's no way that anybody can ever know how everything ''works'' either. So people look at what they ''can'' see, and they figure out how ''that'' works.

"But then people make a mistake. They start taking all those rules that they've worked out to explain what they've seen, and they start thinking that those same rules must work for ''everything.'' They start thinking round and round in circles, locking themselves up in cages, thinking about everything the same old way. And when something comes along that's outside the cage--something that doesn't fit inside all those little rules they've worked up--they pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Well, we coyotes, we sort of like to do something about that. We play tricks on people. And sometimes it's just for fun. But sometimes, it's to get people outside their cages--even if we have to push 'em out to get 'em there. And when we can't get 'em out, sometimes we can just get their attention. You can pretend all you want that that guy outside the cage doesn't exist--but when he stands up and pisses in your face, it sorta grabs your attention, doesn't it?"

Scott was half-expecting the coyote to demonstrate his point; but he made no move to. Did any of this ''have'' a point?

"I wasn't born this way, you know."

That grabbed Scott's undivided attention.

"Some are born great; some have greatness thrust upon them. Up until about six years ago, I was as normal as you'd ever want to see. Hell, I was a schmuck... not half as much of one as you, but a schmuck nonetheless. And then, one day, a magnificent stranger showed up, and he showed me the way.

"Thought about a career change lately, Scott?"

''He can't be serious,'' Scott thought. ''This is crazy.''

But Scott couldn't bring himself to turn away. After all, he already knew that the coyote was crazy...

"I did say I'd find a way to make you useful, after all. And besides, if I can turn a shithead like you into a decent coyote, I'll be a legend.

"The question is... if I do that for you, are you willing to do what it takes?"

There was only one sane answer. Scott nodded.

"Sure about that?"

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

"I thought so. Everything's all set. See ya in three days."

And with that, the coyote vanished.

And Scott just stared, past the bars of the cage, at the big world beyond.

----

Scott went about his business, such as it was. He refused to let himself believe it.

But, three days to the dot later, in the wee hours of the morning, a transfer team showed up at his cage. And behind them, he could see a stranger, a perfectly normal human... but somehow, when he looked again, he could see the shadow of the pointed ears, the muzzle. He was smiling. As always.

''My God. It's really happening.''

He made a token show of resistance, but allowed himself to be herded into the carrier cage. In a matter of minutes, he was once again in the back of a truck, rolling down the empty pathways of the zoo.

Every fantasy he had ever had evaporated. If he could really get out of here, he would kiss the coyote's feet. He would clean his house with his tongue. He would smear himself with Vaseline and get down on hands and knees. He would...

The truck pulled up to an unfamiliar building, at the outskirts of the zoo. Scott couldn't read the sign, but he dimly remembered what the red cross stood for.

A needle poked him from behind.

His muscles began to go limp. He saw the coyote looking in at him, and he saw the look in those eyes...

And he knew.

With the strength that he had left, he slammed his body weight twice into the door of the cage, desperately trying to escape. But it was hopeless, and he knew that from the start.

As his head sunk to the floor of the cage, he prayed that he would lose consciousness.

He did not.

He was hauled out of the cage, strapped to a gurney, wheeled into an operating room. He could not move a muscle, could not utter a sound. But he could hear the keepers talking, though he couldn't understand a word. And he could feel the straps press against his flesh. He could feel everything. Very clearly.

The coyote stood over him, holding a scalpel, and smiled.

His mouth never moved--not his human one, not even the muzzle that only Scott could see. But Scott heard a single word, very clearly, in his mind.

"Gotcha."

The scalpel bit into his flesh...

----

The keepers were sad. They had given up hope of Aries ever mating again, and they had hoped that neutering him would at least curb his violent impulses. And it had worked--all too well.

Every morning, Aries would just huddle in the corner of his cage, refusing to move at all, staring hopelessly at the bars. Not even the electric prod could budge him. It was as if he was waiting to die.

There was no risk of that, of course. Aries was still young, and showed no signs at all of ill health. With any luck, he would live for another thirty years, perhaps even forty.

And he always snapped out of it around noon.

User talk:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-31T01:57:11Z

Phaedrus: Fixed typo

User talk:Phaedrus/Wishes

2009-08-31T01:54:27Z

Phaedrus: Response to Lloyd Brunnel's question

This is an enjoyable story but I'm not really sure I understand the part about the blood clot or what the last line means. --[[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 01:29, 31 August 2009 (UTC)
: You don't understand it because of horrible writing -- thinking that it was really clever to be brief and leave critical details as things to be discovered by implication, when actually the reader doesn't have enough information to discover them.
: The blood-clot scene: Jason-wolf wishes for future generations of wolves who can understand the world as he does. But how can the genie pull that one off, when the only way to produce a wolf like that is by starting with a human soul with human experiences, and grabbing random human souls out of the afterlife (or random humans off the street) would presumably be uncalled-for? No problem. There are billions of people in the world. At any given moment, thousands and thousands of them are dying. And a very few of them are bound to be people with the same sort of odd wish that Jason had. So just find a few of those dearly-departed-and-species-confused souls and reincarnate them as wolf pups, like Jason himself was reincarnated at the start of the story. Problem solved.
: The final line: This one is even worse, since it requires the reader to understand the blood-clot scene (which was already incomprehensible). Jason-wolf's original thought for his third wish was to have a long life -- after all, one of the many unromantic aspects of the real lupine lifestyle is that they don't survive very long in the wild. But he decides that this is selfish. So instead he wishes for good things for his pack, and gets on with the rest of his life. Oops, now he's dying. But wait a minute. He wished for his descendants to understand the world as he does... and that's being accomplished by reincarnating former humans. Well, who would possibly be a better candidate for "seeing the world as he does" then he is? He's the perfect match for his own second wish. So he gets reincarnated again, and presumably he'll keep coming back as long as the wishes have power.
: To summarize the summary of the summary: Writers are a problem. [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 01:54, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

User talk:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-31T01:20:41Z

Phaedrus: Response to Alex Warlorn

Talk about unbalanced punishments (I think, was he planning to kill his marks?) -- Alex Warlorn August 30 2009
: That's an interesting observation. I'm not sure I can really answer it, because I'm not sure that I can ever really get back into the headspace I was in when I wrote that story. But let me do the best I can...
: First of all, it was intended as a nasty story. If the victim deserves everything that's coming to him -- if the punishment fits the crime -- then a lot of the nastiness goes away. In fact, the fact that the victim was a criminal at all was a weakness in the story, a concession to my own squeamishness at writing it; I couldn't have written this sort of story about a truly innocent victim.
: Second, the transformer character is pretty clearly psychotic. And sure, he says a lot of stuff about his intentions that could be described as noble. But then again, there's no real evidence anywhere else in the story that what he's saying is true; and he's saying those things to someone he fully intends to double-cross in the worst possible way, in order to build up false hopes. And if we needed any further reason to be distrustful, note that the entire beginning of the story revolves around an elaborate lie set up by this same character. So rather than thinking of this as "punishment", it might be better to think about it as "preying on a predator".
: And third, I have to admit that I've always had a hard time with the notion that financial crimes -- especially large ones -- are somehow fundamentally different from violent crimes. In a capitalist society, money is just as much a part of a person's wellbeing as their physical health. Suppose that Mr. X works hard all his life, saving his money and living well below his means, so that you he can enjoy a dream lifestyle after he retires. And suppose that, on the day that retirement finally arrives, Mr. Y comes along and kills him. Obviously, that would be really really horrible. Now suppose that Mr. Y comes along and steals all his money (and that the money is never recovered). How much less horrible -- and how much less reprehensible -- is this? The golden years Mr. X has worked so hard for are wiped out either way. In one case, Mr. X's life is over on the spot; in the other, Mr. X, who is now too old to work, faces years of poverty and hardship. How much worse is one than the other? How much less reprehensible is it to steal from the vulnerable and defenseless than it is to beat them up?
: And, of course, having pointed out the horrors of financial crime, note that the story is highly ambiguous here. We know that the vast majority of Scott's stolen money was moved beyond the reach of the investigators. But we don't know when that happened. Did Scott do it himself? Or did the coyote steal it, and leave only a fraction of the innocent victims' money for the investors to find? There's no answer -- though that satellite dish raises questions. I'm only mentioning this as one more case of "If you think you've found anything 'good' in either of the main characters, you may want to look at the story in a different way." 01:20, 31 August 2009 (UTC)

User:Phaedrus/Wishes

2009-08-30T16:32:23Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Mental change

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Mental change]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Wishes}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Wishes|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

To a wolf, time is a nebulous thing. There are no calendars, no watches, no alarms to mark its passage. When there is no weekend, no church, no Sunday football games, what meaning can the "week" have? Without bills or paychecks, what good is a "month"? What good is an "hour" when there is no one to charge for it? The days pass, and the seasons change; nothing else is important.

So it was hard to say how much time had passed before the wolf cub began to realize that there was something ''different'' about him.

By that time, he was already leaving the den, making short trips to the stream or the rocks with his five littermates. (There had been eight when he first opened his eyes, but three were gone now.) He loved to stick his front paws in the water, to feel the current pressing by his toes, to see the lights dance across the water when the sun was high in the sky. He wouldn't always go back to the den when the rest of the cubs did; he would stay until he got hungry, or until his mother got nervous and called him back.

That day, as he stood at the water's edge, he heard a strange sound... a buzzing in the sky. He thought he had heard it before, but never when he was outside. Nervously, he started back towards the rocks, where there were better hiding places; but as he did, he looked up and behind him, towards the noise... and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. It flew through the sky, like a bird, but not like any bird he had ever seen; its path was perfectly straight, with no turns, no flapping of wings. And it was ''shiny'', like the water...

He had seen something like that before. He could remember it. But he couldn't remember where, or how.

And, even stranger, he could remember something else... he could remember looking ''down,'' and seeing the ground, the trees as small and far away as that shiny thing in the sky...

He ran back to the den, faster than he ever had before, yelping all the way. The adults looked around in confusion when they heard him, for surely nothing was wrong. He didn't stop; he went straight to the back of the den, and wouldn't come out until hunger finally pushed the fear from his mind.

From then on, the wolf cub often had memories that he couldn't place, often couldn't even understand. They seemed wrong somehow. There were no ''smells,'' for one thing; just sounds, and sights. And the sights had a bizarreness to them, as if there was a different quality to what he was seeing, something more than the difference between light and darkness... but how could that be? And so many of those memories were filled with things he had never seen--huge shiny boxes rising to the sky, and strange two-legged things...

Sometimes, there were more than sights and sounds; sometimes there were feelings as well. These confused him even more, for they nearly always seemed to be wrong. Sometimes, when he licked his father's muzzle and his father brought up food for him, there was a strange feeling of revulsion... and when he grew strong enough to travel with the pack, and he watched them bring down a kill, he sometimes felt a pang of sorrow, of pity. But why was that? What other way was there?

So he tried to put those things out of his mind; he didn't understand them, and they weren't helpful. But still, they continued; and despite himself, he remembered...

The wolf grew, and learned.

Two more of his littermates died, but he flourished. He started hunting small game of his own, and eventually took his place in the hunting pack, harassing the prey and driving it into the jaws of the older wolves. When the kill was brought down, he waited for the older wolves to eat their fill first, as was his place; but game was plentiful, and there was enough to go around. He learned quickly, and forgot nothing.

And one day, he watched the deer carefully as the pack chased it, knew which way it would turn next, and was there when it did... and as he leaped for its neck, there were no odd memories, no second thoughts. His jaws clamped down like a vise, and the blood squirted down his throat, and the deer took a few more strides and went down, and his packmates were on it before it could try to rise again, and soon it was over.

The pack gathered around the kill, jockeying for position. He stood his ground. Another male--a year older, a bit larger, slightly higher than him in the social order of the pack--growled at him, nudged him in the side. Almost without thinking, he whirled, snarling, bloody teeth bared, fur standing on end, tail held straight back behind him...

He locked eyes with the other wolf, and they stared each other down for several long seconds, both growling. His muscles tensed, knowing that the older wolf could lunge at him at any moment. But he ''knew,'' with every fiber in his being, that if it came to a fight, he would win... and when the elder wolf blinked and looked away, he knew that the elder knew it too.

Then the elder wolf turned and walked slowly away, its tail curled down uncertainly.

He pressed his advantage, following the older wolf, jaws still bared, tail held high now...

...and it rolled over in the grass, exposing its belly, tail curled between its legs, whining piteously.

He got in the older wolf's face, snarling once more, satisfying himself that the matter had been settled. Then he turned, and resumed his place at the kill. The alpha male looked at him questioningly, and he realized that in his excitement he had kept his tail raised, as if in challenge; he lowered his head and tail respectfully to the alpha, and that was that. No one else challenged his place at the kill; the elders left him room, and the younger wolves--and the elder he had just displaced--waited their turns.

Another strange feeling came over him. But this time it was pride, satisfaction. For once, a proper feeling. It was a good sign.

He turned his attention back to the kill, and he ate well.

----

In many ways, that first kill was the beginning.

From then on, the odd thoughts and feelings came more frequently. He would lie awake at night, curled up nose to tail, looking up at the stars but not seeing them; the strange memories ran through his mind, over and over, and he tried to make sense of them. They all seemed to focus on these pink two-legged creatures, and their tall boxes. Some of those boxes, he knew now, were the two-leggers' dens. Sometimes, in those memories, he would be in one of those boxes, and look into a thing--a thing that was hard and flat, but that the light bounced off, like the water--and he would see a two-legged looking back at him. So these thoughts belonged to the two-legged, not to him.

He wondered what a two-legger's thoughts were doing in his head. Sometimes he wondered if the two-leggers existed at all, or if he was just dreaming things. Yes, the shiny birds had to come from somewhere, but they could be anything...

But then, not long after that first kill, the pack had come across a strange trail--all black and hard, like rock, but all flat, and bad-smelling, and running off both ways as far as he could see. The older wolves seemed unconcerned, but he stared at it, walked up to its edge to smell it more closely, because it was something else he had seen before in his mind, like the shiny birds. And then a loud shiny thing came down the trail, very fast--he ran back to the edge of the trees to watch, with the rest of the pack--and the loud thing had stopped, and he knew that he had seen this thing in his mind too, and he knew what it did. He looked around at the pack, at his littermates especially, to see if they knew it too, to see if they had these thoughts too--and they looked confused, or wary, but he knew that they did not ''understand.''

The side of the loud thing had opened up, and three two-leggers--the first ones he had ever seen, for real, and one of them was young and small--got out, and the wolves looked at the two-leggers, and the two-leggers looked back at the wolves. One of the two-leggers--an older male, he thought--had a little box with a round shiny spot on it, and held the box in front of its head, and the box made little noises. Then the alpha male had turned and trotted away into the woods, and the pack had followed, and he had stayed behind, staring, because he knew that the little box was nothing to fear, and he wanted to see what else the two-leggers would do. And the two-leggers had looked at each other, and they made sounds; and he whined a little in frustration, because he thought somehow that those sounds should ''mean'' something, and he should know what it was. But no matter how hard he thought about those sounds, they were still just noises to him. And then the two-leggers had gotten back in their loud thing, and a cloud of something bad-smelling came out, and the loud thing had gone down the trail and disappeared around a curve. And for a moment, he had gotten a strange feeling that he should follow that rock trail, that if he did, it would go to somewhere special, to one of those places in his mind with the shiny boxes that went to the sky.

But he had turned away instead, and run off after his pack. And he had not slept at all that night. And from them on, he never wondered whether the thoughts in his head were real or not.

From that day on, the two-legger's memories in his head no longer seemed so foreign to him, and even the strange feelings didn't seem so bad--perhaps that surge of pride he had felt at his first kill, his first successful challenge, had shown him that there was common ground after all. They could be useful, if they could show him what the two-leggers would do. And they were ''interesting.''

If he thought hard enough, he could do more than see and hear what the two-legger had seen and heard; he could know what it had thought as well. He couldn't understand most of it; even when the two-legger was thinking to himself, the thoughts were all wrapped up in those same strange sounds that the others had used. But he could also ''feel'' what the two-legger had felt; and he could understand that.

Most of the two-legger's memories were filled with other two-leggers, and the big shiny things they all used and lived in. The two-legger seemed to spend most of his time travelling on those rock trails; he would push and pull on the insides of one of the loud things, and it would take him where he wanted to go. He would get out, and carry something big and heavy into a big den of other two-leggers; he would open it up, and show them the things inside, and they would all pass the things around and look at them. Then he would go back to his loud thing, and go somewhere else, and do this all again, and again. When the sun started to go down, he would go back to his den, and eat, and watch the pictures coming out of a box, and sleep.

Sometimes the two-legger would feel happy while he was doing these things, and sometimes sad, and sometimes angry, and sometimes nothing at all. And the wolf could not understand this; when the same things always happened, how could there be so many different ways of feeling about it?

But sometimes the two-legger would do different things. Once in a while, he would go to a big place filled with animals--some that the wolf had seen before, but many that he hadn't. There were far too many animals for such a small place, but there were rocks and canyons in between them, so they couldn't run away or get at each other. The two-legger would walk through this place, and watch the animals, but he would always go to the same spot, where there were two wolves. They were fat, and their fur was dull and scraggly, and they were very bored; they would just walk around in circles, or stand and watch the humans, or lie down and sleep. The wolf felt sorry for them; they would never starve, that was clear, but he couldn't understand how they could live in such a small place for so long, and with only one wolf for company. But the two-legger would watch them, and watch, and watch; the other two-leggers would come and go, and even the wolves would lose interest in him, and still he would watch. And sometimes he would be happy, and sometimes sad.

But sometimes, the wolves would howl together, to break the boredom; and the two-legger would close his eyes and listen. And then he would always be sad then, and there would be a ''longing,'' deeper than anything else the two-legger felt--like he wanted to howl too, wanted to be on the other side of the canyon and the rocks, where the wolves were.

And the wolf thought he could understand that.

Because when the howling stopped, the two-legger would always turn and leave that place, and go back to his den, and watch the pictures in the box until it was time to sleep. And it was never cold or wet there, and there was always food.

But he was always alone.

The wolf could imagine how hard it would be to live in that small place with the other wolves lived--to look at the same things every day, to pace in circles, to never leave.

But he could not even imagine what it would be like to live alone.

The wolf knew now that he thought differently from the others in his pack. He saw the same things that his packmates did, but he saw meanings in those things that they did not. On the hunt, he quickly became a master at studying a herd, picking out its weakest member. And when the chase was on, he could take a quick glance around him, know the twists and turns that would happen in the next few seconds--not just which way the prey would run to, but how his packmates would respond to that--and know where he should be as well. It often wasn't enough--the prey still escaped more often than not. But he made more than his share of kills, and the pack did not want for food, even when winter came and times grew hard.

He rose through the pack; not only was he smart, but quick and strong as well. Rarely did he have to fight for his position, and when he did, it was short. Even when he strained a muscle in his hind leg and was hobbled for a time, he was not challenged, and no one questioned his place at the kill.

The memories still came, and he learned more and more. He started to understand how some of the two-leggers' strange sounds worked; they were ''things''--a sound for every thing. The rock trails were "road"; the loud things that took the two-leggers down them were "car"; their dens were "home"; and the two-leggers themselves were "human". He could see where such a thing would be very useful; they could tell each other about the things, with those sounds, rather than showing them. He even tried making those sounds himself; but they wouldn't come out right at all--that must be why wolves didn't use them--and his packmates just looked at him strangely.

And the two-leggers--the humans--gave themselves sounds as well, each human had a sound of their own. The wolf wondered a bit about that--they knew who they were talking to; why did they need a sound for that too?--but he supposed it might come in handy too.

His human's sound was "Jason".

That seemed familiar somehow. He wondered why that was.

----

Life in the wolf pack was pleasant... as pleasant as it got. The wolf had earned the respect of his pack. The males above him left him alone, perhaps afraid to force a confrontation; those below him needed only occasional reminders... a snarl here, a nip there... to keep them in their places.

The seasons came and went, and in time, he was the beta male. The Jason's memories in his head felt more like his own, now; he could think of them when he wanted, rather than waiting for them to happen. And he was making more and more sense of the sounds the humans made.

He studied the alpha--his father--carefully, judging his chances. The alpha was getting old, but he hadn't lost his strength, and had a lifetime of experience fending off rivals like him. It would be a tough fight, if it came to that. But somehow, he still knew that he would win that fight. The alpha's place could be his. Springtime would come soon, and with it the breeding season; he knew that only the alphas would mate, and that desire called to him--he wanted that chance, more deeply than he had wanted anything before. It was almost like what the human... the Jason... felt, when he closed his eyes, and listened to the wolves howl.

He could take it whenever he wanted.

But he was troubled.

He knew that he could win. But he also knew that the alpha had much more experience with the world than he did, had seen so much more than he had. The alpha knew where the prey would run to when the snow went away, where the dangerous ground was. If he were alpha, he would have to lead the pack... and he knew that he could not do it as well.

It was one of those odd feelings. It was something that a Jason would worry about, not a wolf. The wolf knew it.

But the more he thought about it, the more he agreed with it.

So he waited. And life in the pack stopped being so pleasant.

The alpha--perhaps trying to discourage him from challenging, perhaps confused as to why that challenge hadn't come--harassed him unmercifully. Stoically, he took it. Sensing weakness, other males pressed him as well; the battle to keep his place in the pack was constant, and several times he had to leave a younger packmate bloody to make his point.

To make matters worse, the winter was getting hard, and the prey was vanishing. There was simply not enough food to go around; the wolves started fighting for their places at the kill, and those who could not fight, starved. Two of that spring's pups died in the same day. The omega male left the pack, desperate for any chance to find food on its own; the pack found the body a week later, curled up next to a frozen stream. The pack sniffed at the remains for a few moments, then moved on; there was no energy for sentimentality.

The wolf started to think that this human worrying was too much trouble after all.

Then, one day, the pack was at the edge of a forest, looking for any signs of prey.

The wolf heard something; a ''whupwhupwhupwhup'' in the sky. A helicopter, he thought, not stopping to realize that he was thinking in sounds, like the humans did. He had heard helicopters before, and not just in the Jason's memories; but this one sounded different. It sounded... lower.

Then the helicopter cleared the trees, and his packmates looked up, watching it; they had never seen one so close. Fear battled with curiosity, and curiosity--and the need to save their energy--won out.

The wolf looked up at the helicopter too; he was curious as well. But he saw that the door was open, saw a human pointing a long round metal rod out towards them...

...and he turned in a flash and streaked towards the treeline, barking frantically at his packmates...

...and the rest of the pack, needing little incentive to get away from the loud shiny thing, ran after him...

...and the alpha male, perhaps trying to prove his place in the pack once and for all, stood his ground, bared his teeth at the thing and growled...

...and there was a sound, like a crack of thunder...

...and the alpha gave one brief cry, and dropped in his tracks, and died...

...and the pack watched from the trees, whimpering softly, as the helicopter landed, as two humans got out, picked up the alpha's body, and tossed him in...

...and one of the male yearlings growled, and took a few steps towards the humans; and the wolf crossed the distance in a flash, jumped on the yearling's back, drove him to the ground, then dragged him back behind a tree by the tail...

...and the humans got back in, and the door closed, and it lifted off, and vanished into the distance.

And all was quiet.

The pack slowly edged out into the clearing; the wolves made their way to the red spot in the snow where the alpha had stood, and they sniffed at the place. Then they huddled together, heads down, rubbing close against each other, whining softly.

The wolf joined them, his heart sick. He closed his eyes, tried to force the image from his mind; but he could still smell his father's blood, mixed with the strange odors of gasoline and human sweat. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he threw back his head and howled, low and long; he felt the pack press up against him, heard their voices join his. And they howled on, until he lost track of time, until he managed to stop thinking for a while, and just ''be.''

Finally, the howl drifted to a stop. The pack stayed tightly together for a few more moments; then a few wolves began pacing aimlessly, looking at each other. And the wolf knew what had to be done.

He pulled away from the huddle, looked at the pack, barked once, then started walking away, back in the direction they had come from, head and tail held high, ears up, forcing himself not to look back.

Without a murmur of protest, the pack silently formed into single file, and followed his trail through the snow.

His new role was not an easy one. As he feared he would, he made mistakes. But fate was kind; they found food--not as often as they would like, but often enough that there were no more deaths in the pack. He was never seriously challenged.

As the snow melted, the alpha female became more aggressive and dominating towards the other females; he, in turn, found himself snapping at males, sometimes for reasons he couldn't understand. The two of them had no such friction with each other; they got along very well indeed.

Then, one afternoon, they slipped away from the pack, and it was glorious.

They repeated the process over the next few days--one had to make sure of these things, after all...

Not long after that, the pack returned to the den--where the wolf had been born, and two more litters after him. Prey was plentiful; it would be a good year. His mate settled in, and he knew the pups would come soon.

One night, the wolf felt strangely restless; he walked away, as he often did, to look at the stars.

He had grown used to his role as alpha, and there was little dissension in the ranks. He had grown used to Jason's memories as well; he thought he had seen all there was to see in them. He still enjoyed them; they were like looking into another world... like watching television. He loved Jason's trip to Colorado the best--flying down the mountain on skis, soaring over it on a hang-glider, basking in the warmth of a roaring fire...

Sometimes he wondered what had happened to Jason. He could remember Jason getting a letter, telling him that his father had died. Jason had felt sad about that--not nearly as sad as he should have, the wolf thought--and he had taken some time away from work, had flown to Florida where his father had lived, to see to the arrangements. He could remember Jason pulling into the driveway of his father's house... and after that, the memory just faded away.

Tonight, the wolf wondered, and he remembered... but this time, the memory did not stop there...

: "I wonder where Dad got this old thing?" Jason muttered to himself. He rubbed some of the dust off the lamp, to get a better look at it.

: A plume of smoke erupted in his face.

: He dropped the lamp with a clatter, and scrambled back, tripping over a box and going down in a pile of old magazines. He lay still for a few seconds, mentally making sure that all his limbs were still attached. Then he looked up... and wished he hadn't.

: Beard. Silk clothing. Turban. Just like in the books.

: '''"FREE AT LAST!"''' it boomed, making his ears ring. '''"THREE HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT ACCURSED PRISON!"'''

: Jason felt like he should say something, but he had no idea what. "Ummmm... congratulations?"

: The genie seemed to notice him for the first time. It looked down. '''"YOU ARE THE ONE WHO RELEASED ME, MORTAL?"'''

: Jason managed a nod.

: '''"THEN I AM BOUND TO GRANT THEE THREE WISHES. WHAT IS THY BIDDING, MASTER?"'''

: Jason closed his eyes. He thought for, perhaps, thirty seconds. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant, like he was listening to someone else.

: "I wish I was a wolf."

: The silence in the attic was deafening. For a moment, Jason thought that maybe this was all a dream; that he'd knocked himself out somehow, and he'd just woke up. He opened his eyes.

: The genie stared down at him, eyes wide.

: '''"YOU WHAT?"'''

: "You heard me."

: '''"FOR MILLENNIA, MEN HAVE RACKED THEIR BRAINS, TRYING TO PHRASE THEIR LUSTS FOR WEALTH AND POWER IN WAYS I COULD NOT DESTROY THEM WITH, AND NONE SUCCEEDED. NOW YOU WISH FOR SOMETHING THAT ANY SANE MAN WOULD CALL A CURSE. AND YOU WISH FOR IT IN A WAY THAT A BABE COULD FIND A HUNDRED WAYS TO TURN AGAINST YOU. HAS YOUR FALL ADDLED YOUR BRAINS, MORTAL, OR ARE YOU A FOOL BY NATURE?"'''

: Jason was eerily calm; perhaps he was beyond fear. "You said it yourself; if you're out to screw me, I could spend the rest of my life trying to find a foolproof way to phrase it, and I'd still probably miss something. And if you're not out to screw me, it doesn't matter. So why worry about it? And it's the one thing I've always wanted that I could never get on my own; what else would I wish for?"

: The genie stared down at him for a few more seconds, as if he'd sprouted wings or burst into flames. '''"YOU ARE A VERY STRANGE MORTAL,"''' it said finally. '''"BUT THAT IS NOT MY CONCERN. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED."'''

: Everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet.

: The world seemed to squeeze him from all sides. He tried to scream, but he had no breath.

: The pressure increased... and then he was free, and cold. Something hard was underneath him. He tried to see what it was, but he couldn't seem to find his eyes. Something else... something warm, and wet... pressed into his side, poked softly against him. He opened his mouth, and drew in a breath, nearly choking. He tried again to cry out, and this time he found his lungs, but still he heard nothing.

: Then he felt a hot wind across his back... and something warm, and rough, and wonderful, pressed against him. It went up his back, pushing him into the hard thing beneath him, and some of the cold and wetness went away. It made pass after pass, working its way along his back and up his side, pushing him over and starting in on his underside. For a moment, he forgot about seeing and hearing, and just concentrated on arching his body into it, basking in the warmth. Then it reached his face, and touched his nose... and the universe was suddenly filled with the smells of earth and water and wolf. And, most interestingly, the smell of ''food.''

: Maybe I should have been more specific, Jason thought, but only for a moment. Then he concentrated on crawling towards the smell...

The wolf blinked, looked down at the ground. The world smelled and sounded and looked the same as it did a moment ago; how could it suddenly be so very different?

He had a sense that he should be feeling something profound right now... happiness, that he had gotten what he wanted, or despair, that he had gotten what he wanted. But every time he thought about it, the only real reaction that came to mind was: Oh. So that explains things...

'''"AS I SAID, A VERY STRANGE MORTAL."'''

The wolf waited for his heart to start beating again; then he turned to face the genie.

'''"SO, WHAT IS YOUR SECOND WISH?"'''

The wolf knew, somehow, that he could talk, and didn't waste time wondering how that could be. "I wish that my cubs, and their cubs, and their cubs beyond them, could understand the world as I do."

'''"A NOBLE WISH, BUT ONE YOUR CUBS MAY NOT THANK YOU FOR,"''' the genie replied. '''"AND NOT A SIMPLE ONE. INTELLIGENCE IS AN EASY MATTER, BUT UNDERSTANDING COMES FROM EXPERIENCE. AND YOUR EXPERIENCE IS A UNIQUE ONE..."'''

The genie fell silent, as if lost in thought. The wolf waited patiently.

: Far away, a young man sat at a computer keyboard, tapping his fingers unconsciously, waiting for the download to complete. On the screen, an image slowly appeared--a black wolf, bounding through snowdrifts towards the camera, a small dot of white clinging defiantly to the tip of its nose.

: He felt a familiar pang... then forced it from his mind, brought another window forward, went back to reading Usenet. He could not see the eyes watching him; nor could he feel the small blood clot forming in his thigh, poised to break loose and drift towards the lungs, towards the brain...

'''"NEVER MIND; I SEE A WAY NOW. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED. AND YOUR FINAL WISH?"'''

The wolf thought about this, long and hard. He knew what he wanted; he opened his mouth to say it... then he changed his mind, and closed his mouth. He already had what he wanted.

"I wish for good fortune for my pack," he said finally.

'''"AND SO IT SHALL BE, FOR A DOZEN DOZEN YEARS," the genie replied. "GOOD HUNTING TO YOU, AND TO YOUR CUBS."'''

The wolf tried to say "Thank you", but nothing came out but a yip. He simply nodded, and padded silently back to his mate and his pack.

The pups arrived not longer than that; only six--a small litter--but all alive, and all healthy. The wolf looked down at them, and nuzzled them, and felt a joy like nothing he had felt before.

Raising them--and the litters after that, in the following years--was a story too long to tell. But the pack prospered; and the prey, while not always plentiful, was always there to be found.

And one day, the old wolf looked in the eyes of one of his sons, and he saw the look of confusion, of uncertainty--the look that must have been in his own eyes, years ago. He nodded to himself; it was time. And that night, he looked proudly at his pack for one last time, then walked quietly away.

He got along by himself for a little while, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath the way he used to, couldn't run for long. And then one day, as he was trying to catch a rabbit, his legs simply failed him; he went down in a heap, and there was no pain, only a wave of numbness that started in his hindquarters and quickly worked its way forward. ''I'm dying,'' he realized, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet...

...and he felt the pressure pushing him out into the cold.

And just before his mind fogged over, he realized that he'd gotten his own third wish after all.

{{author note|I wrote most of this story as an entry for a contest that Magus the Fox was running for his archive. The contest deadline got moved up by a day somewhere along the way, and I received the contest results while I was still finishing up the last part--always a disheartening sign. So I wound up shelving the story for a few weeks. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing, since the ending wound up being quite a bit better than the one I originally had in mind.

I've pretty much given up on figuring out people's reaction to my stories. I don't care that much for this one at all, but most people seem to like it much better than I do...}}

User:Phaedrus/Transitions

2009-08-30T16:31:50Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Mental change

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Magic]][[Category:Mental change]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Transitions}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Transitions|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 2005 Phaedrus

She walks to town with Her empty basket. She usually does, when the weather is good. The earth is a bit damp and the air smells of rain, but the rain has not come yet and may not come for several hours more, and that must be good enough for Her.

The market is not as busy as usual. The spring harvest has passed, and some of the farmers are too busy planting the second season's crops to socialize in the square. The farmers' pushcarts are half-full of radishes and carrots and peppers, and one small load of scrawny-looking potatoes. At one edge of the square, a smoky fire burns near a sturdier cart piled with wrapped slabs of beef -- someone must have slaughtered a cow. My stomach growls a little, and I am thankful when a gust of wind carries most of the scent away.

She moves through the market, totally at ease, chatting with nearly everyone She passes, gently haggling, buying here and there. Most of the crowd is locals, of no real concern. But there are always a few strangers, and strangers must always be watched. I've long since settled on nine good watching-spots at the edge of the market square -- the corner of a house here, behind a stack of firewood there -- places where I can get a reasonable view while staying out of sight. I slip from one watching-spot to the next, doing my best to keep an eye on anyone unfamiliar who seems to be approaching Her. It would be so much easier if I could just stay closer to Her. But I know She would only send me away, or maybe even hurt me; and I cannot blame Her, not in the least.

The locals pay no attention to me -- or at least make a show of paying no attention, though their scent and the brief pauses in their breathing suggest otherwise.

The strangers do not notice me at all. I take great pride in that.

Today, a fat stranger in grey robes concerns me most; he could be hiding almost anything, and he carries a strong scent of metal. Much like me, he stays at the edge of the crowd, watching for something. I wait just long enough to make sure his attention is focused elsewhere, then quietly edge to a closer watching-spot, a shallow depression behind an unused watering trough. Someone has left a raw chicken neck tucked behind a post there; it smells untainted, so I quickly gulp it down, without taking my eyes off the man in grey. The locals almost always leave things for me. I'm not concerned about their reasons; it may be fear, or pity, or something complicated. But I suppose I'm thankful for it. Large game is rare around here, and hunting is terribly slow and unpredictable.

The stranger in grey makes eye contact with Her, and lunges through the crowd in Her direction, and I leave cover and start towards them, ready to charge at the first glint of a blade, and excitement mixes with a quick twinge of desperation -- am I too far and too late?

But he smiles and waves to Her, and shows Her some gaudy necklaces, and She looks at one with no trace of fear. And I relax, a little, and draw back behind the watering trough. Just another merchant, it seems, looking for a customer rich enough to afford his wares. And She studies them long enough to be polite, and then sends him away.

I'm quite sure She saw me behind him. But She pretends not to see.

A few minutes later, She says Her goodbyes and starts home with Her basket of fresh vegetables. I stay quietly behind Her until She reaches the edge of town. Then I circle around in front of Her, staying in the grass to one side of the trail, just outside of Her sight and hearing -- or at least the limits She chooses to pretend to have.

Her shack is in a meadow, perhaps a thousand paces outside of town, perhaps more. I cannot come too close to it; She has wards there to keep out the beasts of the forest, and I know that all too well. So I stay in the shadows, and watch Her carefully as She enters and shuts the door.

I wait a few minutes to make sure all is well. Then I curl up and try to fall asleep. Night will come soon, and it's a full moon, and that is when She is most vulnerable. I must be ready.

----

Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I think about what my life used to be. It seems fanciful enough now that it takes my mind off the present, and distant enough that I can imagine the details without worrying about whether they're true, and all of that makes sleep come more easily.

I remember being human. I've forgotten most of the details, except that it was complicated. I do remember knowing some magic, and I remember caring very deeply about it. I can't begin to understand why, because all I remember about how magic worked, other than being complicated, is that it was a very rare thing, and terribly, terribly tedious.

Well, then She came along, and liked this place, and decided to stay. And I remember being frightened, and very angry. She was stronger, and She was in my territory. I can certainly understand that. But what I don't understand is why I didn't run.

I fought Her. I can't understand that at all.

I remember how terribly angry and hurt She looked. I don't remember anything after that... except the pain. And then She chased me away.

And I know that I can never make it up to Her. Ever.

But I have to try.

----

It must be almost midnight. The rain has come at last, and it's making up for lost time. I'm soaked to the skin, and the cold feels like it's working its way through to the bone. But I must be on watch. The clouds don't block the moon, and the earth itself seems to faintly glow with moonlight. But there are still many shadows, and I hide myself. I know She will come soon.

And She does.

She is dressed all in white, in a long, flowing gown. She's unbundled Her hair, and it hangs almost to Her knees, glistening in the light. The rain does not touch Her. How could it dare?

She closes Her eyes, and She begins to dance.

She is so very beautiful.

I want so much to be near Her. But it can never be.

She dances, slowly at first, but ever so gradually gaining in speed and intensity. I try so very hard to take my eyes off Her, to keep watch, but I keep finding my focus drawn back to Her. The wind swirls around Her, stronger and stronger, making a whistling sound that slowly builds into a howl; and the edges of Her gown start to leave trails of light, nebulous patterns that are swept away by the wind and replaced by still stranger ones. The ground, the shadows, everything seems to pulse in tune with the wind, in step with the music that only She can hear...

...and at the very edge of my sight, one shadow remains still.

And then, just for a moment, it moves in the wrong direction.

A shudder comes over me, tearing me away from the dance. I begin to circle around the meadow, staying low, knowing that I must not get too close to the wards. Or to Her.

From the depths of that one wrong shadow, I see a faint reddish glow... and lit by it, the face of a man dressed in black.

I know next to nothing about magic now. But I still know what a Fire spell looks like. And I know that I am probably already too late -- that in a few seconds that glow will build into a raging ball of flame, and that this man will throw it at Her, and that I am too far to the side to get in the way, and that She will never see it or hear it coming...

I leap from the shadows, charging headlong towards him, paws kicking up a spray of rainwater behind me. I know that my fur shines in the moonlight, and that if he sees me all is lost. But I know also that the man is focused on Her, and the fire gleams in his eyes, and that for just a few seconds it will blind him. And that is the one hope I have; if he holds his fire until he can see his target clearly again, then maybe, just maybe...

He does.

There is no point in calling out to Her; I know She can hear nothing over the wind. But just as I am about to reach him, and just as he finishes the last syllable of his spell, I growl like I have never done before. And his head jerks in my direction, and I leap...

And the world turns to flame.

I am blind and almost deaf. I feel the thump of the two of us tumbling to the ground. Every muscle in my body cries out as I lash around, feel for something soft, and bite down. I taste blood and I can dimly hear a scream. I lock my jaws with all my remaining strength, stifling a whine. Through the pain, I can dimly feel the soft thuds of three blows to the back of my head. Then a pause, then the muffled bite of a dagger sinking into my back once. Twice.

Then, for a moment, the world convulses, and my ruined vision goes white, and my ears ring with the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard.

I can't feel the man's flesh in my jaws anymore. I can't feel anything anymore.

I wait to die.

Then a new feeling rolls over every inch of my skin... something warm and indescribably wonderful.

Somehow, I open my eyes.

She is standing over me, almost on top of me, a goddess in white stepping out of the moon. I can see Her clearly. I can see Her face, so terribly hurt and angry, but not at me. I cannot move a muscle, but I know in my heart that She is looking at him.

She points at him, and says something complicated. And he screams, an awful scream that seems to go on forever. I can hear cloth tearing, and some snapping sounds that might be bone or something worse. And the scream starts to warble and shift in pitch, until it becomes a howl.

And finally, when the sounds stop, She chases him away.

And then She looks down at me, and She smiles, and as She bends down towards me, I know that everything will finally be all right.

And at last the world fades away.

----

She walks to town with Her empty basket. It rained yesterday, but the skies are clear this morning, and the air is crisp and dry.

I walk just ahead of Her, watching intently.

The market is busy. The corn harvest is in full swing; carts are overflowing with it, and the farmers' haggling is far more energetic and freewheeling than usual. No beef is for sale, but the smell of pork and chicken wafts over the square.

She works the crowd, radiant as always, and unless I see something that needs checking out, I stay by Her side. The locals' children always seem excited to see me, though their parents have taught them to keep a respectful distance. The adults no longer pretend to look elsewhere. In fact, they often compliment Her on my appearance and demeanor as they chat. Naturally, I pretend not to notice, but I secretly take great pride in that.

When they think She is not watching, some of them still eye me with very complicated looks indeed. But that is no bother to me.

When the strangers come, they often do the most delightful double-takes upon first seeing me. Inevitably, a local will then discreetly pull the stranger aside for a few minutes' chat. No doubt they have some dreadful, complicated story to explain away the nosy wolf with the silver runes in its fur. Again, no bother to me, especially since the strangers seem to respect Her all the more for it.

One of the merchants -- he comes too often to be a 'stranger', but he's certainly not a local -- stops briefly at the butcher's cart, then comes over to try his luck at selling to Her. He does his best to smile warmly, then bends down and offers me a sliver of roast pork. It smells wonderful, but I step back, cock my head just slightly to one side, and stare calmly up at him. It takes him a moment to realize that he has forgotten the protocol for these matters. He blushes, mutters an apology, and extends the morsel to Her instead. She nods, delicately takes the morsel in Her gloved hand, and holds it toward me. I lower my head and tail to Her in proper deference and thanks, and She drops it at my feet. I snap it up and pretend to look preoccupied elsewhere, while he stumbles through his pitch and excuses himself.

Before long, She has finished Her errands and made Her exit, and we head for home. The trip is almost entirely uneventful. But as we near the shack, I catch a familiar scent, and see a black-furred ear barely visible in the tall grass. I head towards him at a deliberate pace, and growl evenly but menacingly.

Immediately, I hear a most satisfying whine, and the grass rustles as he quickly vanishes into the distance. I return to Her, tail held high.

He has earned nothing more from me, and certainly not from Her.

I still almost never come into Her shack; I can't keep a proper watch in there, and it makes me feel uncomfortably like I'm imposing and ignoring my duty. And frankly, it smells quite strange. But I can come as close as I choose now, and pick the best spots without fear. And the runes don't just keep the wards at bay; they keep me warm on cold nights, and the rain and snow just run right off. It's a very satisfying arrangement.

And best off all, almost every time She sees me, She is smiling.

{{author note|I mailed this one to the TSA-Talk list when I wrote it, but never even added it to my own website. Not sure why.

There's a story behind the writing of this. My stories tend to be very dialogue-heavy, and they tend to focus on descriptions of the TFs. So I gave myself two challenges: "Write a story without a single line of dialogue", and "Write a story in which the main character's TF is never described at all -- the reader learns about it purely through its implications on what's going on in the story." The original version of this story actually met both these criteria. In fact, the main character's species was left completely undefined. And it was a pretty darn good story. But the ending wound up feeling unsatisfying; I think that most readers are looking for at least ''some'' more closure than that. So I compromised a bit in the final version.}}

User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-30T16:30:16Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Mental change

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Gorilla]][[Category:Horror]][[Category:Adult]][[Category:Mental change]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Reinkarmation}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Gorilla}}
{{title|name=Reinkarmation|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story was written for a contest on the TSA-Talk mailing list. The theme of the contest was "nasty stories." This story won. It is indeed nasty, involving a variety of distasteful acts. '''Please''' don't read this if you're young or easily offended.}}

When Scott returned from his day at the beach, there was a paper bag on his doorstep. A note, in a familiar handwriting, was attached:

: Darling,

: Is there something wrong? Now that we're engaged, we're supposed to be seeing ''more'' of each other, aren't we?

: I hope you haven't forgotten about the costume party tonight at six; I've been ''so'' looking forward to it. Remember, it's at Fourth and Ivy--you can't miss it. Please do be there; I'm so concerned about you...

: Debbie

Scott sighed, crumpled up the note. Costume party? Of all the dumb ideas... But, dammit, he had to go. Anything to keep her happy--for the next three months or so, at least.

He looked at his watch. Shit. 5:15. And the cab was long gone already. He grabbed the bag without a second, went inside, called the cab company--they'd have another cab there in 15 minutes--it would be close, but he'd make it. Then he opened the bag, pulled out the costume.

A gorilla suit.

He was halfway through dialing the cab company's number again when he got hold of himself, took a deep breath. It was all for Debbie. All for Debbie. That beautiful face. Those beautiful eyes. Those twelve million beautiful dollars. His biggest haul yet, by far, if he could pull it off.

One night of utter embarrassment was a damn small price to pay.

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, he quickly stripped down to his underwear, and slipped into the suit. He was half-hoping that it wouldn't fit--but, knowing Debbie, it would. And, sure enough, it did. He had to admit, it was a ''damn good'' gorilla suit. It was made from some kind of stretch fabric; it was tight, but comfortable. It put just the right amount of pressure on his knees and waist, pulling him down into a realistic-looking half-squat. The hands and feet were nicely detailed, and the head was incredible; he could see clearly out the eye-holes, and the jaw even moved with his own. Some nobody in Taiwan had worked overtime on this thing.

There seemed to be only two problems. First, he could barely hear a thing. But, with Debbie's friends, that would be a big plus with him. Second, there were no pockets.

The taxi honked.

Scott cursed a blue streak. No time to worry about that. He grabbed a twenty from his wallet, and the note. He'd get a ride back with Debbie. Those eyes. Those lips. Those bank accounts.

----

Sure enough, the party was impossible to miss. The taxi arrived at six on the dot--but Debbie must have wanted him to be fashionably late. Things were in full swing, and nobody batted an eye as Scott shuffled through the door. Even with his ears covered, the music managed to be loud; he doubted he would understand the lyrics even without the suit, and didn't mind in the least.

He saw no sign of Debbie--of course, he had no idea what she'd be wearing, so that didn't mean much. Well, he'd just have to mingle; as long as he was embarrassing himself, there was no reason to do it halfway. And she'd recognize him; he was the only gorilla in the room...

There was only one other "animal" in the room--in some kind of humanoid dog suit, the sort of thing a mascot would wear. As good a place to start as any. So he headed that way, walking on his knuckles as best he could, and ook-ing up a storm.

As he got closer, his target turned, saw him, and immediately started clapping. It was a coyote, not a dog; and he--it was definitely a he--was at least nine inches too tall to be Debbie. Still, Scott thought, it would be nice to have someone to be embarrassed with; and this fellow seemed agreeable enough.

Between the suits and the music, conversation was impossible. But the two of them seemed to synthesize an act from thin air--the coyote and his pet gorilla--and started working the room with it. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.

Wherever they went in the room, there were ripples of applause. People shook the coyote's paw. People patted Scott on the head. People talked to the coyote; Scott couldn't understand a word of it over the music, but it seemed very pleasant, and everyone would smile and laugh. People would lean down to try to talk to Scott; he couldn't understand a word of that either, but he nodded and ooked in reply, and everyone laughed.

Many people brought them drinks; and they accepted graciously. Thanks to the marvelous mask, Scott found drinking out of a glass to be no problem. And he realized that this was one of those wondrous times in life when public drunkenness can actually be an advantage; the more he drank, the less embarrassed he felt. The more he drank, the easier it got to shamble around the room on all fours, and the more convincing his hoots and grunts became. He was having a blast.

When he started having trouble holding the glass correctly, the coyote disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bowl; people simply poured the drinks into it, and he lapped them up. The applause doubled.

The evening spun happily on. More people arrived. The music blared. Scott couldn't see straight anymore, but that was all right; he could still hear bits and pieces of the laughter. He just smiled, and grunted, and licked the bowl clean. Everybody was happy...

Everything faded to black.

----

Some time later, Scott came to, slowly. He was under a table. The music was gone. Every cell in his body screamed in agony. He howled. Somebody walked over, petted him; it was the coyote. He said something, and poured something from a bottle into Scott's bowl. Almost without thought, Scott slurped it down, and within moments everything felt warm and wonderful again.

Something poked him, softly. He looked up; the coyote was gesturing towards the door, and saying something--Scott could make out the word "home". The coyote took a few steps toward the door, holding the bowl and the bottle, and beckoned for Scott to follow.

A ride home. That would be nice.

Scott shambled out after the coyote, walking expertly on all fours.

Outside, the jumble of cars had long since cleared; just a few scattered vehicles were left. One of them was a green van with tinted windows. The coyote opened the rear doors, and beckoned Scott inside. Scott hopped in happily. There was something odd about the van, he thought; but he couldn't think of what it was. And just then, the coyote put the bowl down next to him, and filled it up again; and Scott stopped paying attention to the van. As he slurped up the contents of the bowl, he barely noticed the doors slam shut.

Scott slumped to the floor. Everything was so hot all of a sudden; and he was so tired...

In a few seconds, he was fast asleep.

The van smoothly drove away into the night.

----

By the time Scott woke up again, the sun was high in the sky.

The pain was back, but nowhere near as bad as last time. Scott managed not to cry out. He had had many, many hangovers before, and he knew what to do. He waited for his senses to report on how bad things were.

He could hear the van's engine rumbling, the gentle vibrations from the road.

He could feel the pain in his muscles. His bladder throbbed with pain, full to the bursting point; and he could feel the dampness in his skin, smell the gentle stench of urine.

''Oh, God. A bad one.''

He finally managed to open his eyes...and he saw a blur of silver.

''Huh?''

He pulled himself up a few inches, got his eyes to focus.

He was in a cage.

Adrenaline surged through him. Almost instantly, he was fully awake.

He looked around. The cage filled the rear half of the van, with solid metal mesh on all six sides. The floor was lined with straw; there was a rubber ball and a big bunch of bananas in one corner, and a feeding tube poking through one wall, hooked to a large bottle of clear fluid. He was still in the suit; the fur at the waist was damp with urine.

Gods, he hadn't even noticed that the suit was anatomically correct...

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead! It's nice to have you up, the road getslonely."

He whirled to face the front of the van. The coyote was driving.

"What the '''''fuck''''' are you do..." yelled Scott, and ground to a halt, eyes wide. He had meant to say that; but it had come out as an incomprehensible mishmash of hoots and grunts.

The coyote laughed. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't speak your language."

There was something different about the coyote. His head was smaller, more refined-looking; the padded paws were gone, replaced by clawed hands, still covered with golden fur.

What the hell was going on?

Then Scott noticed the two bundles of fur on the floor next to the driver's seat--one of them golden-brown, the other a very familiar, deeper shade...

A few seconds of utter panic followed, as Scott groped for the zipper that was no longer there, pulled at his own head in the desperate hope that it would come off. His hands caught on something, but it wasn't a suit; it was a collar, tight around his neck--a collar that didn't seem to have a buckle...

"Whaddaya think? A pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

Scott rushed towards the front of the cage, slammed his massive shoulder into it once, twice...

It didn't budge a millimeter.

"Unless you think you can pick those locks back there, I'd listen reeeeal carefully to what I'm about to say."

Scott ground to a halt, muscles still quivering. He stared at the coyote--the coyote glanced back once, in the rear-view mirror, then turned his eyes back to the road.

"You're probably wondering why I've called this meeting," the coyote said, conversationally. "Well, I'll be happy to tell you--it's a lot more fun to watch if you know exactly what's happening...

"You've been a real asshole, Scott. You've done some pretty damn nasty things, and you've managed to fuck up a lot of decent people's lives. You've made yourself a problem, Scott. And I'm a problem-solver from wayback.

"You've got one thing going for you. I don't kill people. Death is messy, and it's bad karma. Life is a precious thing, even when it's wasted on a shithead like you. And frankly, killing you would be letting you off pretty damn easy. So, when I run into useless specimens of humanity such as yourself, I just find a way to make 'em useful. There's not many things out there that are so damn useless that you can't find ''something'' to do with 'em if you try hard enough. We coyotes are kinda resourceful that way.

"In your case, the answer is pretty damn simple. You've been a completely useless specimen of a human being, but with a few weeks of training, you'll make a very nice gorilla. Before you know it, you'll be in a zoo somewhere, providing cheap amusement value to thousands. For once in your life, you'll actually be useful. Won't that be nice?"

Scott slammed into the walls of the cage; the coyote just laughed. He tried to find the latch to the door; the coyote just laughed. He screamed and howled until he was hoarse; the coyote just laughed, and turned up the radio. Finally, he stood at the front of the cage, and pissed until his bladder was empty; he hosed down the coyote, the seat, the dashboard. The coyote laughed harder than ever. "You're getting the idea already!" He even leaned to one side, away from the seat, giving Scott a better angle of aim. Then, when Scott finally ran dry, the coyote got up, turned around--the van rolled on, apparently driving itself--and expertly returned fire. The barrage went on for minutes on end, impossibly long and impossibly strong; the whole cage was damp with urine, and Scott was a dripping mass of wet fur huddled in the back corner of the cage. Finally, the coyote sat back down in the damp driver's seat, and turned his attention back to the road, still laughing.

For long minutes, perhaps an hour, Scott sat in the back of the cage, glumly staring out the windshield at the unfamiliar road. The coyote howled along with the radio, and hurled good-natured profanities at the other drivers, who never heard or saw a thing.

Gradually, Scott found himself staring less and less at the road, and more and more at the bananas.

He started across the cage towards them... then caught himself, and returned to his corner.

A few minutes later, he went halfway across before he stopped. Then he howled, slammed into the front wall of the cage once more. He grabbed the mesh with both hands, reared his head back, as if to smash his head against the iron... but as he started forward, he came to a halt, as if he had lost his will at the last moment. He tried again, with the same result.

He crawled back to the corner of the cage, and put his head in his hands.

Ten minutes later, he crossed the cage once more, pulled a banana from the bunch, peeled it, and began eating it. Halfway through, he looked at it, threw it down, and retreated to the back corner... but a few minutes later, he returned to finish it off.

A few minutes later, after eating another banana, the gorilla was sucking the feeding tube, enjoying the sugary fluid.

The coyote just smiled. Everything proceeding according to plan.

The van rolled on, into the sunset.

Some hours later, it finally arrived at an isolated ranch. It backed up to a large, caged enclosure, already fitted out with food and straw. With minimal encouragement from the coyote, the gorilla placidly emerged into the larger quarters. The door swung shut, and the locks clicked into place on their own.

"Well, I must say you've been a thoroughly enjoyable guest so far, Scott," the coyote said, chuckling. "Get a good night's sleep; we do have work ahead of us tomorrow." With that, the coyote turned and walked towards his own house, whistling off-key.

To the gorilla, the words were just soothing sounds; as the coyote disappeared through the front door of the house, the gorilla calmly inspected his new surroundings. He picked a comfortable-looking corner, quickly gathered some of the straw into a nest, curled up in it, and drifted off to sleep.

----

Scott woke up just as the sun poked over the horizon in the east.

He rolled over, stretched. ''God, what a weird dream.''

Then he looked down at his furry chest, saw the iron bars surrounding him...

It took just a few seconds for the events of the previous day to sink in.

Then he attacked the door. When that failed, he methodically worked his way around the cage, trying every bar, every weld.

Then he howled at the top of his lungs, for long minutes on end, until he collapsed, gasping, to the dirt floor...

The coyote just rolled over in bed, and smiled.

----

A lesser man would give up hope. But Scott was not about to be a lesser man.

His life settled into a routine. Every morning, he would wake up, knowing what he would see. The straw was always clean; the piles of leaves and fruits were always there, and the feeding tube would always be full. And there, next to the cage door, would be the morning newspaper... and, neatly placed on top of that, a chocolate mint. The writing on the wrapper was always the same: ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US.

He could not break out on his own; there was no question about that. Every morning, he made the rounds, testing every bar and weld of his prison, climbing methodically up the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Every day, he seemed to be a little bit larger, a little bit stronger; but the bars never moved.

He could not yell for help, even if there was any hope of being understood. Wherever he was, nobody seemed to come here... nobody but the coyote. In his first few days here, he had hooted and screeched for most of the morning; and sometimes the coyote had come out to howl along with him. There was never a reply.

Several times, he had tried to kill himself--and had found that that was not an option either. Every time he deliberately tried to hurt himself--by slamming his head into the mesh, or by choking himself on fruit--his will would weaken at the last moment. He wasn't sure whether the magic was responsible, or whether he simply couldn't really conceive of dying--at least not while the coyote lived. For that was his goal now. He doubted that he could ever be changed back. But at least he could have the satisfaction of choking that coyote until his tongue turned blue, until those eyes of his turned red with ruptured blood vessels, until he lost control of his muscles, until his neck finally snapped...

So there was only one course available to him. He would simply have to wait for his captor to make a mistake. And when that mistake happened, Scott would be there to capitalize on it.

But the mistake never seemed to come. Sometimes, the coyote wouldn't even show his face in the morning. Other times, he would sit next to the cage, and watch Scott for hours, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking nonstop about anything at all--the book, the weather, current events, the keepers at the zoos Scott might be visiting. He never sat within reach of the cage. But sometimes, he would sit within a few yards, as if inviting Scott to take a shot at him--and Scott would drink his fill at the tube every morning, just to be ready if that opportunity arose. It clearly didn't faze the coyote in the slightest--in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. But Scott enjoyed it too, and he didn't care what the coyote thought.

But there was one more thing that was constant, every day. Within a few hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Scott would feel his mind start to wander--the gorilla's thoughts creeping in. For the first few days, he fought it--sitting in the corner of the cage, gripping the bars with both hands, concentrating on nothing but don't move. But soon, he learned that it was useless, and switched tactics; he would deliberately act dumb, hoping to lull the coyote into a false sense of security. But the coyote never bought it; in fact, he would almost always leave Scott to himself for the next few hours, as his thoughts spiraled downwards, as his movements in the cage became more and more meandering. And by midafternoon, Scott would be gone, and only the gorilla would be left, gorging itself on leaves, playing with the rubber ball.

It was then, in the evening, that the coyote would enter the cage. The gorilla loved him. He would make soothing sounds to it, and it would placidly watch him as he changed the straw and replenished the food. Then, some nights, he would walk over to it, and smile, and wave a hand; and the gorilla would go limp. And the coyote would kneel down next to it. And one hand would stroke the fur on its chest, while the other hand gently massaged the top of the gorilla's head, sending waves of pleasure that seemed to penetrate all the way into its brain, gently rearranging things...

Eventually, the coyote would finish up its tasks, and smile once more, and leave, taking the old newspaper with him. He never left the new paper, or the mint; they just seemed to show up on their own, during the night.

The gorilla would pace the cage for a few more minutes, then curl up in its corner, and go to sleep.

The next morning, Scott would wake up, and remember all this. He would fantasize for a few minutes, about breaking the coyote's back, about shoving a long stick up his ass and seeing how hard he could twist it, about slamming him into the cage wall until his skull came apart and his brains flew out.

Then, he would go to the door of the cage, and begin methodically testing the bars...

----

That first morning, Scott had urinated on the newspaper, thrown it out of the cage. These days, he read it; there might be something useful, and besides, it was something to do.

Some of the stories were about himself. For the first three days after his disappearance, he was front-page news; after that, he shifted to page two, then farther back. But the stories were always there.

That second morning, when he first read the paper, the stories were about his mysterious disappearance. Police had been called to his residence when his fiance, Deborah Danvers, had gotten no answer to repeated phone calls. There was possible evidence of foul play, police said; there was clothing strewn around the living room, as well as his wallet and identification. There was a photograph of Debbie crying, pleading for any word. Scott had hoped; ''maybe they would look here.'' But there was no mention of the party, no last known whereabouts. The police had no leads.

And the next day, the lead story wasn't about the search. It was about a taxi driver, who said that he had picked Scott up at his home, taken him to the bank, then to the airport. He had said that he was leaving for two weeks in Bermuda; but he had no luggage, just a briefcase. He had seemed nervous, irritable. He hadn't tipped. The police hedged; there was a strong possibility that his disappearance was voluntary, they said. The search continued.

The day after that, the nothings started to come out of the woodwork, and they were talking. His old boss in New York, and those "accounting discrepancies". The geezers in Pensecola, and their "investment fund". The DA in Orange County, who thought that he might be the "Gregory Scott" wanted for insurance fraud. A search warrant was being sought for his bank accounts, as well as for a storage locker near his residence...

The day after that, the search had been called off; he was believed to have fled the country. Fingerprints were being sent to the FBI, for comparison to those of other wanted felons. Debbie was interviewed once again, this time wondering how she could have been so close to a man, and been so wrong about him...

By this time, Scott was losing interest. There was only one detail that concerned him; and, in the next few days, it played itself out. One by one, his bank accounts, his brokerage accounts, his safe deposit boxes, were turned up. Almost a million dollars was found in two accounts; and the lawyers were already lining up for their cracks at it. But almost everything else--at least eight million dollars, the papers estimated--had already been cleaned out, the funds transferred through shell accounts, leaving nothing behind but convoluted paper trails that seemed to lead nowhere. He had clearly been planning his disappearance for some time, the police said; and when the time came, he had executed his plan quickly and professionally. He would likely never be seen on US soil again...

Scott crumpled up the paper, threw it in a corner of the cage. He knew who was responsible. He turned to stare at the coyote's house--only to see his captor on the roof, happily tightening the final bolt on his new satellite dish...

That was the final straw. No, he wouldn't shove a stick up the coyote's ass; he'd use his fist. He'd pull out his intestines and shove them down his throat...

But the days passed, and the mistake never came.

And within a week or so, Scott found himself having more and more trouble reading the paper. He could still sound out the words, but the meanings seemed to be sliding away. And when the coyote sat by his cage and talked to him, the words seemed to run together as well.

He knew exactly why this was--every time the coyote would visit the gorilla in the cage, and run his fingers into its scalp, a bit more would be missing from Scott's mind the next day. And there was absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it.

In another week, Scott couldn't read the articles in the paper anymore, or follow what the coyote was saying; he could pick out the individual words, but he couldn't put them together in his mind anymore.

In another week, even the words were gone--they were just a stream of ink and sound.

And a few days after that, as the sun set, the coyote pulled the van up to Scott's cage.

----

The new arrival had no name--just a number. But within a week, one of the keepers had suggested Aries, and the name had immediately stuck. Like a ram, he would lower his head and charge at the walls of the enclosure, only to pull up at the last moment. And he was like the month of March--in like a lion, out like a lamb...

In the morning, he was utterly unpredictable. He might attack the door, trying to batter it down. He might climb up the front wall of the enclosure, and piss on the signs and the railing. Or he might do something completely inscrutable--like painstakingly collecting leaves and straw, and arranging them into meaningless patterns, then crouching by them, and staring at the visitors as they walked by.

But by midday, he would start to settle down. And by three o'clock, he was the kindest, gentlest gorilla you could ever hope to meet.

The keepers had never seen anything like it. He was transferred to San Diego, then to Portland, in the hopes that a change of scenery would calm him; but nothing worked. He couldn't be kept with other gorillas--he would frequently attack them in the morning, only to be attacked in turn at night. Finally, he was placed in a separate enclosure with Tanuki, a female who had also shown difficulty socializing; the two of them worked out better than expected--she could fend for herself in the morning, and seemed to hold no grudge. And before long, the two of them would be playing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

A year passed. They were not expected to mate; Tanuki was barely ten, and Aries looked to be fairly young himself. But, as animals were prone to do, the two of them surprised their keepers; they were seen experimenting with each other, and before long, Tanuki was obviously expecting. The keepers were overjoyed, but the sight seemed to throw Aries into a rage; he had to be kept isolated. Sometimes the keepers allowed him to see Tanuki, but only in the evenings...

----

Early one morning, Scott paced his cell.

"I have a proposal for you. Are you interested?"

It took Scott a moment to realize that he understood the words. He turned... and saw the coyote standing there, just a few feet away, on the other side of the iron mesh.

Every fantasy he had ever had flashed through his mind. But he never moved. He knew it was useless; he had tried those bars so many times before.

Instead, he simply turned back around, facing away from the coyote, and sat down, paying no attention whatsoever.

"Suit yourself."

A few seconds later, when Scott grudgingly turned to look, the coyote was gone.

----

More months passed. Tanuki gave birth to a female; she was named Star, after a light mark on her forehead. Aries had to be kept far away. But Tanuki showed poor mothering skills, and before long, Star was taken away, to be hand-raised. Aries was carefully returned to Tanuki's enclosure; and before long, things were back to normal--or at least back to what passed for normal around Aries.

The months turned into another year, then two. Aries and Tanuki mated again from time to time, but no new young were produced. The keepers were disappointed. They tranquilized Aries, took semen samples. His sperm count was low, almost zero. The keepers were disappointed--but perhaps, with time, things would improve. And in the meantime, at least Aries was manageable.

Every so often--perhaps once or twice a year; Scott had little interest in keeping track--the coyote would appear, always early in the morning. Each time, the question was the same--"Are you interested yet?" Scott would studiously ignore him, and he would go away.

Another year passed. Aries was back in isolation. An interior door had been left improperly latched; Aries had managed to open it, and had made his way into the service corridors. He was captured. Better locks were being installed.

"Are you interested yet?"

This time, Scott didn't turn away. He stared at the coyote. Whatever he had to say, it might be useful. And besides, it was something to do.

"Have you ever wondered what else I do with my time?"

Scott just stared. He couldn't say that he had. And it didn't seem interesting.

"The world is a damn big place, Scott. Damn big. To say nothing of the universe. Like the song says, there's much more to see than can ever be seen. You of all people should know that, right?"

Scott thought about turning his back. But he didn't move.

"There's no way that anybody can ever know everything that's going on. So there's no way that anybody can ever know how everything ''works'' either. So people look at what they ''can'' see, and they figure out how ''that'' works.

"But then people make a mistake. They start taking all those rules that they've worked out to explain what they've seen, and they start thinking that those same rules must work for ''everything.'' They start thinking round and round in circles, locking themselves up in cages, thinking about everything the same old way. And when something comes along that's outside the cage--something that doesn't fit inside all those little rules they've worked up--they pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Well, we coyotes, we sort of like to do something about that. We play tricks on people. And sometimes it's just for fun. But sometimes, it's to get people outside their cages--even if we have to push 'em out to get 'em there. And when we can't get 'em out, sometimes we can just get their attention. You can pretend all you want that that guy outside the cage doesn't exist--but when he stands up and pisses in your face, it sorta grabs your attention, doesn't it?"

Scott was half-expecting the coyote to demonstrate his point; but he made no move to. Did any of this ''have'' a point?

"I wasn't born this way, you know."

That grabbed Scott's undivided attention.

"Some are born great; some have greatness thrust upon them. Up until about six years ago, I was as normal as you'd ever want to see. Hell, I was a schmuck... not half as much of one as you, but a schmuck nonetheless. And then, one day, a magnificent stranger showed up, and he showed me the way.

"Thought about a career change lately, Scott?"

''He can't be serious,'' Scott thought. ''This is crazy.''

But Scott couldn't bring himself to turn away. After all, he already knew that the coyote was crazy...

"I did say I'd find a way to make you useful, after all. And besides, if I can turn a shithead like you into a decent coyote, I'll be a legend.

"The question is... if I do that for you, are you willing to do what it takes?"

There was only one sane answer. Scott nodded.

"Sure about that?"

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

"I thought so. Everything's all set. See ya in three days."

And with that, the coyote vanished.

And Scott just stared, past the bars of the cage, at the big world beyond.

----

Scott went about his business, such as it was. He refused to let himself believe it.

But, three days to the dot later, in the wee hours of the morning, a transfer team showed up at his cage. And behind them, he could see a stranger, a perfectly normal human... but somehow, when he looked again, he could see the shadow of the pointed ears, the muzzle. He was smiling. As always.

''My God. It's really happening.''

He made a token show of resistance, but allowed himself to be herded into the carrier cage. In a matter of minutes, he was once again in the back of a truck, rolling down the empty pathways of the zoo.

Every fantasy he had ever had evaporated. If he could really get out of here, he would kiss the coyote's feet. He would clean his house with his tongue. He would smear himself with Vaseline and get down on hands and knees. He would...

The truck pulled up to an unfamiliar building, at the outskirts of the zoo. Scott couldn't read the sign, but he dimly remembered what the red cross stood for.

A needle poked him from behind.

His muscles began to go limp. He saw the coyote looking in at him, and he saw the look in those eyes...

And he knew.

With the strength that he had left, he slammed his body weight twice into the door of the cage, desperately trying to escape. But it was hopeless, and he knew that from the start.

As his head sunk to the floor of the cage, he prayed that he would lose consciousness.

He did not.

He was hauled out of the cage, strapped to a gurney, wheeled into an operating room. He could not move a muscle, could not utter a sound. But he could hear the keepers talking, though he couldn't understand a word. And he could feel the straps press against his flesh. He could feel everything. Very clearly.

The coyote stood over him, holding a scalpel, and smiled.

His mouth never moved--not his human one, not even the muzzle that only Scott could see. But Scott heard a single word, very clearly, in his mind.

"Gotcha."

The scalpel bit into his flesh...

----

The keepers were sad. They had given up hope of Aries ever mating again, and they had hoped that neutering him would at least curb his violent impulses. And it had worked--all too well.

Every morning, Aries would just huddle in the corner of his cage, refusing to move at all, staring hopelessly at the bars. Not even the electric prod could budge him. It was as if he was waiting to die.

There was no risk of that, of course. Aries was still young, and showed no signs at all of ill health. With any luck, he would live for another thirty years, perhaps even forty.

And he always snapped out of it around noon.

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-30T16:28:58Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Mental change

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]][[Category:Modern magic]][[Category:Mental change]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}{{Stopped}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here.
The story contains foul language; and part 10 contains adult sexual material -- nothing is explicitly described, but the nature of the scene may still be offensive.
This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

Kickaha was finding Portland even more to his liking than Seattle. It was still large enough to get lost in, but not large enough to make him feel cut off from the real world. There were parks and trees everywhere, even more so than in Seattle. The air was a little clearer, the sounds a little calmer. And there was this simply wonderful place called Powell's, that seemed to have every book that existed in this world. He was going to have to talk to Keith about setting up housekeeping there tonight; with a little magic, there was no reason why they couldn't... and he didn't think that Keith would need too much persuading. After all, he could always threaten to find other forms of entertainment...

Everything was looking great. Their disguise spells were working perfectly; nobody batted an eye at the fox browsing the shelves at Powell's, or at the coyote loping through the shopping district on all fours.

Of course, all of this good news meant that it was about time for something to blow up. And Kickaha had an idea of what that might be.

Keith was up to something.

About ten minutes after they'd left that old man, Keith had started smiling. He'd stopped at the next decent-sized forest they came to, and Sung for just a few minutes--a land speed record for him. When he came out of it, he'd kept on heading south, as if nothing had happened; he'd even let Kickaha do the flying. But that mental grin of his was ear-to-ear now. He'd figured something out. And he wasn't talking about it--he was waiting for Kickaha to ask, and knowing that he eventually would.

And, of course, that redoubled Kickaha's resolve ''not'' to ask; he'd been someone else's straightman just a wee bit too often lately. Oh, sure, he could just look in Keith's mind... but that would be cheating, and they both knew it. Twice over the course of the afternoon, he started to peek... then immediately caught himself, and went nonchalantly on about his business, as if nothing could be less important than Keith's little insight. And Keith's grin got just that little bit wider...

----

It was about seven o'clock--the workers had largely cleared out of downtown, and the streets were coming alive with the nighttime rush. Keith wandered the streets at random, taking in the sights; Kickaha amused himself--and distracted himself--with incidental magic. An odd trail of spilled drinks and Freudian slips marked their passage.

Just as Kickaha was getting bored, and deciding how to sell Keith on the Powell's thing, he noticed the magician working the corner across the street.

<<Mind if I take over for a sec?>>

<By all means, go right ahead.>

<<Damn, you're agreeable today,>> Kickaha muttered, as they rippled into coyote form.

Keith just grinned some more.

----

Gregor was about to pack up his card table and go home. There couldn't be more than ten dollars in his hat, and he'd put half of that there himself. His tricks were working fine, and people were stopping to watch, but not for long. Maybe this whole street-magic thing just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

As he shuffled his cards, he noticed a new onlooker--a guy in a coyote suit, wearing a cloak. Just when the day couldn't get any more surreal. Cool suit, though. Well, it never hurt to try...

"Perhaps you could help me, sir." He slid the deck across the table, letting the cards fan themselves out face-down. "Would you be so kind as to pick a card?"

"Anything for a total stranger," the coyote said. He tapped a card with his claw, and Gregor flipped it over--the Queen of Diamonds.

"Watch that card carefully, sir; you never know where it might turn up next." As he said this, Gregor smoothly gathered the cards back up, palming the Queen in the process. Squaring the cards up--and sliding the Queen back on top of the pack--he shuffled them repeatedly, keeping the Queen on top each time. Finally, he squared the pack up once more, palming the Queen again in the process, and started dealing cards off the deck. "Now, sir, I need you to concentrate on that card--and when you feel its presence, tell me to stop."

The coyote smiled, let him deal cards for a few more seconds. "Now, I think."

"A fine choice," Gregor said, picking up what was left of the pack in both hands, and dropping the Queen back on top once more. "Now, let us see what we've arrived at." He smiled, picked up the top card, and slowly flipped it over, to reveal... the joker.

"A tragedy, really," the coyote replied sadly, drooping its muzzle. "It's the story of my life. Whenever I go in search of feminine companionship, I find nothing but laughter and jests... and the object of my affections always seems to hide at the bottom of the deck."

Gregor stared at the coyote, eyebrows raised. He slowly turned the pack of cards over in his hand... and there on the bottom was the Queen.

"And there she is," Gregor said, almost as much to himself as to the coyote.

"Say, you ''are'' good at this," the coyote replied.

An older couple had stopped to watch, along with a young man in a business suit. The couple applauded politely, and the husband put a dollar in the hat. After a moment, the young man followed suit. A group of four college students stopped to see what the fuss was about.

"I feel like I should pay you for such a wonderful trick," the coyote continued, fishing into his cloak and pulling out a bill. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything smaller than this twenty. Perhaps we could make this a contest. I can't help but notice those three cups on your table. May I assume that you are familiar with the Cups and Balls?"

"Why, yes; I believe I could manage that trick," Gregor replied, the smoothness coming back into his voice. He didn't like the idea of another magician horning in on his turf--and that's clearly what this coyote character was. But he'd just made more in two minutes than he'd made in the last two hours; he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he ''really'' wanted to know what happened to that last trick...

"Splendid. It's a favorite of mine. I would truly appreciate it if you would perform it for me--and if I can't guess which cup has the ball, these twenty dollars are yours. But if I guess correctly, I get five dollars from your hat. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." To be honest, Gregor was more than a bit taken aback by the wager--if this fellow knew the trick, then he knew that Gregor could make that ball show up anywhere he wanted. Why would he want to make a bet that he knew he would lose? He had an angle somewhere. And Gregor would gladly give five dollars to find out what that angle was.

So Gregor arranged the cups, showed the ball to the coyote, and let ''him'' put it under the center cup. Then he started shuffling the cups, keeping up a steady stream of patter. Three more people stopped to watch, then two more, forming a solid wall around the table. Every so often, he raised a cup to show the ball... and, just after the last time, he made The Move, and he felt the ball slip under the back of the cup and into his palm. A few shuffles later, as he slid another cup, he raised the back edge just a bit, and slipped the ball underneath. He snuck a quick glance at the crowd, and at the coyote in particular; there was no hint of recognition.

He quickly shuffled for a few more seconds, then shuffled, and waited for the coyote to make his choice.

The coyote smiled--''How do you make a mask that can do that?'', Gregor thought--and pointed to the leftmost cup. He was right, and he was wrong. The ball had been there, but it wasn't anymore. Smiling, Gregor lifted the cup, to show the empty air.

The coyote lowered his muzzle again. "I can never seem to follow it--it's always that last move that gets me. Where was it?"

Gregor almost felt guilty. "I have the same trouble myself--the cups just seem to blend together, don't they? It was over here, I believe."

He lifted the center cup--and nothing was there.

"Perhaps that last move was even better than I thought," Gregor said with forced cheer, and lifted the rightmost cup. Nothing there either.

"Well, I've never seen ''that'' happen before," the coyote said, clearly puzzled. "Under the circumstances, I think we'll have to call it a draw. Perhaps if we reverse roles? If you can pick the cup where I've hidden the ball, the twenty dollars is yours--if you can't, I take the five. Agreed?"

Gregor gave a nervous glance at the crowd; this wasn't the right time to make waves. And, dammit, he'd give twenty himself to see this guy work. "Agreed."

"Fine, fine. But we still seem to be missing a ball. Perhaps we can improvise something... excuse me, miss? Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your son's yo-yo for a moment? I promise to return it promptly."

The young mother chuckled, nodded. The young boy next to her wrapped up the string on the yo-yo, then handed it to the coyote, giggling. The crowd was getting thicker, Gregor couldn't even see how many people were watching.

"Yes, this will have to do." The coyote put the yo-yo on the table; it was so large that it barely fit inside the cup. He started shuffling them, clumsily. Every time he moved the cup with the yo-yo, the entire crowd could hear it sliding; every few seconds, the end of the string would even peek out from under the cup. The coyote didn't seem to notice. The crowd chuckled, but a bit uncomfortably; was he really that dense?

Finally, the coyote stopped--sliding the leftmost cup one last centimeter, and producing that telltale sound--and smiled. "Go ahead; guess."

Gregor tried to keep a straight face. "I'm not at all sure; you've clearly done this before. But I would have to say... that one." He pointed at the leftmost cup.

"Why don't you look for yourself? I'm really rather nervous."

"Certainly, kind sir." Gregor lifted the cup... and his jaw dropped, as the crowd gasped along with him. There was nothing there. He even flipped the cup over, to see if the yo-yo had somehow gotten stuck in it--knowing all the while that it wasn't; the extra weight would have been a dead giveaway. Sure enough, there was nothing there.

Disbelievingly, Gregor lifted the other two cups; there was nothing there either. The buzz of the crowd grew to a dull roar.

"Now this is just becoming bizarre," the coyote said. "We're still getting nowhere, and now I owe this poor child a yo-yo. Where could it be?"

The crowd was staring at the coyote, in rapt attention. Gregor was an afterthought.

"There must be a logical explanation for this," the coyote continued, thinking out loud. "They say that nature abhors a vacuum. So, logically, if an object were to disappear, the most likely place for it to turn up would be the nearest empty spot. Now, where would that be... I have it!" Without the slightest hesitation, he slapped his right ear--hard--with his right hand.

And the yo-yo sailed out from his left ear and landed on the table. The ball was right behind it; it bounced once, then landed neatly in one of the upturned cups.

The crowd stared in absolute silence for a moment... then erupted in applause. Kickaha presented the yo-yo to the boy, bowing; the boy laughed, turning the yo-yo over and over in his hands, as if looking for the magic. Someone threw a five-dollar bill on the table; a flurry of money followed it--ones and fives, mostly, but several tens mixed in.

"Well, that's one mystery solved," the coyote said, smiling. "But I'm afraid that our little contest still seems to be a draw."

"On the contrary," Gregor said, still not believing what he had just seen, but determined to play his part for all it was worth. "You certainly guessed where the ball was--even if it was after the fact--and I certainly never guessed correctly. In fact, you would appear to have won twice."

"Why, how kind of you to look at it that way. And it seems that there is more than enough here to go around." The coyote tucked one of the tens from the table into his cloak. "Well, I fear that I have stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. Best of luck with your career, young man." And with that, the coyote turned and walked away, to another ripple of applause from the crowd.

Gregor applauded along with them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. But I fear that I have had enough for tonight as well." ''And there's no way in hell that I'm following an act like that.''

The crowd nodded, applauded once more, and started to disperse.

"Maybe I should get a suit like that," Gregor muttered, as he gathered the money into his hat.

"A suit like what?", a man standing nearby asked.

"Like that coyote suit. Have you ever seen one as good-looking as that?"

The man chuckled nervously. "I don't get it."

Gregor looked up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but several of the people who were left were staring at him with confused expressions as well.

Gregor looked in the direction where the coyote had gone not twenty seconds before. There were several dozen people there, walking in the right direction, but nobody looked out of the ordinary at all.

But just then, one of those people--a man in a black shirt and blue jeans--turned and looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. And just for that moment, Gregor could see the long ears, the muzzle still turned up in a grin.

"Don't mind me," Gregor said quietly. "Just a little private joke."

He went back to gathering up his props.

----

It was five in the morning. Powell's was dark and quiet; even the late-night stock clerks had finished for the night. Not a creature was stirring.

Well, ''one'' creature was stirring.

In the Rose Room, curled up on top of one of the massive bookcases, a fox was just finishing ''The Dilbert Principle''.

<>

The fox just nodded. <Believe it. A few years ago, I was there.>

<<And now look how far you've come.>>

<Yep. I'm sleeping on a bookshelf. How could I ever ask for more than that?>

<>



<<You know, it's not as if we ''need'' to sleep at this point.>>

<Humor me. It feels good. And it's a few hours of peace and quiet.>

<>

The fox closed the book, then curled up nose-to-tail, and closed its eyes.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

<Okay. You win.>

<<Ummm-hmmm. I win what?>>

<You've got more self-control than I thought. You never did ask.>

Kickaha didn't have to say <<Ask about what?>> They both knew.

<Remember when we were trying to figure out what sort of magic I had?>

Interesting. <<Ummm-hmmm. Any insights in that regard?>>

<Could be. Could be.>

<<And will you be sharing these insights with the rest of the class?>>

<Could be. I just need to check one thing first.>

<<The tension is electric.>>



<<Mysteries upon mysteries. Okay, I'll play your little game.>>

Kickaha thought for a moment... then the fox's eyes opened, and concentrated on the book still lying next to them. The nose twitched... and the air above the book shimmered. In a moment, a second copy of the book had appeared, on top of the original.

<<There you go.>>

<Scott Adams is gonna be pissed at you, buddy. But that'll do. Now, watch this.>

Now Keith concentrated on the books. Kickaha felt the strange magic flow--from the feel of things, quite a bit more than Kickaha had used. Kickaha waited to be impressed...

...and nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

The fox grinned.

<Perfect.>

Kickaha said nothing for a few seconds. <<All right. I'm waiting for the explanation. And you ''know'' you're dying to give it to me.>>

<It's simple. Look at the books.>

Kickaha looked at them.

<<Congratulations. They're still books.>>

<No, no. You're missing it, and you'll ''kill'' me if I tell you. Look at them. Look.>

<<Oh, for the love of...>> Kickaha took full control of the body; it shifted into coyote form as he did. He got up and paced around the books, looking at them from every angle. He shifted his forepaws to hands, and opened them up, comparing a few pages. As near as he could tell, they were absolutely unchanged, and absolutely identical. There was nothing unusual about either of them. There wasn't even any aura of magic around them.

So why the hell was Keith so damn smug?

Grumbling to himself, Kickaha flipped the books shut again, looked at the covers once more. There had to be some''wait a fucking minute...''

No aura of magic?

Concentrating harder than he ever had since he'd shown up on this godforsaken planet, Kickaha stared at the second book, the one he'd just created two minutes ago. There should be magic seeping away from it, ticking away the moments until it vanished into the ether from whence it came.

There was absolutely nothing there.

But that meant...

Kickaha sat down on his haunches with a thud, still staring at the book.

<<Keith.>>

<Yeeeesss?>

<<Am I really not seeing what I'm not seeing?>>

<That would depend on what you're not seeing, wouldn't it?>

<<Keith. There's. No. Magic. Here.>>

<Really? What an interesting observation.>

<<Keith. Are you telling me that this is fucking '''PERMANENT?'''>>

<I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I've stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. We'll continue this fascinating conversation in the morning, okay?>

<<We're already in the damn morning!>>

<Then it won't be long now, will it? Pleasant dreams.>

Kickaha started to reply--then he caught himself. He curled up just as Keith had done, and closed his eyes. But those two books were still etched in his mind--the books that he knew would still be there when he woke up.

For long minutes, his mind buzzed with all the possibilities.

Then he picked out a few possibilities he liked.

And when he finally got to sleep, his dreams were indeed pleasant.

Category:Monkey

2009-08-30T16:27:41Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Primate

[[Category:Stories by TF]][[Category:Primate]]

Category:Primate

2009-08-30T16:27:03Z

Phaedrus: Initial version

[[Category:Animal]] [[Category:Stories by TF]]
Primates of all sorts: gorillas, chimpanzees, etc.

Category:Gorilla

2009-08-30T16:26:30Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Primate

[[Category:Stories by TF]][[Category:Primate]]

Stories involving a change into a gorilla.

Talk:The Tower in the Torch

2009-08-30T16:05:08Z

Phaedrus: /* Stumped Again =( */ A possible idea

Nice opening, no prizes for guessing what's about to happen though ;)
--[[User:Fibio|Fibio]] 15:51, 25 August 2009 (UTC)

:Considering that I've written two stories where he's a fox... not really, no =D -- [[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 16:25, 25 August 2009 (UTC)

Good start, Lloyd. I like the character and this is a rather decent story. -- [[User:ShadowWolf|ShadowWolf]] 21:50, 25 August 2009 (UTC)

{{Green|I agree with everything said above. This is looking to be a great introduction for Jonas.}} --[[User:Concerned Reader|Concerned Reader]] 23:15, 25 August 2009 (UTC)

Oh yeah! Great intro for Jonas, I can't wait for the next part! :) —[[User:WolfyDrake95|Drake]] 08:00, 26 August 2009 (UTC)

== How to vocalize ==

The next part of this story has Jonas trying to talk, but I'm not sure how to write it out. Foxes don't make the same types of sounds as other canines/candids so I can't just do things like "rawr" and whatnot. I've been looking over http://www.foxforest.org/upclose/voicescarry.shtml since this page has recordings of fox voices but I'm still stumped. Any suggestions? --[[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 17:39, 26 August 2009 (UTC)

{{Green|I've never known how to write out animal noises, other than describing what they may sound like. Onomatopoeia are hard like that...}} --[[User:Concerned Reader|Concerned Reader]] 18:16, 26 August 2009 (UTC)

== Stumped Again =( ==

Blarg! Writer's block attacks again! I know I want Sam's role in this story to be based around powering through and right now I want her to be making Jonas do something but I can't figure out what. My current idea is that she makes him help her decorate the rest of the house but ironically I can't think of how he'd do that given his physical limitations. Anyone have a suggestion? --[[User:Lloyd Brunnel|Lloyd Brunnel]] 14:41, 30 August 2009 (UTC)

: Hmm. Maybe she starts decorating with gingerbread cookies or small flower bouquets; that seems like it would be appropriate for the circumstances -- visually festive as well as providing an interesting aroma. And it seems like Jonas would be the only one able to position them to cover the house without the odor being overwhelming in any one spot. If you don't like that particular idea, try thinking along those same lines; how would you decorate ''differently'' if someone in your family was suddenly much more interested in odor and less interested in sight? [[User:Phaedrus|Phaedrus]] 16:05, 30 August 2009 (UTC)

User talk:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-30T15:50:13Z

Phaedrus: Response to Lloyd; tweaking the author's note

Category:Gorilla

2009-08-30T06:44:02Z

Phaedrus: Initial version

[[Category:Stories by TF]]

Stories involving a change into a gorilla.

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-30T04:08:56Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Modern magic

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]][[Category:Modern magic]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}{{Stopped}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here.
The story contains foul language; and part 10 contains adult sexual material -- nothing is explicitly described, but the nature of the scene may still be offensive.
This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

Kickaha was finding Portland even more to his liking than Seattle. It was still large enough to get lost in, but not large enough to make him feel cut off from the real world. There were parks and trees everywhere, even more so than in Seattle. The air was a little clearer, the sounds a little calmer. And there was this simply wonderful place called Powell's, that seemed to have every book that existed in this world. He was going to have to talk to Keith about setting up housekeeping there tonight; with a little magic, there was no reason why they couldn't... and he didn't think that Keith would need too much persuading. After all, he could always threaten to find other forms of entertainment...

Everything was looking great. Their disguise spells were working perfectly; nobody batted an eye at the fox browsing the shelves at Powell's, or at the coyote loping through the shopping district on all fours.

Of course, all of this good news meant that it was about time for something to blow up. And Kickaha had an idea of what that might be.

Keith was up to something.

About ten minutes after they'd left that old man, Keith had started smiling. He'd stopped at the next decent-sized forest they came to, and Sung for just a few minutes--a land speed record for him. When he came out of it, he'd kept on heading south, as if nothing had happened; he'd even let Kickaha do the flying. But that mental grin of his was ear-to-ear now. He'd figured something out. And he wasn't talking about it--he was waiting for Kickaha to ask, and knowing that he eventually would.

And, of course, that redoubled Kickaha's resolve ''not'' to ask; he'd been someone else's straightman just a wee bit too often lately. Oh, sure, he could just look in Keith's mind... but that would be cheating, and they both knew it. Twice over the course of the afternoon, he started to peek... then immediately caught himself, and went nonchalantly on about his business, as if nothing could be less important than Keith's little insight. And Keith's grin got just that little bit wider...

----

It was about seven o'clock--the workers had largely cleared out of downtown, and the streets were coming alive with the nighttime rush. Keith wandered the streets at random, taking in the sights; Kickaha amused himself--and distracted himself--with incidental magic. An odd trail of spilled drinks and Freudian slips marked their passage.

Just as Kickaha was getting bored, and deciding how to sell Keith on the Powell's thing, he noticed the magician working the corner across the street.

<<Mind if I take over for a sec?>>

<By all means, go right ahead.>

<<Damn, you're agreeable today,>> Kickaha muttered, as they rippled into coyote form.

Keith just grinned some more.

----

Gregor was about to pack up his card table and go home. There couldn't be more than ten dollars in his hat, and he'd put half of that there himself. His tricks were working fine, and people were stopping to watch, but not for long. Maybe this whole street-magic thing just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

As he shuffled his cards, he noticed a new onlooker--a guy in a coyote suit, wearing a cloak. Just when the day couldn't get any more surreal. Cool suit, though. Well, it never hurt to try...

"Perhaps you could help me, sir." He slid the deck across the table, letting the cards fan themselves out face-down. "Would you be so kind as to pick a card?"

"Anything for a total stranger," the coyote said. He tapped a card with his claw, and Gregor flipped it over--the Queen of Diamonds.

"Watch that card carefully, sir; you never know where it might turn up next." As he said this, Gregor smoothly gathered the cards back up, palming the Queen in the process. Squaring the cards up--and sliding the Queen back on top of the pack--he shuffled them repeatedly, keeping the Queen on top each time. Finally, he squared the pack up once more, palming the Queen again in the process, and started dealing cards off the deck. "Now, sir, I need you to concentrate on that card--and when you feel its presence, tell me to stop."

The coyote smiled, let him deal cards for a few more seconds. "Now, I think."

"A fine choice," Gregor said, picking up what was left of the pack in both hands, and dropping the Queen back on top once more. "Now, let us see what we've arrived at." He smiled, picked up the top card, and slowly flipped it over, to reveal... the joker.

"A tragedy, really," the coyote replied sadly, drooping its muzzle. "It's the story of my life. Whenever I go in search of feminine companionship, I find nothing but laughter and jests... and the object of my affections always seems to hide at the bottom of the deck."

Gregor stared at the coyote, eyebrows raised. He slowly turned the pack of cards over in his hand... and there on the bottom was the Queen.

"And there she is," Gregor said, almost as much to himself as to the coyote.

"Say, you ''are'' good at this," the coyote replied.

An older couple had stopped to watch, along with a young man in a business suit. The couple applauded politely, and the husband put a dollar in the hat. After a moment, the young man followed suit. A group of four college students stopped to see what the fuss was about.

"I feel like I should pay you for such a wonderful trick," the coyote continued, fishing into his cloak and pulling out a bill. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything smaller than this twenty. Perhaps we could make this a contest. I can't help but notice those three cups on your table. May I assume that you are familiar with the Cups and Balls?"

"Why, yes; I believe I could manage that trick," Gregor replied, the smoothness coming back into his voice. He didn't like the idea of another magician horning in on his turf--and that's clearly what this coyote character was. But he'd just made more in two minutes than he'd made in the last two hours; he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he ''really'' wanted to know what happened to that last trick...

"Splendid. It's a favorite of mine. I would truly appreciate it if you would perform it for me--and if I can't guess which cup has the ball, these twenty dollars are yours. But if I guess correctly, I get five dollars from your hat. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." To be honest, Gregor was more than a bit taken aback by the wager--if this fellow knew the trick, then he knew that Gregor could make that ball show up anywhere he wanted. Why would he want to make a bet that he knew he would lose? He had an angle somewhere. And Gregor would gladly give five dollars to find out what that angle was.

So Gregor arranged the cups, showed the ball to the coyote, and let ''him'' put it under the center cup. Then he started shuffling the cups, keeping up a steady stream of patter. Three more people stopped to watch, then two more, forming a solid wall around the table. Every so often, he raised a cup to show the ball... and, just after the last time, he made The Move, and he felt the ball slip under the back of the cup and into his palm. A few shuffles later, as he slid another cup, he raised the back edge just a bit, and slipped the ball underneath. He snuck a quick glance at the crowd, and at the coyote in particular; there was no hint of recognition.

He quickly shuffled for a few more seconds, then shuffled, and waited for the coyote to make his choice.

The coyote smiled--''How do you make a mask that can do that?'', Gregor thought--and pointed to the leftmost cup. He was right, and he was wrong. The ball had been there, but it wasn't anymore. Smiling, Gregor lifted the cup, to show the empty air.

The coyote lowered his muzzle again. "I can never seem to follow it--it's always that last move that gets me. Where was it?"

Gregor almost felt guilty. "I have the same trouble myself--the cups just seem to blend together, don't they? It was over here, I believe."

He lifted the center cup--and nothing was there.

"Perhaps that last move was even better than I thought," Gregor said with forced cheer, and lifted the rightmost cup. Nothing there either.

"Well, I've never seen ''that'' happen before," the coyote said, clearly puzzled. "Under the circumstances, I think we'll have to call it a draw. Perhaps if we reverse roles? If you can pick the cup where I've hidden the ball, the twenty dollars is yours--if you can't, I take the five. Agreed?"

Gregor gave a nervous glance at the crowd; this wasn't the right time to make waves. And, dammit, he'd give twenty himself to see this guy work. "Agreed."

"Fine, fine. But we still seem to be missing a ball. Perhaps we can improvise something... excuse me, miss? Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your son's yo-yo for a moment? I promise to return it promptly."

The young mother chuckled, nodded. The young boy next to her wrapped up the string on the yo-yo, then handed it to the coyote, giggling. The crowd was getting thicker, Gregor couldn't even see how many people were watching.

"Yes, this will have to do." The coyote put the yo-yo on the table; it was so large that it barely fit inside the cup. He started shuffling them, clumsily. Every time he moved the cup with the yo-yo, the entire crowd could hear it sliding; every few seconds, the end of the string would even peek out from under the cup. The coyote didn't seem to notice. The crowd chuckled, but a bit uncomfortably; was he really that dense?

Finally, the coyote stopped--sliding the leftmost cup one last centimeter, and producing that telltale sound--and smiled. "Go ahead; guess."

Gregor tried to keep a straight face. "I'm not at all sure; you've clearly done this before. But I would have to say... that one." He pointed at the leftmost cup.

"Why don't you look for yourself? I'm really rather nervous."

"Certainly, kind sir." Gregor lifted the cup... and his jaw dropped, as the crowd gasped along with him. There was nothing there. He even flipped the cup over, to see if the yo-yo had somehow gotten stuck in it--knowing all the while that it wasn't; the extra weight would have been a dead giveaway. Sure enough, there was nothing there.

Disbelievingly, Gregor lifted the other two cups; there was nothing there either. The buzz of the crowd grew to a dull roar.

"Now this is just becoming bizarre," the coyote said. "We're still getting nowhere, and now I owe this poor child a yo-yo. Where could it be?"

The crowd was staring at the coyote, in rapt attention. Gregor was an afterthought.

"There must be a logical explanation for this," the coyote continued, thinking out loud. "They say that nature abhors a vacuum. So, logically, if an object were to disappear, the most likely place for it to turn up would be the nearest empty spot. Now, where would that be... I have it!" Without the slightest hesitation, he slapped his right ear--hard--with his right hand.

And the yo-yo sailed out from his left ear and landed on the table. The ball was right behind it; it bounced once, then landed neatly in one of the upturned cups.

The crowd stared in absolute silence for a moment... then erupted in applause. Kickaha presented the yo-yo to the boy, bowing; the boy laughed, turning the yo-yo over and over in his hands, as if looking for the magic. Someone threw a five-dollar bill on the table; a flurry of money followed it--ones and fives, mostly, but several tens mixed in.

"Well, that's one mystery solved," the coyote said, smiling. "But I'm afraid that our little contest still seems to be a draw."

"On the contrary," Gregor said, still not believing what he had just seen, but determined to play his part for all it was worth. "You certainly guessed where the ball was--even if it was after the fact--and I certainly never guessed correctly. In fact, you would appear to have won twice."

"Why, how kind of you to look at it that way. And it seems that there is more than enough here to go around." The coyote tucked one of the tens from the table into his cloak. "Well, I fear that I have stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. Best of luck with your career, young man." And with that, the coyote turned and walked away, to another ripple of applause from the crowd.

Gregor applauded along with them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. But I fear that I have had enough for tonight as well." ''And there's no way in hell that I'm following an act like that.''

The crowd nodded, applauded once more, and started to disperse.

"Maybe I should get a suit like that," Gregor muttered, as he gathered the money into his hat.

"A suit like what?", a man standing nearby asked.

"Like that coyote suit. Have you ever seen one as good-looking as that?"

The man chuckled nervously. "I don't get it."

Gregor looked up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but several of the people who were left were staring at him with confused expressions as well.

Gregor looked in the direction where the coyote had gone not twenty seconds before. There were several dozen people there, walking in the right direction, but nobody looked out of the ordinary at all.

But just then, one of those people--a man in a black shirt and blue jeans--turned and looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. And just for that moment, Gregor could see the long ears, the muzzle still turned up in a grin.

"Don't mind me," Gregor said quietly. "Just a little private joke."

He went back to gathering up his props.

----

It was five in the morning. Powell's was dark and quiet; even the late-night stock clerks had finished for the night. Not a creature was stirring.

Well, ''one'' creature was stirring.

In the Rose Room, curled up on top of one of the massive bookcases, a fox was just finishing ''The Dilbert Principle''.

<>

The fox just nodded. <Believe it. A few years ago, I was there.>

<<And now look how far you've come.>>

<Yep. I'm sleeping on a bookshelf. How could I ever ask for more than that?>

<>



<<You know, it's not as if we ''need'' to sleep at this point.>>

<Humor me. It feels good. And it's a few hours of peace and quiet.>

<>

The fox closed the book, then curled up nose-to-tail, and closed its eyes.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

<Okay. You win.>

<<Ummm-hmmm. I win what?>>

<You've got more self-control than I thought. You never did ask.>

Kickaha didn't have to say <<Ask about what?>> They both knew.

<Remember when we were trying to figure out what sort of magic I had?>

Interesting. <<Ummm-hmmm. Any insights in that regard?>>

<Could be. Could be.>

<<And will you be sharing these insights with the rest of the class?>>

<Could be. I just need to check one thing first.>

<<The tension is electric.>>



<<Mysteries upon mysteries. Okay, I'll play your little game.>>

Kickaha thought for a moment... then the fox's eyes opened, and concentrated on the book still lying next to them. The nose twitched... and the air above the book shimmered. In a moment, a second copy of the book had appeared, on top of the original.

<<There you go.>>

<Scott Adams is gonna be pissed at you, buddy. But that'll do. Now, watch this.>

Now Keith concentrated on the books. Kickaha felt the strange magic flow--from the feel of things, quite a bit more than Kickaha had used. Kickaha waited to be impressed...

...and nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

The fox grinned.

<Perfect.>

Kickaha said nothing for a few seconds. <<All right. I'm waiting for the explanation. And you ''know'' you're dying to give it to me.>>

<It's simple. Look at the books.>

Kickaha looked at them.

<<Congratulations. They're still books.>>

<No, no. You're missing it, and you'll ''kill'' me if I tell you. Look at them. Look.>

<<Oh, for the love of...>> Kickaha took full control of the body; it shifted into coyote form as he did. He got up and paced around the books, looking at them from every angle. He shifted his forepaws to hands, and opened them up, comparing a few pages. As near as he could tell, they were absolutely unchanged, and absolutely identical. There was nothing unusual about either of them. There wasn't even any aura of magic around them.

So why the hell was Keith so damn smug?

Grumbling to himself, Kickaha flipped the books shut again, looked at the covers once more. There had to be some''wait a fucking minute...''

No aura of magic?

Concentrating harder than he ever had since he'd shown up on this godforsaken planet, Kickaha stared at the second book, the one he'd just created two minutes ago. There should be magic seeping away from it, ticking away the moments until it vanished into the ether from whence it came.

There was absolutely nothing there.

But that meant...

Kickaha sat down on his haunches with a thud, still staring at the book.

<<Keith.>>

<Yeeeesss?>

<<Am I really not seeing what I'm not seeing?>>

<That would depend on what you're not seeing, wouldn't it?>

<<Keith. There's. No. Magic. Here.>>

<Really? What an interesting observation.>

<<Keith. Are you telling me that this is fucking '''PERMANENT?'''>>

<I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I've stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. We'll continue this fascinating conversation in the morning, okay?>

<<We're already in the damn morning!>>

<Then it won't be long now, will it? Pleasant dreams.>

Kickaha started to reply--then he caught himself. He curled up just as Keith had done, and closed his eyes. But those two books were still etched in his mind--the books that he knew would still be there when he woke up.

For long minutes, his mind buzzed with all the possibilities.

Then he picked out a few possibilities he liked.

And when he finally got to sleep, his dreams were indeed pleasant.

User:Phaedrus/Transitions

2009-08-30T04:06:36Z

Phaedrus: Added Category:Magic

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Magic]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Transitions}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Transitions|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 2005 Phaedrus

She walks to town with Her empty basket. She usually does, when the weather is good. The earth is a bit damp and the air smells of rain, but the rain has not come yet and may not come for several hours more, and that must be good enough for Her.

The market is not as busy as usual. The spring harvest has passed, and some of the farmers are too busy planting the second season's crops to socialize in the square. The farmers' pushcarts are half-full of radishes and carrots and peppers, and one small load of scrawny-looking potatoes. At one edge of the square, a smoky fire burns near a sturdier cart piled with wrapped slabs of beef -- someone must have slaughtered a cow. My stomach growls a little, and I am thankful when a gust of wind carries most of the scent away.

She moves through the market, totally at ease, chatting with nearly everyone She passes, gently haggling, buying here and there. Most of the crowd is locals, of no real concern. But there are always a few strangers, and strangers must always be watched. I've long since settled on nine good watching-spots at the edge of the market square -- the corner of a house here, behind a stack of firewood there -- places where I can get a reasonable view while staying out of sight. I slip from one watching-spot to the next, doing my best to keep an eye on anyone unfamiliar who seems to be approaching Her. It would be so much easier if I could just stay closer to Her. But I know She would only send me away, or maybe even hurt me; and I cannot blame Her, not in the least.

The locals pay no attention to me -- or at least make a show of paying no attention, though their scent and the brief pauses in their breathing suggest otherwise.

The strangers do not notice me at all. I take great pride in that.

Today, a fat stranger in grey robes concerns me most; he could be hiding almost anything, and he carries a strong scent of metal. Much like me, he stays at the edge of the crowd, watching for something. I wait just long enough to make sure his attention is focused elsewhere, then quietly edge to a closer watching-spot, a shallow depression behind an unused watering trough. Someone has left a raw chicken neck tucked behind a post there; it smells untainted, so I quickly gulp it down, without taking my eyes off the man in grey. The locals almost always leave things for me. I'm not concerned about their reasons; it may be fear, or pity, or something complicated. But I suppose I'm thankful for it. Large game is rare around here, and hunting is terribly slow and unpredictable.

The stranger in grey makes eye contact with Her, and lunges through the crowd in Her direction, and I leave cover and start towards them, ready to charge at the first glint of a blade, and excitement mixes with a quick twinge of desperation -- am I too far and too late?

But he smiles and waves to Her, and shows Her some gaudy necklaces, and She looks at one with no trace of fear. And I relax, a little, and draw back behind the watering trough. Just another merchant, it seems, looking for a customer rich enough to afford his wares. And She studies them long enough to be polite, and then sends him away.

I'm quite sure She saw me behind him. But She pretends not to see.

A few minutes later, She says Her goodbyes and starts home with Her basket of fresh vegetables. I stay quietly behind Her until She reaches the edge of town. Then I circle around in front of Her, staying in the grass to one side of the trail, just outside of Her sight and hearing -- or at least the limits She chooses to pretend to have.

Her shack is in a meadow, perhaps a thousand paces outside of town, perhaps more. I cannot come too close to it; She has wards there to keep out the beasts of the forest, and I know that all too well. So I stay in the shadows, and watch Her carefully as She enters and shuts the door.

I wait a few minutes to make sure all is well. Then I curl up and try to fall asleep. Night will come soon, and it's a full moon, and that is when She is most vulnerable. I must be ready.

----

Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I think about what my life used to be. It seems fanciful enough now that it takes my mind off the present, and distant enough that I can imagine the details without worrying about whether they're true, and all of that makes sleep come more easily.

I remember being human. I've forgotten most of the details, except that it was complicated. I do remember knowing some magic, and I remember caring very deeply about it. I can't begin to understand why, because all I remember about how magic worked, other than being complicated, is that it was a very rare thing, and terribly, terribly tedious.

Well, then She came along, and liked this place, and decided to stay. And I remember being frightened, and very angry. She was stronger, and She was in my territory. I can certainly understand that. But what I don't understand is why I didn't run.

I fought Her. I can't understand that at all.

I remember how terribly angry and hurt She looked. I don't remember anything after that... except the pain. And then She chased me away.

And I know that I can never make it up to Her. Ever.

But I have to try.

----

It must be almost midnight. The rain has come at last, and it's making up for lost time. I'm soaked to the skin, and the cold feels like it's working its way through to the bone. But I must be on watch. The clouds don't block the moon, and the earth itself seems to faintly glow with moonlight. But there are still many shadows, and I hide myself. I know She will come soon.

And She does.

She is dressed all in white, in a long, flowing gown. She's unbundled Her hair, and it hangs almost to Her knees, glistening in the light. The rain does not touch Her. How could it dare?

She closes Her eyes, and She begins to dance.

She is so very beautiful.

I want so much to be near Her. But it can never be.

She dances, slowly at first, but ever so gradually gaining in speed and intensity. I try so very hard to take my eyes off Her, to keep watch, but I keep finding my focus drawn back to Her. The wind swirls around Her, stronger and stronger, making a whistling sound that slowly builds into a howl; and the edges of Her gown start to leave trails of light, nebulous patterns that are swept away by the wind and replaced by still stranger ones. The ground, the shadows, everything seems to pulse in tune with the wind, in step with the music that only She can hear...

...and at the very edge of my sight, one shadow remains still.

And then, just for a moment, it moves in the wrong direction.

A shudder comes over me, tearing me away from the dance. I begin to circle around the meadow, staying low, knowing that I must not get too close to the wards. Or to Her.

From the depths of that one wrong shadow, I see a faint reddish glow... and lit by it, the face of a man dressed in black.

I know next to nothing about magic now. But I still know what a Fire spell looks like. And I know that I am probably already too late -- that in a few seconds that glow will build into a raging ball of flame, and that this man will throw it at Her, and that I am too far to the side to get in the way, and that She will never see it or hear it coming...

I leap from the shadows, charging headlong towards him, paws kicking up a spray of rainwater behind me. I know that my fur shines in the moonlight, and that if he sees me all is lost. But I know also that the man is focused on Her, and the fire gleams in his eyes, and that for just a few seconds it will blind him. And that is the one hope I have; if he holds his fire until he can see his target clearly again, then maybe, just maybe...

He does.

There is no point in calling out to Her; I know She can hear nothing over the wind. But just as I am about to reach him, and just as he finishes the last syllable of his spell, I growl like I have never done before. And his head jerks in my direction, and I leap...

And the world turns to flame.

I am blind and almost deaf. I feel the thump of the two of us tumbling to the ground. Every muscle in my body cries out as I lash around, feel for something soft, and bite down. I taste blood and I can dimly hear a scream. I lock my jaws with all my remaining strength, stifling a whine. Through the pain, I can dimly feel the soft thuds of three blows to the back of my head. Then a pause, then the muffled bite of a dagger sinking into my back once. Twice.

Then, for a moment, the world convulses, and my ruined vision goes white, and my ears ring with the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard.

I can't feel the man's flesh in my jaws anymore. I can't feel anything anymore.

I wait to die.

Then a new feeling rolls over every inch of my skin... something warm and indescribably wonderful.

Somehow, I open my eyes.

She is standing over me, almost on top of me, a goddess in white stepping out of the moon. I can see Her clearly. I can see Her face, so terribly hurt and angry, but not at me. I cannot move a muscle, but I know in my heart that She is looking at him.

She points at him, and says something complicated. And he screams, an awful scream that seems to go on forever. I can hear cloth tearing, and some snapping sounds that might be bone or something worse. And the scream starts to warble and shift in pitch, until it becomes a howl.

And finally, when the sounds stop, She chases him away.

And then She looks down at me, and She smiles, and as She bends down towards me, I know that everything will finally be all right.

And at last the world fades away.

----

She walks to town with Her empty basket. It rained yesterday, but the skies are clear this morning, and the air is crisp and dry.

I walk just ahead of Her, watching intently.

The market is busy. The corn harvest is in full swing; carts are overflowing with it, and the farmers' haggling is far more energetic and freewheeling than usual. No beef is for sale, but the smell of pork and chicken wafts over the square.

She works the crowd, radiant as always, and unless I see something that needs checking out, I stay by Her side. The locals' children always seem excited to see me, though their parents have taught them to keep a respectful distance. The adults no longer pretend to look elsewhere. In fact, they often compliment Her on my appearance and demeanor as they chat. Naturally, I pretend not to notice, but I secretly take great pride in that.

When they think She is not watching, some of them still eye me with very complicated looks indeed. But that is no bother to me.

When the strangers come, they often do the most delightful double-takes upon first seeing me. Inevitably, a local will then discreetly pull the stranger aside for a few minutes' chat. No doubt they have some dreadful, complicated story to explain away the nosy wolf with the silver runes in its fur. Again, no bother to me, especially since the strangers seem to respect Her all the more for it.

One of the merchants -- he comes too often to be a 'stranger', but he's certainly not a local -- stops briefly at the butcher's cart, then comes over to try his luck at selling to Her. He does his best to smile warmly, then bends down and offers me a sliver of roast pork. It smells wonderful, but I step back, cock my head just slightly to one side, and stare calmly up at him. It takes him a moment to realize that he has forgotten the protocol for these matters. He blushes, mutters an apology, and extends the morsel to Her instead. She nods, delicately takes the morsel in Her gloved hand, and holds it toward me. I lower my head and tail to Her in proper deference and thanks, and She drops it at my feet. I snap it up and pretend to look preoccupied elsewhere, while he stumbles through his pitch and excuses himself.

Before long, She has finished Her errands and made Her exit, and we head for home. The trip is almost entirely uneventful. But as we near the shack, I catch a familiar scent, and see a black-furred ear barely visible in the tall grass. I head towards him at a deliberate pace, and growl evenly but menacingly.

Immediately, I hear a most satisfying whine, and the grass rustles as he quickly vanishes into the distance. I return to Her, tail held high.

He has earned nothing more from me, and certainly not from Her.

I still almost never come into Her shack; I can't keep a proper watch in there, and it makes me feel uncomfortably like I'm imposing and ignoring my duty. And frankly, it smells quite strange. But I can come as close as I choose now, and pick the best spots without fear. And the runes don't just keep the wards at bay; they keep me warm on cold nights, and the rain and snow just run right off. It's a very satisfying arrangement.

And best off all, almost every time She sees me, She is smiling.

{{author note|I mailed this one to the TSA-Talk list when I wrote it, but never even added it to my own website. Not sure why.

There's a story behind the writing of this. My stories tend to be very dialogue-heavy, and they tend to focus on descriptions of the TFs. So I gave myself two challenges: "Write a story without a single line of dialogue", and "Write a story in which the main character's TF is never described at all -- the reader learns about it purely through its implications on what's going on in the story." The original version of this story actually met both these criteria. In fact, the main character's species was left completely undefined. And it was a pretty darn good story. But the ending wound up feeling unsatisfying; I think that most readers are looking for at least ''some'' more closure than that. So I compromised a bit in the final version.}}

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-30T03:45:59Z

Phaedrus: Clarified author note

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}{{Stopped}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here.
The story contains foul language; and part 10 contains adult sexual material -- nothing is explicitly described, but the nature of the scene may still be offensive.
This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

Kickaha was finding Portland even more to his liking than Seattle. It was still large enough to get lost in, but not large enough to make him feel cut off from the real world. There were parks and trees everywhere, even more so than in Seattle. The air was a little clearer, the sounds a little calmer. And there was this simply wonderful place called Powell's, that seemed to have every book that existed in this world. He was going to have to talk to Keith about setting up housekeeping there tonight; with a little magic, there was no reason why they couldn't... and he didn't think that Keith would need too much persuading. After all, he could always threaten to find other forms of entertainment...

Everything was looking great. Their disguise spells were working perfectly; nobody batted an eye at the fox browsing the shelves at Powell's, or at the coyote loping through the shopping district on all fours.

Of course, all of this good news meant that it was about time for something to blow up. And Kickaha had an idea of what that might be.

Keith was up to something.

About ten minutes after they'd left that old man, Keith had started smiling. He'd stopped at the next decent-sized forest they came to, and Sung for just a few minutes--a land speed record for him. When he came out of it, he'd kept on heading south, as if nothing had happened; he'd even let Kickaha do the flying. But that mental grin of his was ear-to-ear now. He'd figured something out. And he wasn't talking about it--he was waiting for Kickaha to ask, and knowing that he eventually would.

And, of course, that redoubled Kickaha's resolve ''not'' to ask; he'd been someone else's straightman just a wee bit too often lately. Oh, sure, he could just look in Keith's mind... but that would be cheating, and they both knew it. Twice over the course of the afternoon, he started to peek... then immediately caught himself, and went nonchalantly on about his business, as if nothing could be less important than Keith's little insight. And Keith's grin got just that little bit wider...

----

It was about seven o'clock--the workers had largely cleared out of downtown, and the streets were coming alive with the nighttime rush. Keith wandered the streets at random, taking in the sights; Kickaha amused himself--and distracted himself--with incidental magic. An odd trail of spilled drinks and Freudian slips marked their passage.

Just as Kickaha was getting bored, and deciding how to sell Keith on the Powell's thing, he noticed the magician working the corner across the street.

<<Mind if I take over for a sec?>>

<By all means, go right ahead.>

<<Damn, you're agreeable today,>> Kickaha muttered, as they rippled into coyote form.

Keith just grinned some more.

----

Gregor was about to pack up his card table and go home. There couldn't be more than ten dollars in his hat, and he'd put half of that there himself. His tricks were working fine, and people were stopping to watch, but not for long. Maybe this whole street-magic thing just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

As he shuffled his cards, he noticed a new onlooker--a guy in a coyote suit, wearing a cloak. Just when the day couldn't get any more surreal. Cool suit, though. Well, it never hurt to try...

"Perhaps you could help me, sir." He slid the deck across the table, letting the cards fan themselves out face-down. "Would you be so kind as to pick a card?"

"Anything for a total stranger," the coyote said. He tapped a card with his claw, and Gregor flipped it over--the Queen of Diamonds.

"Watch that card carefully, sir; you never know where it might turn up next." As he said this, Gregor smoothly gathered the cards back up, palming the Queen in the process. Squaring the cards up--and sliding the Queen back on top of the pack--he shuffled them repeatedly, keeping the Queen on top each time. Finally, he squared the pack up once more, palming the Queen again in the process, and started dealing cards off the deck. "Now, sir, I need you to concentrate on that card--and when you feel its presence, tell me to stop."

The coyote smiled, let him deal cards for a few more seconds. "Now, I think."

"A fine choice," Gregor said, picking up what was left of the pack in both hands, and dropping the Queen back on top once more. "Now, let us see what we've arrived at." He smiled, picked up the top card, and slowly flipped it over, to reveal... the joker.

"A tragedy, really," the coyote replied sadly, drooping its muzzle. "It's the story of my life. Whenever I go in search of feminine companionship, I find nothing but laughter and jests... and the object of my affections always seems to hide at the bottom of the deck."

Gregor stared at the coyote, eyebrows raised. He slowly turned the pack of cards over in his hand... and there on the bottom was the Queen.

"And there she is," Gregor said, almost as much to himself as to the coyote.

"Say, you ''are'' good at this," the coyote replied.

An older couple had stopped to watch, along with a young man in a business suit. The couple applauded politely, and the husband put a dollar in the hat. After a moment, the young man followed suit. A group of four college students stopped to see what the fuss was about.

"I feel like I should pay you for such a wonderful trick," the coyote continued, fishing into his cloak and pulling out a bill. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything smaller than this twenty. Perhaps we could make this a contest. I can't help but notice those three cups on your table. May I assume that you are familiar with the Cups and Balls?"

"Why, yes; I believe I could manage that trick," Gregor replied, the smoothness coming back into his voice. He didn't like the idea of another magician horning in on his turf--and that's clearly what this coyote character was. But he'd just made more in two minutes than he'd made in the last two hours; he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he ''really'' wanted to know what happened to that last trick...

"Splendid. It's a favorite of mine. I would truly appreciate it if you would perform it for me--and if I can't guess which cup has the ball, these twenty dollars are yours. But if I guess correctly, I get five dollars from your hat. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." To be honest, Gregor was more than a bit taken aback by the wager--if this fellow knew the trick, then he knew that Gregor could make that ball show up anywhere he wanted. Why would he want to make a bet that he knew he would lose? He had an angle somewhere. And Gregor would gladly give five dollars to find out what that angle was.

So Gregor arranged the cups, showed the ball to the coyote, and let ''him'' put it under the center cup. Then he started shuffling the cups, keeping up a steady stream of patter. Three more people stopped to watch, then two more, forming a solid wall around the table. Every so often, he raised a cup to show the ball... and, just after the last time, he made The Move, and he felt the ball slip under the back of the cup and into his palm. A few shuffles later, as he slid another cup, he raised the back edge just a bit, and slipped the ball underneath. He snuck a quick glance at the crowd, and at the coyote in particular; there was no hint of recognition.

He quickly shuffled for a few more seconds, then shuffled, and waited for the coyote to make his choice.

The coyote smiled--''How do you make a mask that can do that?'', Gregor thought--and pointed to the leftmost cup. He was right, and he was wrong. The ball had been there, but it wasn't anymore. Smiling, Gregor lifted the cup, to show the empty air.

The coyote lowered his muzzle again. "I can never seem to follow it--it's always that last move that gets me. Where was it?"

Gregor almost felt guilty. "I have the same trouble myself--the cups just seem to blend together, don't they? It was over here, I believe."

He lifted the center cup--and nothing was there.

"Perhaps that last move was even better than I thought," Gregor said with forced cheer, and lifted the rightmost cup. Nothing there either.

"Well, I've never seen ''that'' happen before," the coyote said, clearly puzzled. "Under the circumstances, I think we'll have to call it a draw. Perhaps if we reverse roles? If you can pick the cup where I've hidden the ball, the twenty dollars is yours--if you can't, I take the five. Agreed?"

Gregor gave a nervous glance at the crowd; this wasn't the right time to make waves. And, dammit, he'd give twenty himself to see this guy work. "Agreed."

"Fine, fine. But we still seem to be missing a ball. Perhaps we can improvise something... excuse me, miss? Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your son's yo-yo for a moment? I promise to return it promptly."

The young mother chuckled, nodded. The young boy next to her wrapped up the string on the yo-yo, then handed it to the coyote, giggling. The crowd was getting thicker, Gregor couldn't even see how many people were watching.

"Yes, this will have to do." The coyote put the yo-yo on the table; it was so large that it barely fit inside the cup. He started shuffling them, clumsily. Every time he moved the cup with the yo-yo, the entire crowd could hear it sliding; every few seconds, the end of the string would even peek out from under the cup. The coyote didn't seem to notice. The crowd chuckled, but a bit uncomfortably; was he really that dense?

Finally, the coyote stopped--sliding the leftmost cup one last centimeter, and producing that telltale sound--and smiled. "Go ahead; guess."

Gregor tried to keep a straight face. "I'm not at all sure; you've clearly done this before. But I would have to say... that one." He pointed at the leftmost cup.

"Why don't you look for yourself? I'm really rather nervous."

"Certainly, kind sir." Gregor lifted the cup... and his jaw dropped, as the crowd gasped along with him. There was nothing there. He even flipped the cup over, to see if the yo-yo had somehow gotten stuck in it--knowing all the while that it wasn't; the extra weight would have been a dead giveaway. Sure enough, there was nothing there.

Disbelievingly, Gregor lifted the other two cups; there was nothing there either. The buzz of the crowd grew to a dull roar.

"Now this is just becoming bizarre," the coyote said. "We're still getting nowhere, and now I owe this poor child a yo-yo. Where could it be?"

The crowd was staring at the coyote, in rapt attention. Gregor was an afterthought.

"There must be a logical explanation for this," the coyote continued, thinking out loud. "They say that nature abhors a vacuum. So, logically, if an object were to disappear, the most likely place for it to turn up would be the nearest empty spot. Now, where would that be... I have it!" Without the slightest hesitation, he slapped his right ear--hard--with his right hand.

And the yo-yo sailed out from his left ear and landed on the table. The ball was right behind it; it bounced once, then landed neatly in one of the upturned cups.

The crowd stared in absolute silence for a moment... then erupted in applause. Kickaha presented the yo-yo to the boy, bowing; the boy laughed, turning the yo-yo over and over in his hands, as if looking for the magic. Someone threw a five-dollar bill on the table; a flurry of money followed it--ones and fives, mostly, but several tens mixed in.

"Well, that's one mystery solved," the coyote said, smiling. "But I'm afraid that our little contest still seems to be a draw."

"On the contrary," Gregor said, still not believing what he had just seen, but determined to play his part for all it was worth. "You certainly guessed where the ball was--even if it was after the fact--and I certainly never guessed correctly. In fact, you would appear to have won twice."

"Why, how kind of you to look at it that way. And it seems that there is more than enough here to go around." The coyote tucked one of the tens from the table into his cloak. "Well, I fear that I have stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. Best of luck with your career, young man." And with that, the coyote turned and walked away, to another ripple of applause from the crowd.

Gregor applauded along with them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. But I fear that I have had enough for tonight as well." ''And there's no way in hell that I'm following an act like that.''

The crowd nodded, applauded once more, and started to disperse.

"Maybe I should get a suit like that," Gregor muttered, as he gathered the money into his hat.

"A suit like what?", a man standing nearby asked.

"Like that coyote suit. Have you ever seen one as good-looking as that?"

The man chuckled nervously. "I don't get it."

Gregor looked up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but several of the people who were left were staring at him with confused expressions as well.

Gregor looked in the direction where the coyote had gone not twenty seconds before. There were several dozen people there, walking in the right direction, but nobody looked out of the ordinary at all.

But just then, one of those people--a man in a black shirt and blue jeans--turned and looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. And just for that moment, Gregor could see the long ears, the muzzle still turned up in a grin.

"Don't mind me," Gregor said quietly. "Just a little private joke."

He went back to gathering up his props.

----

It was five in the morning. Powell's was dark and quiet; even the late-night stock clerks had finished for the night. Not a creature was stirring.

Well, ''one'' creature was stirring.

In the Rose Room, curled up on top of one of the massive bookcases, a fox was just finishing ''The Dilbert Principle''.

<>

The fox just nodded. <Believe it. A few years ago, I was there.>

<<And now look how far you've come.>>

<Yep. I'm sleeping on a bookshelf. How could I ever ask for more than that?>

<>



<<You know, it's not as if we ''need'' to sleep at this point.>>

<Humor me. It feels good. And it's a few hours of peace and quiet.>

<>

The fox closed the book, then curled up nose-to-tail, and closed its eyes.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

<Okay. You win.>

<<Ummm-hmmm. I win what?>>

<You've got more self-control than I thought. You never did ask.>

Kickaha didn't have to say <<Ask about what?>> They both knew.

<Remember when we were trying to figure out what sort of magic I had?>

Interesting. <<Ummm-hmmm. Any insights in that regard?>>

<Could be. Could be.>

<<And will you be sharing these insights with the rest of the class?>>

<Could be. I just need to check one thing first.>

<<The tension is electric.>>



<<Mysteries upon mysteries. Okay, I'll play your little game.>>

Kickaha thought for a moment... then the fox's eyes opened, and concentrated on the book still lying next to them. The nose twitched... and the air above the book shimmered. In a moment, a second copy of the book had appeared, on top of the original.

<<There you go.>>

<Scott Adams is gonna be pissed at you, buddy. But that'll do. Now, watch this.>

Now Keith concentrated on the books. Kickaha felt the strange magic flow--from the feel of things, quite a bit more than Kickaha had used. Kickaha waited to be impressed...

...and nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

The fox grinned.

<Perfect.>

Kickaha said nothing for a few seconds. <<All right. I'm waiting for the explanation. And you ''know'' you're dying to give it to me.>>

<It's simple. Look at the books.>

Kickaha looked at them.

<<Congratulations. They're still books.>>

<No, no. You're missing it, and you'll ''kill'' me if I tell you. Look at them. Look.>

<<Oh, for the love of...>> Kickaha took full control of the body; it shifted into coyote form as he did. He got up and paced around the books, looking at them from every angle. He shifted his forepaws to hands, and opened them up, comparing a few pages. As near as he could tell, they were absolutely unchanged, and absolutely identical. There was nothing unusual about either of them. There wasn't even any aura of magic around them.

So why the hell was Keith so damn smug?

Grumbling to himself, Kickaha flipped the books shut again, looked at the covers once more. There had to be some''wait a fucking minute...''

No aura of magic?

Concentrating harder than he ever had since he'd shown up on this godforsaken planet, Kickaha stared at the second book, the one he'd just created two minutes ago. There should be magic seeping away from it, ticking away the moments until it vanished into the ether from whence it came.

There was absolutely nothing there.

But that meant...

Kickaha sat down on his haunches with a thud, still staring at the book.

<<Keith.>>

<Yeeeesss?>

<<Am I really not seeing what I'm not seeing?>>

<That would depend on what you're not seeing, wouldn't it?>

<<Keith. There's. No. Magic. Here.>>

<Really? What an interesting observation.>

<<Keith. Are you telling me that this is fucking '''PERMANENT?'''>>

<I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I've stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. We'll continue this fascinating conversation in the morning, okay?>

<<We're already in the damn morning!>>

<Then it won't be long now, will it? Pleasant dreams.>

Kickaha started to reply--then he caught himself. He curled up just as Keith had done, and closed his eyes. But those two books were still etched in his mind--the books that he knew would still be there when he woke up.

For long minutes, his mind buzzed with all the possibilities.

Then he picked out a few possibilities he liked.

And when he finally got to sleep, his dreams were indeed pleasant.

User talk:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-30T03:40:13Z

Phaedrus: Response to Lloyd Brunnel's suggestion

User:Phaedrus/Outfoxed

2009-08-30T03:28:08Z

Phaedrus: Initial Wikification

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Non-TF]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Outfoxed}}
__NOTOC__
{{title|name=Outfoxed|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

{{Stopped}}
{{author note|I wrote this in two parts, of July 1997. It didn't get much feedback at all, and I really didn't care for the way it was going--I had some good plot ideas in mind, but it seemed too melodramatic for my tastes. So I stopped it before I even got to the TF.}}

==Part 1==
Kelly had a dream. He wanted to help bring the big animals back. He had spent most of his thirty-two years chasing it. For most of that time, it had seemed impossible. Now it seemed too close to bear.

He needed education, and he got it. He blazed through school with nearly perfect grades. And in his spare time, he read everything he could find--especially about zoology, biology, botany, and environmental sciences.

He needed money, and he got it. He went to Stanford, graduating with honors, double-majoring in computer science and zoology. With regret, he had shelved the zoology degree, instead pursuing computers with a passion. He had done well--very well. He would never need to worry about money again.

He needed a scientific breakthrough. He knew he couldn't bring that about himself; he was prepared to invest heavily to make it happen--but he didn't need to. On the day he graduated from Stanford, it happened without him.

He would need land, and the right kind of land. And methodically, plot by plot, he got that too.

He only needed one more piece. And it was the one piece he couldn't buy.

All he could do is wait. He had waited years for the endless political and religious debates to sort themselves out, as he knew they would; there was no turning back from this. He knew that he was not the only one with this dream, and he knew that the demand would vastly exceed the supply, for twenty years at least. But that was all right. He'd done everything right; he was an obvious choice. Even the politicians couldn't possibly screw this up badly enough to deny him...

He underestimated them.

Six years ago, the lottery began. Every year, he faithfully entered. Every month, the names were drawn. And on the 9th day of every month, when he went to the post office, he would pause as he walked to his mailbox, trying to visualize that manila envelope inside. But it was never there.

Then, one day, a letter came from the Bellevue Zoological Gardens, the address handwritten. If it was a form letter, it was an exquisitely well-written one, on expensive letterhead--"Diana Panicola, Exhibits and Interpretive Programs Manager". The usual thanks for his interest, and his (considerable) donations. Then the interesting part.

"Given your history of strong support of our Zoo, I'm sure that you've been taken on so many tours of our fine facilities that you never want to see another service corridor again. Nevertheless, I hope that I can impose on you to accompany me on one more. I would truly appreciate the chance to meet you. It's my understanding that you may have some questions on our placement policies; if so, I would be happy to answer them. In any event, I promise not to bore you, and not to make this a shakedown; please feel free to leave your checkbook at home...

"In any event, if any of this interests you, please call my office at your convenience. Thank you very much, etcetera, etcetera."

He liked her style already, he had to admit. But what the hell did she mean by "questions on our placement policies"? He hadn't asked any questions in years; the law hadn't changed, and he knew it as well as anyone else did. Where had she gotten the idea that he'd asked questions? Must be some screw-up in the...

Wait a minute.

The lottery?

But that was confidential. There was no way that she could know that he had entered--well, make that no way that she should know. And even if she did, why would she risk hinting at it?

Was she asking for a bribe?

If she did, would he give one?

No. Of course not. If she was violating confidentiality, that was bad enough--but at worst it could only get her fined, fired, probably blackballed. Bribery was another matter altogether. That could get them both two to five years in a federal pen. There was no way that that was worth the risk.

But if it worked...

What was he thinking? This was nuts. This was probably just a form letter, for God's sake. He was reading things into it that weren't there. And he was getting his hopes up. Again.

He crumpled up the letter, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked back to his car.

But when he got there, he smoothed it back out on the dashboard, found the phone number, dialed his cellular phone.

"Good afternoon; this is the Bellevue Zoological Gardens, exhibits office. How can I help you?...Oh, yes, Mr. Taft. Miss Panicola was expecting your call. She's out making her rounds now, but she would like me to schedule your tour. Are you available tonight, or would you prefer a later date?... Yes, she certainly does like to move quickly on things, doesn't she?...6:30 tonight would be fine. Please go to the main gate when you arrive. Thank you very much, Mr. Taft... Goodbye."

Kelly hung up. He had two hours to get there. Traffic being what it was, he'd better get started now.

Something told him he didn't want to be late for this...

Traffic was marginally better than usual. He arrived at the Zoo half an hour early; he sat in his car and read the newspaper, trying to settle his nerves. (Dammit! Why couldn't he stop getting worked up over nothing?) Finally, at 6:20, he walked to the gate.

The zoo was already closed for the day, but a young woman in blue Zoo coveralls was still in the front booth.

"Excuse me, miss, but I'm here to see Diana Panicola..."

She smiled. "Well, then..." She raised her arms, did a quick spin. "How do you like me so far?"

He chuckled and blushed at the same time. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize..."

"Oh, don't apologize. My fault entirely." She reached under the counter, picked up a nametag--DIANA PANICOLA, EXHIBITS MANAGER. "I must confess, I love doing that," she said, pinning it on as she talked. "The reactions are priceless. Yours was much nicer than most. Come on in." She pressed a button; the gate slowly rose a few feet.

"Thanks, I think. I must admit that you're not what I was expecting." He ducked under the gate.

"Oh, I know. Everyone's looking for horn-rimmed glasses and a few stray gray hairs." The gate ground shut behind him, and she walked out the back door of the booth. "I was always the star pupil; I got an early start. But you know, from the size of the donations you've made, I was expecting someone a little more on the oh-ell-dee side myself."

"I was pretty good in school myself," Kevin said, now blushing again. "I got into the computer business, and got in on the ground floor at the right times."

"Another Microsoftie?"

"No, smaller places than that. In fact, Microsoft's bought me out three times already."

"That's what I call planning. So, is there a square inch of this place that someone hasn't shown you already?"

"Oh, let's just start walking. I'm sure we'll come up with something."

Two hours later, the stars had come out. Kelly still wasn't sure that they'd actually hit anything new. And he couldn't care less.

The bustle of closing time at the zoo had always fascinated him. But today, he barely noticed it; he and Diana just... talked. She won him over almost immediately; she was just the right mix of fire and water. She was opinionated, brash, almost flighty; the conversation flew from one topic to another, and she had something to say about everything. But underneath, there was a mission, a direction, a drive much like his own. She dreamed of bringing back the big animals too. And places like this were where that was happening. So here she was.

Before he knew what was happening, he was discussing his own dream. Her eyes widened when he told her about the thousand acres of Montana backwoods he'd accumulated. It was the sort of land you didn't need to fence off... nobody came there anyway, especially these days. The old logging roads were closed; the only signs of civilizations were the old wood shacks here and there... and the single dirt road leading to the house he'd built.

"The perfect place for a breeding operation," she said quietly, just before he could. So he didn't say anything. He only nodded.

"You've really got this planned out, don't you?" she said. He nodded again.

"No luck with the lottery?" He shook his head.

She stood quietly for a few seconds. "You know, every month, we get four or five new faces with permits in here. And most of them haven't given a damn bit of thought to it; it's just a diversion from their miserable little lives. I wish I could laugh in their faces and throw them out; it'd be better for them, and it'd sure as hell be better for me. But no, that's why we have the lottery. Anything else would be discrimination. And Lord knows that we wouldn't want to discriminate against people just because they're fucking morons."

Kelly didn't know what to say. This conversation had just become dangerous. But the look in his eyes said it all.

"You know, maybe we both did this wrong," Diana added. "Maybe we should have just gone into politics. We couldn't do it worse than the dedicated professionals doing it now, hmmm?"

"Maybe then I could just write myself a permit," Kelly nodded. His voice turned wistful. "God, I'd give anything for one..."

He froze. What the hell had he just done? He'd just solicited a bribery offer; he could get banned from the program for life just for that...

"It's okay, Kelly," she said softly. "They haven't quite made dreaming a crime yet."

She walked a few steps away. "Maybe we should call this a night."

He nodded sadly. "Maybe we should."

"I'm sorry. This didn't exactly work out the way I had in mind."

"No. But thank you. Really. It was... very nice talking to you.

"You too, Mr. Taft. You too."

Three weeks passed. Kelly tried to put the whole thing out of his mind; he didn't even take his usual trips to the Zoo. The whole thing was just too dangerous--and too painful. He threw himself into his computer projects with a passion.

One afternoon, he stopped by the post office as usual. In his mailbox, there was nothing but a key, with a plastic card attached--ARTICLE TOO LARGE FOR BOX. LOCKER 33.

As he walked to the row of lockers, he remembered what day it was. December 9.

Stop it, dammit, he told himself, as he shoved the key in the lock, angrily turned it.

He opened the door.

His knees went weak.

Trying not to tremble, he forced himself to pick up the manila envelope. He closed his eyes, but the return address was still stamped across his vision. UNITED STATES FISH AND WILDLIFE DEPARTMENT. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. WASHINGTON, DC.

Carefully, he opened it up. The stack of paperwork was thick, but the front page was what mattered.

"Pursuant to the terms of the Omnibus Environmental Restoration Act, your application for DOI Permit P-33 has been approved."

He skimmed down the page, not ready to believe what he was seeing. Until he saw the last two lines.

"Contact Location: Bellevue Zoological Gardens, Bellevue, Washington, 98009.
"Contact Officer: Diana Panicola."

He didn't know what to believe.

But he knew that his life would never be the same again.

==Part 2==

Kelly sat at his desk at home, staring at the letter. Six years of waiting, suddenly over.

"Please notify your designated contact officer as soon as possible to schedule the selection appointment. At that time, after agreeing to the terms and provisions of the Act, you will be allowed to select any one available animal genotype, and the necessary preparations for placement will be discussed. Placement cannot occur for a minimum of three months following the selection appointment. If you do not complete the selection process within thirty days of the issuance of this notice, your Permit P-33 will be revoked automatically."

He picked up the phone.

What was he going to say?

He sighed, dialed the number before he had a chance to change his mind.

The phone seemed to ring for minutes.

"Bellevue transfer center. Diana speaking. Wazzup?"

How did you do this? "This is Kelly Taft. I need to schedule..."

"Oh, hey, Kelly! I was going to call you; I just got the word. Congratulations! How're ya feeling?"

Why did you do this? "Numb. It hasn't sunk in yet."

"I'm not surprised. Talk about your wild coincidences! And for once it actually happened to someone with a clue. Almost makes it worth going on living."

You're a damn fine actor, Diana... "It's pretty... incredible, all right. I was beginning to think I'd never see the day."

"So, we've gotta get you started, huh? How's tomorrow night at seven sound?"

"Tomorrow? It'll take me a day or two just to go through all the legalese in this thing..."

"Well, I've sort of got appointments up the ass here. If you can't make it in tomorrow, I guess we could make it next Thursday."

Kelly opened his mouth to say, "Let's do that." But something stopped him at the last minute. There was something faintly conspiratorial in her voice. She had something cool. And selections were first-come, first-served. She probably wasn't allowed to discuss what was available, and she certainly wasn't allowed to make reservations. But if someone just
so happened to show up at the right time...

"Well, I guess I can take all day tomorrow to read this stuff... it's not as if I'll be able to concentrate on anything else anyway. Sure, tomorrow at seven is fine."

"You are a very nice man, Kelly Taft. I look forward to having you on staff--and I don't say that often. Any questions?"

"What should I bring?"

"Your ID, your paperwork, and your sweet little self."

"Okay. Diana..." He stopped. He wanted to say "Thank you." He wanted to say "Why?" He said nothing.

Diana stepped into the gap. "Try to get some sleep tonight, okay? See ya tomorrow."

The line went dead.

Kelly quietly hung up, and went back to staring at the letter.

This whole thing stank to high heaven. He should call her back and tell her he'd changed his mind. He should call someone. He should...

Hell, no.

He hadn't done anything illegal--not even anything ''wrong.'' He'd played by the rules for his whole life. He'd told someone his feelings, nothing more. Who knows? Maybe this was just a coincidence. Maybe it was just time for the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place.

And if something ''was'' up... well, refusing at this point would just draw more attention to it. And if someone actually cared enough to risk everything just to help him out, then the least he could do was to shut up and be helped.

He turned the page, and settled down to read.

As it happened, despite his nerves, he had no problems getting to sleep. The paperwork did that for him.

The next morning, he was back at it. He didn't take time to cook, opting for peanuts and cold cereal instead. He had other appointments scheduled--a dental cleaning, a conference call with his brokers. Screw 'em.

The contract went on for pages and ages, painfully and repetitively, as fine an example of Contract by Committee as Kelly had ever seen. Kelly thought about sending them a rewrite proposal: "We own your ass. Any questions?" It would certainly save on printing costs.

Finally, just as his watch beeped 5:00, he finished the last page, dropped the contract on the desk, and paced the room for a minute. If anyone but the government had written that contract, it would be laughed out of court as unconscionable. If he signed it, he may as well be signing his life away.

Just like he'd known it would be.

He locked the front door carefully, and drove off towards the Zoo.

Fifteen minutes later, he screeched back up the driveway, ran back in, grabbed the contract off the desk, and headed off again.

Diana met him again at the front gate, along with a short man wearing glasses and carrying a clipboard. She was smiling, but that smile had a serious edge.

"Good evening, Mr. Taft. You are here for scheduling pursuant to your application for Permit P-33, correct?"

"Yes," he replied, trying to stay calm.

"Mr. Taft, this is George Carruthers, an auditor for the Department of the Interior. He has a few routine questions for you."

A wave of nervousness hit Kelly. He refused to let it reach his face.

"Good evening, Mr. Taft. Before we continue, I do need your identification and your entrance papers."

Kelly nodded, pulled his Fedcard from its place in his wallet, and handed it over along with the paperwork. The auditor studied the card for a moment, then pocketed it. Kelly felt another wave of tension hit. That card was what made life in America possible; without it, he couldn't access his bank accounts, couldn't even get on a bus.

"Mr. Taft, have you carefully and completely read the entrance papers?"

"Yes."

"Do you fully understand the terms and conditions of the Omnibus Environmental Restoration Act, as described therein?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that, by accepting those terms and conditions, you voluntarily waive certain rights granted under the United States Constitution and the Charter of the United Nations?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that this program is still considered experimental, and that, by accepting those terms and conditions, you agree to indemnify and hold harmless the Department of the Interior and all other governments, officials, and agencies whether private or public, against any claim whatsoever related to your participation in any manner?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that, by accepting those terms and conditions, you commit yourself to a term of service to the government of the United States for a period of not less than twenty-four months, and to obey all lawful orders and directives of program personnel?"

"Yes."

"And do you now agree to accept those terms and conditions, in their entirety and without exclusions or modifications?"

"Yes." With this one word, the weight of the universe seemed to rise off Kelly's back. One way or another, he was in now; there was no more second-guessing.

The auditor handed him the clipboard and a pen. "Mr. Taft, please sign and date on the line."

Quietly, mechanically, Kelly did just that.

"Welcome to the program, Mr. Taft," the auditor said, calmly lifting the clipboard from his fingers. "Miss Panicola, would you collect the blood sample, please?"

Diana nodded, smile never wavering. Kelly turned away as she took his right arm; he'd never been fond of the sight of blood, particularly his own. It was done in seconds; he turned back around just in time to see a vial vanish into the auditor's pocket.

"Here is your revised identification, Mr. Taft. Miss Panicola will handle the remainder of the proceedings. Have a pleasant evening."

With that, the auditor handed him a card, and quietly walked away towards the parking lot.

Kelly looked at the Fedcard, nodded in relief, tucked it away. The only change was the red stripe in the background, marking a federal employee... and the small "P-33" in the corner.

Diana stayed silent, waited until she heard the car start. "You should see him at Christmas parties," she finally said. Then she beamed, grabbed him by both shoulders, shook him in celebration. "Congrats again! I still can't believe it! This is just so oh shit I'm losing my mind... I forgot the logbook... can't do anything without the logbook... c'mon, let's go! So much time and so little to do... wait, strike that, reverse it..."

She whirled around and headed off towards the offices, almost running. Kelly could only smile a bit and shake his head. "Sure thing, boss," he muttered, as he took off after her.

Diana's office was chaos, stacks of paperwork mixing with coffee cups and zoological relics. She swept a pile of papers from a chair in the corner, dumped the papers on the floor, and waved him to the chair. Kelly could certainly see why he hadn't been invited in here before.

Diana dove into the maelstrom on her desk, eventually pulling a black binder from the bottom of a pile. "Everything we've got available is in here; it's the Sears catalog of wildlife."

"Does that mean that whatever you want is always out of stock?" Kelly countered, surprised with how relaxed he was.

"More often than not. But maybe you'll get lucky. Your luck's been pretty damn fine lately, after all. Here ya go." With that, she tossed him the binder; he almost forgot to catch it. "I usually walk the morons around the zoo while they decide, but I have the sneaking suspicion that I can dispense with that with you. If it doesn't have a red dot, it's available."

Kelly swallowed once, opened the binder, lost himself in it immediately. It was an island of tidiness in this sea of disorder, the pages neatly computer-printed. Every page held one animal--a name, serial number, front and side views, yearly salary and care costs.

There were more pages than he was expecting, but less than he was hoping. And at least three-fourths of them had red dots.

He lingered for a moment over a sleek Sumatran tigress. But he was hoping for something in a male.

A striking ''ursus americanus'' caught his eye; as soon as he saw it, he knew it must be named "Bjorn"--and it was. Black bears preferred forests, and their original range included Montana. They were largely vegetarian, so food probably wouldn't be a problem. He would have to keep Bjorn in mind.

He flipped slowly through the wolves, eight of them. He had tried his best to refuse to let himself pick a favorite species, knowing that he'd only be setting himself up for disappointment... but he couldn't deny that he'd been hoping. Ever since he saw a picture of one in an old Britannica, he'd felt a strong attraction to them. But all eight pages had red dots; all eight were spoken for, as he'd known they would be--they were just too popular not to be.

The center of the binder was thick with cows, sheep and pigs. Nearly all were spoken for; Kelly wasn't surprised in the slightest--the government was still trying to rebuild the herds and bring real meat back to the table again. Kelly imagined that most of Diana's "morons" went with this route, lured by the much higher salaries. Circe had it right after all. But he didn't need the money, and he hadn't spent his life dreaming about a farm.

Slowly, he worked through the rest of the book. Hyenas, pandas, deer... the number of species surprised him. At least a dozen species weren't even on exhibit here; they must be new. But nothing seemed quite right... too large, or unsuitable for Montana weather, or just not appealing somehow. Or that little red dot stood in the way.

As he reached the last page, he realized that he must have kept Diana sitting in silence for at least half an hour. "Looks like the folks in the labs have been busy," he said as he flipped back to the front, started quickly paging through again. Bjorn still seemed like the most likely candidate.

"They say they'll have elephants ready in a few months; the only thing holding them up is getting the trunk right. Can you imagine?"

"Seven thousand kilos," Keith almost whispered, quoting from memory. "No, I can't imagine that. Where on Earth do you get that much mass?"

"The old-fashioned way. We'll start 'em off as calves. It'll be ten years or so before we can breed 'em, but that's the price we pay for progress. It'll take some very special volunteers... specifically, it'll take some very greedy volunteers. But there's no shortage of those."

"My." Kelly was glad they weren't ready yet. Something like that would be hideously impractical. But if it were an option, he'd almost have to try it...

He closed the binder. Bjorn it was, then. "Well, I guess I'm--"

"Wait a minute!" Diana shouted. Kelly nearly jumped out of his seat, looked up to see her already rummaging through the piles on her desk. "I knew I was forgetting something! A couple of new ones just came in. I tried to file 'em earlier, but I couldn't find the damn logbook... gimme a sec, they're in here somewhere... ahhhhhhhhh, yes. Here we go. I think you're going to find this very in-ter-es-ting."

She passed him two more sheets of paper, her eyes locked on his.

He didn't need to read them. The pictures said it all.

They were red foxes, male and female. The proportions seemed a bit off from the photos he remembered, the head just a bit too large... but there was no questioning what they were.

"That's impossible," he breathed softly.

"Those folks in the labs would beg to disagree."

"But foxes... six kilos at most... even in Europe they weren't over ten... they can't possibly have solved the Gap... can they?"

"Not in so many words," Diana replied, smiling. "The Process still doesn't work below twenty-five kilos... below that, there's just not enough room for the brain. So they scaled the fox up to twenty-five kilos; it took some changes here and there, but they did it. And the kits'll be normal size. With any luck, there'll be at least ten in the first litter; more than enough room in there for 'em, anyway..."

Kelly was stunned, and now fear crept in as well. "But... isn't this sacrilege? How did this get approved?"

"Verrry carefully. We finally convinced the Council that size variations were already in nature, so one more for one generation wouldn't hurt. And we showed a lot of pictures... kept reminding them that, under their own terms, this was the only way. Finally, they let us do foxes as a test case; if God doesn't smite the fox down in His wrath, then they'll let us start on the other small fry in two or three years. 'For who are we to deny life to any of God's creations?'"

Kelly said nothing. The reply was obvious--"Tell that to Takashi." Diana was thinking the same thing; he could read it in her eyes. She wouldn't say it either. But they both shared the memory.

----

Twenty years ago, in 1986, a small firm called Dynetics held a press conference. Eight scientists--the entire staff--sat at the table, outnumbering the five reporters in attendance. One man, Hiro Takashi, stood up, spoke almost purely in scientific jargon for five minutes. Only one reporter had even brought his video camera; it sat in his lap, unused. No one took notes.

Then Takashi reached behind the table, triumphantly produced a cage containing a young ferret. It stared inquisitively at the reporters.

Five jaws dropped in unison. Then they began shouting questions.

The ferret could not exist. Its death warrant had been written on August 7, 1945, one day after the bombing of Hiroshima, when the Shiva meteor slammed into Siberia. The sky went dark, shrouded by the huge clouds of earth raised by the impact; the sun would not fully reemerge until February of 1946. World War II shuddered to a halt; ironically, were it not for the massive food stockpiles prepared for war, mankind might have been wiped out. As it was, over ninety percent of humanity died of starvation. And, between human predation and loss of their own food sources, nearly every animal species larger than the rat was destroyed as well.

The ferret had been extinct for at least thirty years, perhaps forty.

But here it was.

Takashi stood silent for perhaps thirty seconds, waiting for the furor to die down. Then he quietly continued. Every word was carefully taken down. The camera rolled.

The Dynetics crew had found an answer. The animals had died out, but there were still tissue samples, buried remains, even stuffed trophies, throughout the world. Takashi and his fellows had taken one such specimen, extracted DNA samples from several cells, and carefully cross-checked them, repairing errors in one sample based on the others. After nearly ten years of work, they had finally managed to produce a viable embryo, bring it to term--a clone of the original, or as near of one as they could manage. Now that the techniques were understood, the work would be much faster in the future; they were hoping to create six more ferrets within the next year. The same techniques would work for other species; they were already working on a raccoon. The greater the computing power that could be made available for the genetic calculations, the faster the process could proceed. The world had the resources to resurrect a hundred species in the next five years, maybe more. It was simply a matter of cooperation.

The reporters raced from the room. Takashi went home, feeling truly at peace for the first time that he could remember.

Within the hour, the story was on every news program in the world.

Four hours later, the Dynetics building was a burned-out hulk, the fireproof safes broken open, the contents put to the torch. The ferret was dead, along with six of the scientists. When the mob came for Takashi at his house, they found him dead by

his own hand, a note at his side, the voices from the television set still denouncing him. The note was never read; it burned along with the house, along with Takashi.

He had been a brilliant scientist, a natural leader, but a terrible politician.

In 1947, as mankind struggled to pull itself back from the brink, the religious leaders of the world found themselves fully in agreement, perhaps for the first time in history. God had sent Shiva, as punishment for man's continued warfare, and above all for the unholy fruit of science, the nuclear bomb. Mankind had been granted a reprieve, a last chance to redeem itself; now it must repent.

The American elections of 1952--the first since the Disaster--were a religious landslide. Six members of the Supreme Court were forced to resign. The Constitution was never amended--not formally, anyway. But for all practical purposes, separation of church and state ceased to exist. A Council was formed, with delegates from the major religions. It had no formal power; yet every politician, from the President on down, knew that to defy the Council was suicidal... and every scientist knew it as well.

Takashi had told his staff at Dynetics that he had taken their findings to the Council, received their blessing. He had not. He had known full well what the Council's answer would be--"For, of all things, the creation of life is for the hand of God to wield, and for God alone..." He knew that he and his staff would be censured, their work destroyed. The consequences of that, he decided, were too horrible to contemplate. The world needed this. It had been forty years, two full generations; surely the world was ready to accept their work, to see the necessity of it.

He had not realized his mistake until he went home that fateful day, until he turned on the television set.

And by then it was too late.

Ten more years would pass before another way would be found.

----

As Kelly stared across the office, he suddenly realized why he was here, why Diana was doing all this. She cared about this as deeply as he did, maybe more. If the foxes were the test case, then it was desperately important that nothing go wrong. And if Diana had to bend--or break--the rules, to get the right volunteers, to make sure that nothing ''did'' go wrong, then that's what she would do. Just as he would do in her place.

He quickly read over the male's info. Name: Teeko. Head and body length: 1240mm. Tail length: 760mm. Mass: 25.7kg. Salary: $363,000--high, but not extraordinary.

"I'll take him," Kelly said.

"Thank you." she replied, relief in her voice.

Kelly wasn't sure whether to say "You're welcome" or "Thank you." So he just nodded.

Diana sighed, looked at her watch. "We'll need to get you into training, and you'll have to get your affairs settled. It's getting kinda late; come back at ten or so tomorrow, okay? We'll work out the details then."

Kelly nodded again. "Good night, boss." He left quietly.

On his way to the gate, he thought of something: Who was going to let him out? But he had a hunch, and kept walking. Sure enough, when he got to the gate and waved his new Fedcard past the lock, it clicked open. He belonged here already.

Back in the office, Diana was finishing up the paperwork. Smiling, she pulled a red sticker from the roll in her drawer, applied it to Teeko's picture. Then she opened the binder, thumbed quickly to the wolf section, carefully peeled the red dot off the sixth page, and threw it away.

User:Phaedrus/Field Trip

2009-08-30T03:15:24Z

Phaedrus: Added defaultsort

__NOTOC__
{{Universe|Circe Treatment}}
{{byline|name=Field Trip|author=Phaedrus|user=Phaedrus}}
[[Category:Story]][[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Editing requested]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Field Trip}}

Copyright 1996 Phaedrus
{{author note|This was written May 1, 1996. It was the first story I had written in several years, and that shows in a variety of ways.

This story is part of the Circe Treatment series from the TSA-Talk mailing list, and you'll find that things make more sense if you read the first two stories in that series --[http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/ashellgame.html Shell Game] and [http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/breassignment.html Reassignment] -- first.

Note to fellow authors: Is there any markup I can use this will give the first and last parts of this story the "printed letter" look shown in [http://www.lycanon.org/stories/FieldTrip.html this HTML version]?}}

: ARTHUR BLAKELY
: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR
: 1849 C STREET, NORTHWEST
: WASHINGTON, D. C. 20240

: June Taylor
: 2443 East 14th Avenue, Apt. 6B
: Helena, Montana 59601

: June 29, 2043

: Dear Miss Taylor:

: Once again, both on my own behalf and on the behalf of the Department of the Interior, I wish to offer my deepest sympathies and apologies on the loss of your son Dexter. The needless loss of any life is tragic; the fact that your son was such a promising student makes it all the more so.

: Since our telephone conversation yesterday, I have been in near-constant contact with those investigators and officials in charge of this case. I regret that your son's body cannot be released to you at this time, pending the outcome of this investigation. As I am sure you can appreciate, the circumstances of this case require that all evidence involved be handled very carefully, in accordance with federal and state regulations. I assure you that every effort is being made to conduct the investigation as quickly and thoroughly as possible, and I promise to keep you fully informed.

: At this time, I can share some additional information with you, that may answer some of your remaining questions. Your son's palmtop computer, which he was carrying when the tragedy occurred, contained a diary file. I think that anything more I can say to you will make much more sense in the context of this file; so here is a partial transcript which I received this morning. I will send you the complete file as soon as I receive it. Please be assured that everything is being held in the strictest confidence. I would greatly appreciate you holding this information in the same confidence, at least until the investigation is concluded.

: (continued; page 1 of 2)

----

Case 34421-54-203-239-023 File 342

'''NOT FOR EVIDENTIARY PURPOSES--NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION'''

'''[TEXT ENTERED THROUGH VOICE-RECOGNITION. SOME REFORMATTING; MINOR SPELLING ERRORS CORRECTED -JC]'''

==24-Mar==

Testing, testing. Wow, this is great. I didn't think I'd ever get one of these, let alone one that could handle my voice. Mom must have saved up for months for this. I don't know how you did it, but thanks, Mom. This will really help out at school.

More good news today. I got on the state Honors List again. Being a science geek has its advantages sometimes, I guess. Anyway, it'll look good on my college applications next year.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==4-May==
I don't believe it. I got a letter from the Gates Foundation today. They're doing a bunch of summer programs for "gifted youth". I got picked for the biology camp at Yellowstone! (With all the new wildlife reintroductions, I guess there's actually something to study there now...) Four weeks, all expenses paid. Just twenty people invited, too; I'm not sure how I got picked, but I'm not complaining. In, fucking, credible. With something like this on my record, I might actually have a shot at a scholarship at Stanford after all. Now all I have to do is talk Mom into letting me go...

==4-May==
Yes! Launch clearance received!

==6-May==
Geez, this is happening in a hurry. The tickets arrived today, and a check to cover clothes and camping gear--thanks to my "disadvantaged status", I guess. And a reading list a mile long-- about a book a day for the next month. Until now, I still didn't quite think this was real. Looks like it's real now.

Hiking boots are on the list. Sounds like we're going to be "in the field". Hoo boy. Not only do I have to get this reading done, I've gotta get in shape too.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==15-June==
The plane leaves tomorrow. I'm all packed. Stanford, here I come.

==16-June==
Wow. Here we are. I still can't quite get over this place. I guess Montana used to be the middle of nowhere; now it's pretty much the same as everywhere else. But this is actual ''wilderness''. Trees as far as you can see. It's beautiful. It must have cost a lot to bring this place back to this. We're staying the night in bunks on the edge of the park; but supposedly we'll be camping out the rest of the time. I hope so.

They're all set up for "special" people. They gave me a translator to use for the duration, but I don't think I'll need it; the voice recognition on this should be good enough to get me by.

==17-June==
First day out in the field. I'm not sure I want to be an engineer anymore; I'm thinking of being a biologist. I think most of us are feeling that way. I didn't realize just how pretty ''nothing'' can be. This is really something special.

We haven't seen much wildlife yet, but supposedly there's a lot more near the center of the park. We spent most of the day learning about the ecosystem here, and the reintroduction programs. They still haven't gotten things very close to what they used to be; no predator species, for one thing. That makes sense--you don't want predators until there's enough prey to go around.

I think it's going to be hard to get to sleep tonight.

==18-June==
I was wrong about one thing; I don't think I've ever slept better than I did last night. Walking all day will do that to you, I guess. I hope I don't get blisters.

It just keeps getting prettier and prettier as we move farther in. The air is even clear here. Leaving here is going to be a bummer. There's no question in my mind; I have to find some way to do this for a living. Maybe Stanford isn't the best choice after all. I'll have to do some digging, see what colleges still have programs in biology or zoology. If I can find one with a good genetics program, so much the better.

==19-June==
I don't think I'm ever going to get to college. I think I'm going to die of exhaustion right here. But at least I'll die happy.

We got our first look at big wildlife today. Deer, mostly. I think I saw a raccoon.

We're going to split up for a good part of the day tomorrow.

==20-June==
Very interesting day today.

We split up for most of the afternoon. The instructors were a little reluctant to let me go alone, but I talked them into it; I've made it this far, haven't I? For once I had to take the translator along, so they could page me through it when it was time to regroup. We all had to take a panic button too, in case we broke a leg or something. Lovely thought.

Everything was fine for a couple of hours. The woods somehow seem even more real when you're alone. I didn't see any more wildlife, other than a few squirrels; I thought maybe the bigger animals had been scared off by the noise of the group, so I kept moving out.

Then something bit me on the back of the leg.

I was caught so much by surprise that I fell over. I turned around, and I saw something running full-speed away from me. No question about it; it was a wolf. What happened to "no predators in the park"? And why would a wolf bite and then run away? It makes no sense. Maybe someone got reassigned as a wolf, then got away from wherever they were supposed to be and wound up here. But there's no way that a wolf, even one with a human brain, could cross open country to get here. Or maybe some rich wacko actually bought a wolf treatment for themselves, and then snuck into the park before the change started. That at least makes a little sense. But why bite and run away? I dunno; maybe it's a game.

I thought about telling the instructors when I got back to the group, but I decided not to. No matter what the explanation, if someone reports a wolf in Yellowstone, or just about anyplace else for that matter, it's going to get hunted down. And this one certainly could have killed me if it wanted to; it wouldn't be right to return the favor by getting it killed. Nature red in tooth and claw, and all that. The bite wasn't that bad to begin with; I put some first aid creme on the wound to kill off infection, bandaged it up, and let it go at that. If anybody notices the bandage, I'll tell them I cut my leg on a branch. No big deal.

==21-June==
Nothing unusual today; no sign of the Big Bad Wolf. Just more countryside, and eight more hours of lectures while we walked.

I want to live out here someday; at least close enough that I can come out here once a week or so. This is just too beautiful to leave. The land around here is awful expensive, so I'd better hope to get a job here--or hit the lottery.

The bite is already almost gone; that first aid creme is good stuff.

==22-June==
First week nearly gone. Oh, well; three more weeks still to go.

Another split-up day tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it; I want to see if I can spot that wolf again. It's certainly not going to come this close to a big group. I just hope it doesn't decide to bite my other leg to even things up.

'''[REST OF TEXT ENTERED THROUGH TOUCH SCREEN. MORE SPELLING ERRORS, CORRECTED. -JC]'''

==23-June==
sure is tough to type this way.

im scared.

split up again for afternoon. had muscle aches all over this morning. thought it was just from walking so much. i wasnt going to miss a day because of it.

saw deer. mice. badger. no sign of the wolf.

all of a sudden i couldnt walk anymore. my whole body started spasming. i thought i was dying. i couldnt even hit the panic button. then i saw the fur start sprouting, and i knew what was happening. that made it easier to deal with, in a way.

it was over in just a few minutes. i was a wolf. just like the one i saw before.

this cant happen. the treatment isn't supposed to work on more than one person like this. but its happened.

its weird. my eyes dont see colors right, but they pick out movement really well. i can smell a lot too. i cant tell what half the things im smelling are. but theres sure a lot of them. but thats not the big thing.

people always told me all the things i was missing. what music was like. how much more sense movies made. i knew it must be great to be able to hear people talk.

but i never really guessed what it was like. i can hear now. so many things. from so far around. all of a sudden the world is everywhere. not just in front of me.

i feel whole now.

i almost hit the panic button. but i didnt. if i went back, if they found a way to change me back i might never be able to do this again. and i dont think i want to give this up. this is too good.

im writing this in case something happens. and so i can tell if this starts changing my mind too. i dont think it has so far. i can still remember the capital of new russia and all that stuff. if i start not being able to understand what ive written, ill know im in trouble.

i trashed a perfectly good hiking outfit climbing out of it. the gates foundation will be pissed.

i need to think. but i dont really want to. i just want to see everything. no. i just want to hear everything.

==23-June==
dog tired. sorry. couldnt resist.

i covered a lot of ground today. i think i saw more than i saw the whole week. if theyre going to have these camps they really should let everyone do this. we humans just arent meant to see this stuff. im glad they didnt though. mom never would have gone along with that idea.

i carried this thing with me most of the time. slobber all over it. yuck. good thing its waterproof.

i wonder if theyre looking for me yet. maybe ill find out what a helicopter sounds like. i found a good place to hide for the night. i doubt theyll be looking for wolves anyway. i hope mom doesnt know about this yet.

==24-June==
ive made up my mind. if my mind doesnt go downhill, im not going back. this is too good.

==24-June==
shit. shit shit shit.

i dont know what to do anymore. i got hungry this afternoon. im surprised i didnt earlier. i think i lost some weight in the change. maybe that left me with some energy left over.

i found a deer. followed it. i didnt quite know what to do. neither did the deer. it finally started running. i chased it. i dont think ive ever felt quite so alive. it tired out before i did. finally i caught it from behind and brought it down.

it looked back at me. i was about to bite its neck and try to kill it that way. then i saw the look in its eyes. dont ask me how i knew. but i knew. it was human. another reassignment.

i couldnt do it. i wanted to but i couldnt. it would have been murder. the law might not think so. but the law wasnt what mattered.

now i know why there are no predators here.

i let it go. it should be okay.

i guess i have to go back now. i have no choice. i cant live on plants. but i still dont want to give this up.

maybe theres another way. i hope so.

ill carry this with me. maybe theyll get the idea that im friendly. and if they read this they can help me out.

i sure am hungry.

i love you mom.

===[END OF FILE -JC]===

----

: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR

: (page 2 of 2)

: At around 9 am on June 25, your son was spotted by a security patrol near the Northwest Gate of the park. At the time, gate security patrols were not equipped with tranquilizer guns; they were only equipped with standard-issue police weaponry. (I assure you that, as of yesterday, we have corrected this situation.) We also believe that, in your son's physical state at the time, he may not have been able to read the guards' lips, and therefore he could not have understood their verbal commands. These factors, combined with the other extraordinary circumstances, may have contributed to the tragic shooting. The investigation is proceeding, and all personnel involved have been removed from duty pending the outcome of that investigation.

: We have not confirmed the details mentioned in this transcript. If true, they raise some very troubling points. First of all, I assure you that no one has undergone reassignment into a wolf, and that no legitimate program would offer such a treatment. Second, as you are well aware, even if such a reassignee existed, the virus should not be contagious through saliva or through any other means; it keys itself to the DNA of its original host, and thereafter remains dormant in the system of any other host it subsequently encounters, and does not reproduce under such conditions. It may be that your son was genetically very similar to whoever he encountered; in that case, it is theoretically possible that the virus could be transmitted successfully, though a case similar to this has never been reported in testing or in the field. This is pure speculation at this point, however. We have sealed the park, and an exhaustive search is underway for any animal or person potentially responsible for your son's infection.

: I know that nothing can properly compensate you for a tragic loss such as this. Nevertheless, despite the waiver signed by you and by your son, I want to assure you that the government has every intention of providing you with just compensation. We will be contacting you again regarding this, as soon as the investigation is completed. I would urge you to obtain counsel to handle these arrangements on your behalf; I would be happy to provide recommendations. In the meantime, I would ask that you please do not discuss this case with the press or with others, until the investigation is completed; press coverage could hamper the investigation, and could potentially complicate the process of compensating you.

: Again, my deepest sympathies for your tragic loss. I promise to contact you again within 48 hours, to share any new information I may have.

: Very truly yours,

: Arthur Blakely
: Secretary of the Interior

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}

User:Phaedrus/Wishes

2009-08-30T03:14:52Z

Phaedrus: Corrected defaultsort

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Wishes}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Wishes|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

To a wolf, time is a nebulous thing. There are no calendars, no watches, no alarms to mark its passage. When there is no weekend, no church, no Sunday football games, what meaning can the "week" have? Without bills or paychecks, what good is a "month"? What good is an "hour" when there is no one to charge for it? The days pass, and the seasons change; nothing else is important.

So it was hard to say how much time had passed before the wolf cub began to realize that there was something ''different'' about him.

By that time, he was already leaving the den, making short trips to the stream or the rocks with his five littermates. (There had been eight when he first opened his eyes, but three were gone now.) He loved to stick his front paws in the water, to feel the current pressing by his toes, to see the lights dance across the water when the sun was high in the sky. He wouldn't always go back to the den when the rest of the cubs did; he would stay until he got hungry, or until his mother got nervous and called him back.

That day, as he stood at the water's edge, he heard a strange sound... a buzzing in the sky. He thought he had heard it before, but never when he was outside. Nervously, he started back towards the rocks, where there were better hiding places; but as he did, he looked up and behind him, towards the noise... and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. It flew through the sky, like a bird, but not like any bird he had ever seen; its path was perfectly straight, with no turns, no flapping of wings. And it was ''shiny'', like the water...

He had seen something like that before. He could remember it. But he couldn't remember where, or how.

And, even stranger, he could remember something else... he could remember looking ''down,'' and seeing the ground, the trees as small and far away as that shiny thing in the sky...

He ran back to the den, faster than he ever had before, yelping all the way. The adults looked around in confusion when they heard him, for surely nothing was wrong. He didn't stop; he went straight to the back of the den, and wouldn't come out until hunger finally pushed the fear from his mind.

From then on, the wolf cub often had memories that he couldn't place, often couldn't even understand. They seemed wrong somehow. There were no ''smells,'' for one thing; just sounds, and sights. And the sights had a bizarreness to them, as if there was a different quality to what he was seeing, something more than the difference between light and darkness... but how could that be? And so many of those memories were filled with things he had never seen--huge shiny boxes rising to the sky, and strange two-legged things...

Sometimes, there were more than sights and sounds; sometimes there were feelings as well. These confused him even more, for they nearly always seemed to be wrong. Sometimes, when he licked his father's muzzle and his father brought up food for him, there was a strange feeling of revulsion... and when he grew strong enough to travel with the pack, and he watched them bring down a kill, he sometimes felt a pang of sorrow, of pity. But why was that? What other way was there?

So he tried to put those things out of his mind; he didn't understand them, and they weren't helpful. But still, they continued; and despite himself, he remembered...

The wolf grew, and learned.

Two more of his littermates died, but he flourished. He started hunting small game of his own, and eventually took his place in the hunting pack, harassing the prey and driving it into the jaws of the older wolves. When the kill was brought down, he waited for the older wolves to eat their fill first, as was his place; but game was plentiful, and there was enough to go around. He learned quickly, and forgot nothing.

And one day, he watched the deer carefully as the pack chased it, knew which way it would turn next, and was there when it did... and as he leaped for its neck, there were no odd memories, no second thoughts. His jaws clamped down like a vise, and the blood squirted down his throat, and the deer took a few more strides and went down, and his packmates were on it before it could try to rise again, and soon it was over.

The pack gathered around the kill, jockeying for position. He stood his ground. Another male--a year older, a bit larger, slightly higher than him in the social order of the pack--growled at him, nudged him in the side. Almost without thinking, he whirled, snarling, bloody teeth bared, fur standing on end, tail held straight back behind him...

He locked eyes with the other wolf, and they stared each other down for several long seconds, both growling. His muscles tensed, knowing that the older wolf could lunge at him at any moment. But he ''knew,'' with every fiber in his being, that if it came to a fight, he would win... and when the elder wolf blinked and looked away, he knew that the elder knew it too.

Then the elder wolf turned and walked slowly away, its tail curled down uncertainly.

He pressed his advantage, following the older wolf, jaws still bared, tail held high now...

...and it rolled over in the grass, exposing its belly, tail curled between its legs, whining piteously.

He got in the older wolf's face, snarling once more, satisfying himself that the matter had been settled. Then he turned, and resumed his place at the kill. The alpha male looked at him questioningly, and he realized that in his excitement he had kept his tail raised, as if in challenge; he lowered his head and tail respectfully to the alpha, and that was that. No one else challenged his place at the kill; the elders left him room, and the younger wolves--and the elder he had just displaced--waited their turns.

Another strange feeling came over him. But this time it was pride, satisfaction. For once, a proper feeling. It was a good sign.

He turned his attention back to the kill, and he ate well.

----

In many ways, that first kill was the beginning.

From then on, the odd thoughts and feelings came more frequently. He would lie awake at night, curled up nose to tail, looking up at the stars but not seeing them; the strange memories ran through his mind, over and over, and he tried to make sense of them. They all seemed to focus on these pink two-legged creatures, and their tall boxes. Some of those boxes, he knew now, were the two-leggers' dens. Sometimes, in those memories, he would be in one of those boxes, and look into a thing--a thing that was hard and flat, but that the light bounced off, like the water--and he would see a two-legged looking back at him. So these thoughts belonged to the two-legged, not to him.

He wondered what a two-legger's thoughts were doing in his head. Sometimes he wondered if the two-leggers existed at all, or if he was just dreaming things. Yes, the shiny birds had to come from somewhere, but they could be anything...

But then, not long after that first kill, the pack had come across a strange trail--all black and hard, like rock, but all flat, and bad-smelling, and running off both ways as far as he could see. The older wolves seemed unconcerned, but he stared at it, walked up to its edge to smell it more closely, because it was something else he had seen before in his mind, like the shiny birds. And then a loud shiny thing came down the trail, very fast--he ran back to the edge of the trees to watch, with the rest of the pack--and the loud thing had stopped, and he knew that he had seen this thing in his mind too, and he knew what it did. He looked around at the pack, at his littermates especially, to see if they knew it too, to see if they had these thoughts too--and they looked confused, or wary, but he knew that they did not ''understand.''

The side of the loud thing had opened up, and three two-leggers--the first ones he had ever seen, for real, and one of them was young and small--got out, and the wolves looked at the two-leggers, and the two-leggers looked back at the wolves. One of the two-leggers--an older male, he thought--had a little box with a round shiny spot on it, and held the box in front of its head, and the box made little noises. Then the alpha male had turned and trotted away into the woods, and the pack had followed, and he had stayed behind, staring, because he knew that the little box was nothing to fear, and he wanted to see what else the two-leggers would do. And the two-leggers had looked at each other, and they made sounds; and he whined a little in frustration, because he thought somehow that those sounds should ''mean'' something, and he should know what it was. But no matter how hard he thought about those sounds, they were still just noises to him. And then the two-leggers had gotten back in their loud thing, and a cloud of something bad-smelling came out, and the loud thing had gone down the trail and disappeared around a curve. And for a moment, he had gotten a strange feeling that he should follow that rock trail, that if he did, it would go to somewhere special, to one of those places in his mind with the shiny boxes that went to the sky.

But he had turned away instead, and run off after his pack. And he had not slept at all that night. And from them on, he never wondered whether the thoughts in his head were real or not.

From that day on, the two-legger's memories in his head no longer seemed so foreign to him, and even the strange feelings didn't seem so bad--perhaps that surge of pride he had felt at his first kill, his first successful challenge, had shown him that there was common ground after all. They could be useful, if they could show him what the two-leggers would do. And they were ''interesting.''

If he thought hard enough, he could do more than see and hear what the two-legger had seen and heard; he could know what it had thought as well. He couldn't understand most of it; even when the two-legger was thinking to himself, the thoughts were all wrapped up in those same strange sounds that the others had used. But he could also ''feel'' what the two-legger had felt; and he could understand that.

Most of the two-legger's memories were filled with other two-leggers, and the big shiny things they all used and lived in. The two-legger seemed to spend most of his time travelling on those rock trails; he would push and pull on the insides of one of the loud things, and it would take him where he wanted to go. He would get out, and carry something big and heavy into a big den of other two-leggers; he would open it up, and show them the things inside, and they would all pass the things around and look at them. Then he would go back to his loud thing, and go somewhere else, and do this all again, and again. When the sun started to go down, he would go back to his den, and eat, and watch the pictures coming out of a box, and sleep.

Sometimes the two-legger would feel happy while he was doing these things, and sometimes sad, and sometimes angry, and sometimes nothing at all. And the wolf could not understand this; when the same things always happened, how could there be so many different ways of feeling about it?

But sometimes the two-legger would do different things. Once in a while, he would go to a big place filled with animals--some that the wolf had seen before, but many that he hadn't. There were far too many animals for such a small place, but there were rocks and canyons in between them, so they couldn't run away or get at each other. The two-legger would walk through this place, and watch the animals, but he would always go to the same spot, where there were two wolves. They were fat, and their fur was dull and scraggly, and they were very bored; they would just walk around in circles, or stand and watch the humans, or lie down and sleep. The wolf felt sorry for them; they would never starve, that was clear, but he couldn't understand how they could live in such a small place for so long, and with only one wolf for company. But the two-legger would watch them, and watch, and watch; the other two-leggers would come and go, and even the wolves would lose interest in him, and still he would watch. And sometimes he would be happy, and sometimes sad.

But sometimes, the wolves would howl together, to break the boredom; and the two-legger would close his eyes and listen. And then he would always be sad then, and there would be a ''longing,'' deeper than anything else the two-legger felt--like he wanted to howl too, wanted to be on the other side of the canyon and the rocks, where the wolves were.

And the wolf thought he could understand that.

Because when the howling stopped, the two-legger would always turn and leave that place, and go back to his den, and watch the pictures in the box until it was time to sleep. And it was never cold or wet there, and there was always food.

But he was always alone.

The wolf could imagine how hard it would be to live in that small place with the other wolves lived--to look at the same things every day, to pace in circles, to never leave.

But he could not even imagine what it would be like to live alone.

The wolf knew now that he thought differently from the others in his pack. He saw the same things that his packmates did, but he saw meanings in those things that they did not. On the hunt, he quickly became a master at studying a herd, picking out its weakest member. And when the chase was on, he could take a quick glance around him, know the twists and turns that would happen in the next few seconds--not just which way the prey would run to, but how his packmates would respond to that--and know where he should be as well. It often wasn't enough--the prey still escaped more often than not. But he made more than his share of kills, and the pack did not want for food, even when winter came and times grew hard.

He rose through the pack; not only was he smart, but quick and strong as well. Rarely did he have to fight for his position, and when he did, it was short. Even when he strained a muscle in his hind leg and was hobbled for a time, he was not challenged, and no one questioned his place at the kill.

The memories still came, and he learned more and more. He started to understand how some of the two-leggers' strange sounds worked; they were ''things''--a sound for every thing. The rock trails were "road"; the loud things that took the two-leggers down them were "car"; their dens were "home"; and the two-leggers themselves were "human". He could see where such a thing would be very useful; they could tell each other about the things, with those sounds, rather than showing them. He even tried making those sounds himself; but they wouldn't come out right at all--that must be why wolves didn't use them--and his packmates just looked at him strangely.

And the two-leggers--the humans--gave themselves sounds as well, each human had a sound of their own. The wolf wondered a bit about that--they knew who they were talking to; why did they need a sound for that too?--but he supposed it might come in handy too.

His human's sound was "Jason".

That seemed familiar somehow. He wondered why that was.

----

Life in the wolf pack was pleasant... as pleasant as it got. The wolf had earned the respect of his pack. The males above him left him alone, perhaps afraid to force a confrontation; those below him needed only occasional reminders... a snarl here, a nip there... to keep them in their places.

The seasons came and went, and in time, he was the beta male. The Jason's memories in his head felt more like his own, now; he could think of them when he wanted, rather than waiting for them to happen. And he was making more and more sense of the sounds the humans made.

He studied the alpha--his father--carefully, judging his chances. The alpha was getting old, but he hadn't lost his strength, and had a lifetime of experience fending off rivals like him. It would be a tough fight, if it came to that. But somehow, he still knew that he would win that fight. The alpha's place could be his. Springtime would come soon, and with it the breeding season; he knew that only the alphas would mate, and that desire called to him--he wanted that chance, more deeply than he had wanted anything before. It was almost like what the human... the Jason... felt, when he closed his eyes, and listened to the wolves howl.

He could take it whenever he wanted.

But he was troubled.

He knew that he could win. But he also knew that the alpha had much more experience with the world than he did, had seen so much more than he had. The alpha knew where the prey would run to when the snow went away, where the dangerous ground was. If he were alpha, he would have to lead the pack... and he knew that he could not do it as well.

It was one of those odd feelings. It was something that a Jason would worry about, not a wolf. The wolf knew it.

But the more he thought about it, the more he agreed with it.

So he waited. And life in the pack stopped being so pleasant.

The alpha--perhaps trying to discourage him from challenging, perhaps confused as to why that challenge hadn't come--harassed him unmercifully. Stoically, he took it. Sensing weakness, other males pressed him as well; the battle to keep his place in the pack was constant, and several times he had to leave a younger packmate bloody to make his point.

To make matters worse, the winter was getting hard, and the prey was vanishing. There was simply not enough food to go around; the wolves started fighting for their places at the kill, and those who could not fight, starved. Two of that spring's pups died in the same day. The omega male left the pack, desperate for any chance to find food on its own; the pack found the body a week later, curled up next to a frozen stream. The pack sniffed at the remains for a few moments, then moved on; there was no energy for sentimentality.

The wolf started to think that this human worrying was too much trouble after all.

Then, one day, the pack was at the edge of a forest, looking for any signs of prey.

The wolf heard something; a ''whupwhupwhupwhup'' in the sky. A helicopter, he thought, not stopping to realize that he was thinking in sounds, like the humans did. He had heard helicopters before, and not just in the Jason's memories; but this one sounded different. It sounded... lower.

Then the helicopter cleared the trees, and his packmates looked up, watching it; they had never seen one so close. Fear battled with curiosity, and curiosity--and the need to save their energy--won out.

The wolf looked up at the helicopter too; he was curious as well. But he saw that the door was open, saw a human pointing a long round metal rod out towards them...

...and he turned in a flash and streaked towards the treeline, barking frantically at his packmates...

...and the rest of the pack, needing little incentive to get away from the loud shiny thing, ran after him...

...and the alpha male, perhaps trying to prove his place in the pack once and for all, stood his ground, bared his teeth at the thing and growled...

...and there was a sound, like a crack of thunder...

...and the alpha gave one brief cry, and dropped in his tracks, and died...

...and the pack watched from the trees, whimpering softly, as the helicopter landed, as two humans got out, picked up the alpha's body, and tossed him in...

...and one of the male yearlings growled, and took a few steps towards the humans; and the wolf crossed the distance in a flash, jumped on the yearling's back, drove him to the ground, then dragged him back behind a tree by the tail...

...and the humans got back in, and the door closed, and it lifted off, and vanished into the distance.

And all was quiet.

The pack slowly edged out into the clearing; the wolves made their way to the red spot in the snow where the alpha had stood, and they sniffed at the place. Then they huddled together, heads down, rubbing close against each other, whining softly.

The wolf joined them, his heart sick. He closed his eyes, tried to force the image from his mind; but he could still smell his father's blood, mixed with the strange odors of gasoline and human sweat. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he threw back his head and howled, low and long; he felt the pack press up against him, heard their voices join his. And they howled on, until he lost track of time, until he managed to stop thinking for a while, and just ''be.''

Finally, the howl drifted to a stop. The pack stayed tightly together for a few more moments; then a few wolves began pacing aimlessly, looking at each other. And the wolf knew what had to be done.

He pulled away from the huddle, looked at the pack, barked once, then started walking away, back in the direction they had come from, head and tail held high, ears up, forcing himself not to look back.

Without a murmur of protest, the pack silently formed into single file, and followed his trail through the snow.

His new role was not an easy one. As he feared he would, he made mistakes. But fate was kind; they found food--not as often as they would like, but often enough that there were no more deaths in the pack. He was never seriously challenged.

As the snow melted, the alpha female became more aggressive and dominating towards the other females; he, in turn, found himself snapping at males, sometimes for reasons he couldn't understand. The two of them had no such friction with each other; they got along very well indeed.

Then, one afternoon, they slipped away from the pack, and it was glorious.

They repeated the process over the next few days--one had to make sure of these things, after all...

Not long after that, the pack returned to the den--where the wolf had been born, and two more litters after him. Prey was plentiful; it would be a good year. His mate settled in, and he knew the pups would come soon.

One night, the wolf felt strangely restless; he walked away, as he often did, to look at the stars.

He had grown used to his role as alpha, and there was little dissension in the ranks. He had grown used to Jason's memories as well; he thought he had seen all there was to see in them. He still enjoyed them; they were like looking into another world... like watching television. He loved Jason's trip to Colorado the best--flying down the mountain on skis, soaring over it on a hang-glider, basking in the warmth of a roaring fire...

Sometimes he wondered what had happened to Jason. He could remember Jason getting a letter, telling him that his father had died. Jason had felt sad about that--not nearly as sad as he should have, the wolf thought--and he had taken some time away from work, had flown to Florida where his father had lived, to see to the arrangements. He could remember Jason pulling into the driveway of his father's house... and after that, the memory just faded away.

Tonight, the wolf wondered, and he remembered... but this time, the memory did not stop there...

: "I wonder where Dad got this old thing?" Jason muttered to himself. He rubbed some of the dust off the lamp, to get a better look at it.

: A plume of smoke erupted in his face.

: He dropped the lamp with a clatter, and scrambled back, tripping over a box and going down in a pile of old magazines. He lay still for a few seconds, mentally making sure that all his limbs were still attached. Then he looked up... and wished he hadn't.

: Beard. Silk clothing. Turban. Just like in the books.

: '''"FREE AT LAST!"''' it boomed, making his ears ring. '''"THREE HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT ACCURSED PRISON!"'''

: Jason felt like he should say something, but he had no idea what. "Ummmm... congratulations?"

: The genie seemed to notice him for the first time. It looked down. '''"YOU ARE THE ONE WHO RELEASED ME, MORTAL?"'''

: Jason managed a nod.

: '''"THEN I AM BOUND TO GRANT THEE THREE WISHES. WHAT IS THY BIDDING, MASTER?"'''

: Jason closed his eyes. He thought for, perhaps, thirty seconds. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant, like he was listening to someone else.

: "I wish I was a wolf."

: The silence in the attic was deafening. For a moment, Jason thought that maybe this was all a dream; that he'd knocked himself out somehow, and he'd just woke up. He opened his eyes.

: The genie stared down at him, eyes wide.

: '''"YOU WHAT?"'''

: "You heard me."

: '''"FOR MILLENNIA, MEN HAVE RACKED THEIR BRAINS, TRYING TO PHRASE THEIR LUSTS FOR WEALTH AND POWER IN WAYS I COULD NOT DESTROY THEM WITH, AND NONE SUCCEEDED. NOW YOU WISH FOR SOMETHING THAT ANY SANE MAN WOULD CALL A CURSE. AND YOU WISH FOR IT IN A WAY THAT A BABE COULD FIND A HUNDRED WAYS TO TURN AGAINST YOU. HAS YOUR FALL ADDLED YOUR BRAINS, MORTAL, OR ARE YOU A FOOL BY NATURE?"'''

: Jason was eerily calm; perhaps he was beyond fear. "You said it yourself; if you're out to screw me, I could spend the rest of my life trying to find a foolproof way to phrase it, and I'd still probably miss something. And if you're not out to screw me, it doesn't matter. So why worry about it? And it's the one thing I've always wanted that I could never get on my own; what else would I wish for?"

: The genie stared down at him for a few more seconds, as if he'd sprouted wings or burst into flames. '''"YOU ARE A VERY STRANGE MORTAL,"''' it said finally. '''"BUT THAT IS NOT MY CONCERN. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED."'''

: Everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet.

: The world seemed to squeeze him from all sides. He tried to scream, but he had no breath.

: The pressure increased... and then he was free, and cold. Something hard was underneath him. He tried to see what it was, but he couldn't seem to find his eyes. Something else... something warm, and wet... pressed into his side, poked softly against him. He opened his mouth, and drew in a breath, nearly choking. He tried again to cry out, and this time he found his lungs, but still he heard nothing.

: Then he felt a hot wind across his back... and something warm, and rough, and wonderful, pressed against him. It went up his back, pushing him into the hard thing beneath him, and some of the cold and wetness went away. It made pass after pass, working its way along his back and up his side, pushing him over and starting in on his underside. For a moment, he forgot about seeing and hearing, and just concentrated on arching his body into it, basking in the warmth. Then it reached his face, and touched his nose... and the universe was suddenly filled with the smells of earth and water and wolf. And, most interestingly, the smell of ''food.''

: Maybe I should have been more specific, Jason thought, but only for a moment. Then he concentrated on crawling towards the smell...

The wolf blinked, looked down at the ground. The world smelled and sounded and looked the same as it did a moment ago; how could it suddenly be so very different?

He had a sense that he should be feeling something profound right now... happiness, that he had gotten what he wanted, or despair, that he had gotten what he wanted. But every time he thought about it, the only real reaction that came to mind was: Oh. So that explains things...

'''"AS I SAID, A VERY STRANGE MORTAL."'''

The wolf waited for his heart to start beating again; then he turned to face the genie.

'''"SO, WHAT IS YOUR SECOND WISH?"'''

The wolf knew, somehow, that he could talk, and didn't waste time wondering how that could be. "I wish that my cubs, and their cubs, and their cubs beyond them, could understand the world as I do."

'''"A NOBLE WISH, BUT ONE YOUR CUBS MAY NOT THANK YOU FOR,"''' the genie replied. '''"AND NOT A SIMPLE ONE. INTELLIGENCE IS AN EASY MATTER, BUT UNDERSTANDING COMES FROM EXPERIENCE. AND YOUR EXPERIENCE IS A UNIQUE ONE..."'''

The genie fell silent, as if lost in thought. The wolf waited patiently.

: Far away, a young man sat at a computer keyboard, tapping his fingers unconsciously, waiting for the download to complete. On the screen, an image slowly appeared--a black wolf, bounding through snowdrifts towards the camera, a small dot of white clinging defiantly to the tip of its nose.

: He felt a familiar pang... then forced it from his mind, brought another window forward, went back to reading Usenet. He could not see the eyes watching him; nor could he feel the small blood clot forming in his thigh, poised to break loose and drift towards the lungs, towards the brain...

'''"NEVER MIND; I SEE A WAY NOW. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED. AND YOUR FINAL WISH?"'''

The wolf thought about this, long and hard. He knew what he wanted; he opened his mouth to say it... then he changed his mind, and closed his mouth. He already had what he wanted.

"I wish for good fortune for my pack," he said finally.

'''"AND SO IT SHALL BE, FOR A DOZEN DOZEN YEARS," the genie replied. "GOOD HUNTING TO YOU, AND TO YOUR CUBS."'''

The wolf tried to say "Thank you", but nothing came out but a yip. He simply nodded, and padded silently back to his mate and his pack.

The pups arrived not longer than that; only six--a small litter--but all alive, and all healthy. The wolf looked down at them, and nuzzled them, and felt a joy like nothing he had felt before.

Raising them--and the litters after that, in the following years--was a story too long to tell. But the pack prospered; and the prey, while not always plentiful, was always there to be found.

And one day, the old wolf looked in the eyes of one of his sons, and he saw the look of confusion, of uncertainty--the look that must have been in his own eyes, years ago. He nodded to himself; it was time. And that night, he looked proudly at his pack for one last time, then walked quietly away.

He got along by himself for a little while, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath the way he used to, couldn't run for long. And then one day, as he was trying to catch a rabbit, his legs simply failed him; he went down in a heap, and there was no pain, only a wave of numbness that started in his hindquarters and quickly worked its way forward. ''I'm dying,'' he realized, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet...

...and he felt the pressure pushing him out into the cold.

And just before his mind fogged over, he realized that he'd gotten his own third wish after all.

{{author note|I wrote most of this story as an entry for a contest that Magus the Fox was running for his archive. The contest deadline got moved up by a day somewhere along the way, and I received the contest results while I was still finishing up the last part--always a disheartening sign. So I wound up shelving the story for a few weeks. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing, since the ending wound up being quite a bit better than the one I originally had in mind.

I've pretty much given up on figuring out people's reaction to my stories. I don't care that much for this one at all, but most people seem to like it much better than I do...}}

User:Phaedrus/Wishes

2009-08-30T03:12:01Z

Phaedrus: Initial Wikification

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Commission}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Wishes|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

To a wolf, time is a nebulous thing. There are no calendars, no watches, no alarms to mark its passage. When there is no weekend, no church, no Sunday football games, what meaning can the "week" have? Without bills or paychecks, what good is a "month"? What good is an "hour" when there is no one to charge for it? The days pass, and the seasons change; nothing else is important.

So it was hard to say how much time had passed before the wolf cub began to realize that there was something ''different'' about him.

By that time, he was already leaving the den, making short trips to the stream or the rocks with his five littermates. (There had been eight when he first opened his eyes, but three were gone now.) He loved to stick his front paws in the water, to feel the current pressing by his toes, to see the lights dance across the water when the sun was high in the sky. He wouldn't always go back to the den when the rest of the cubs did; he would stay until he got hungry, or until his mother got nervous and called him back.

That day, as he stood at the water's edge, he heard a strange sound... a buzzing in the sky. He thought he had heard it before, but never when he was outside. Nervously, he started back towards the rocks, where there were better hiding places; but as he did, he looked up and behind him, towards the noise... and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. It flew through the sky, like a bird, but not like any bird he had ever seen; its path was perfectly straight, with no turns, no flapping of wings. And it was ''shiny'', like the water...

He had seen something like that before. He could remember it. But he couldn't remember where, or how.

And, even stranger, he could remember something else... he could remember looking ''down,'' and seeing the ground, the trees as small and far away as that shiny thing in the sky...

He ran back to the den, faster than he ever had before, yelping all the way. The adults looked around in confusion when they heard him, for surely nothing was wrong. He didn't stop; he went straight to the back of the den, and wouldn't come out until hunger finally pushed the fear from his mind.

From then on, the wolf cub often had memories that he couldn't place, often couldn't even understand. They seemed wrong somehow. There were no ''smells,'' for one thing; just sounds, and sights. And the sights had a bizarreness to them, as if there was a different quality to what he was seeing, something more than the difference between light and darkness... but how could that be? And so many of those memories were filled with things he had never seen--huge shiny boxes rising to the sky, and strange two-legged things...

Sometimes, there were more than sights and sounds; sometimes there were feelings as well. These confused him even more, for they nearly always seemed to be wrong. Sometimes, when he licked his father's muzzle and his father brought up food for him, there was a strange feeling of revulsion... and when he grew strong enough to travel with the pack, and he watched them bring down a kill, he sometimes felt a pang of sorrow, of pity. But why was that? What other way was there?

So he tried to put those things out of his mind; he didn't understand them, and they weren't helpful. But still, they continued; and despite himself, he remembered...

The wolf grew, and learned.

Two more of his littermates died, but he flourished. He started hunting small game of his own, and eventually took his place in the hunting pack, harassing the prey and driving it into the jaws of the older wolves. When the kill was brought down, he waited for the older wolves to eat their fill first, as was his place; but game was plentiful, and there was enough to go around. He learned quickly, and forgot nothing.

And one day, he watched the deer carefully as the pack chased it, knew which way it would turn next, and was there when it did... and as he leaped for its neck, there were no odd memories, no second thoughts. His jaws clamped down like a vise, and the blood squirted down his throat, and the deer took a few more strides and went down, and his packmates were on it before it could try to rise again, and soon it was over.

The pack gathered around the kill, jockeying for position. He stood his ground. Another male--a year older, a bit larger, slightly higher than him in the social order of the pack--growled at him, nudged him in the side. Almost without thinking, he whirled, snarling, bloody teeth bared, fur standing on end, tail held straight back behind him...

He locked eyes with the other wolf, and they stared each other down for several long seconds, both growling. His muscles tensed, knowing that the older wolf could lunge at him at any moment. But he ''knew,'' with every fiber in his being, that if it came to a fight, he would win... and when the elder wolf blinked and looked away, he knew that the elder knew it too.

Then the elder wolf turned and walked slowly away, its tail curled down uncertainly.

He pressed his advantage, following the older wolf, jaws still bared, tail held high now...

...and it rolled over in the grass, exposing its belly, tail curled between its legs, whining piteously.

He got in the older wolf's face, snarling once more, satisfying himself that the matter had been settled. Then he turned, and resumed his place at the kill. The alpha male looked at him questioningly, and he realized that in his excitement he had kept his tail raised, as if in challenge; he lowered his head and tail respectfully to the alpha, and that was that. No one else challenged his place at the kill; the elders left him room, and the younger wolves--and the elder he had just displaced--waited their turns.

Another strange feeling came over him. But this time it was pride, satisfaction. For once, a proper feeling. It was a good sign.

He turned his attention back to the kill, and he ate well.

----

In many ways, that first kill was the beginning.

From then on, the odd thoughts and feelings came more frequently. He would lie awake at night, curled up nose to tail, looking up at the stars but not seeing them; the strange memories ran through his mind, over and over, and he tried to make sense of them. They all seemed to focus on these pink two-legged creatures, and their tall boxes. Some of those boxes, he knew now, were the two-leggers' dens. Sometimes, in those memories, he would be in one of those boxes, and look into a thing--a thing that was hard and flat, but that the light bounced off, like the water--and he would see a two-legged looking back at him. So these thoughts belonged to the two-legged, not to him.

He wondered what a two-legger's thoughts were doing in his head. Sometimes he wondered if the two-leggers existed at all, or if he was just dreaming things. Yes, the shiny birds had to come from somewhere, but they could be anything...

But then, not long after that first kill, the pack had come across a strange trail--all black and hard, like rock, but all flat, and bad-smelling, and running off both ways as far as he could see. The older wolves seemed unconcerned, but he stared at it, walked up to its edge to smell it more closely, because it was something else he had seen before in his mind, like the shiny birds. And then a loud shiny thing came down the trail, very fast--he ran back to the edge of the trees to watch, with the rest of the pack--and the loud thing had stopped, and he knew that he had seen this thing in his mind too, and he knew what it did. He looked around at the pack, at his littermates especially, to see if they knew it too, to see if they had these thoughts too--and they looked confused, or wary, but he knew that they did not ''understand.''

The side of the loud thing had opened up, and three two-leggers--the first ones he had ever seen, for real, and one of them was young and small--got out, and the wolves looked at the two-leggers, and the two-leggers looked back at the wolves. One of the two-leggers--an older male, he thought--had a little box with a round shiny spot on it, and held the box in front of its head, and the box made little noises. Then the alpha male had turned and trotted away into the woods, and the pack had followed, and he had stayed behind, staring, because he knew that the little box was nothing to fear, and he wanted to see what else the two-leggers would do. And the two-leggers had looked at each other, and they made sounds; and he whined a little in frustration, because he thought somehow that those sounds should ''mean'' something, and he should know what it was. But no matter how hard he thought about those sounds, they were still just noises to him. And then the two-leggers had gotten back in their loud thing, and a cloud of something bad-smelling came out, and the loud thing had gone down the trail and disappeared around a curve. And for a moment, he had gotten a strange feeling that he should follow that rock trail, that if he did, it would go to somewhere special, to one of those places in his mind with the shiny boxes that went to the sky.

But he had turned away instead, and run off after his pack. And he had not slept at all that night. And from them on, he never wondered whether the thoughts in his head were real or not.

From that day on, the two-legger's memories in his head no longer seemed so foreign to him, and even the strange feelings didn't seem so bad--perhaps that surge of pride he had felt at his first kill, his first successful challenge, had shown him that there was common ground after all. They could be useful, if they could show him what the two-leggers would do. And they were ''interesting.''

If he thought hard enough, he could do more than see and hear what the two-legger had seen and heard; he could know what it had thought as well. He couldn't understand most of it; even when the two-legger was thinking to himself, the thoughts were all wrapped up in those same strange sounds that the others had used. But he could also ''feel'' what the two-legger had felt; and he could understand that.

Most of the two-legger's memories were filled with other two-leggers, and the big shiny things they all used and lived in. The two-legger seemed to spend most of his time travelling on those rock trails; he would push and pull on the insides of one of the loud things, and it would take him where he wanted to go. He would get out, and carry something big and heavy into a big den of other two-leggers; he would open it up, and show them the things inside, and they would all pass the things around and look at them. Then he would go back to his loud thing, and go somewhere else, and do this all again, and again. When the sun started to go down, he would go back to his den, and eat, and watch the pictures coming out of a box, and sleep.

Sometimes the two-legger would feel happy while he was doing these things, and sometimes sad, and sometimes angry, and sometimes nothing at all. And the wolf could not understand this; when the same things always happened, how could there be so many different ways of feeling about it?

But sometimes the two-legger would do different things. Once in a while, he would go to a big place filled with animals--some that the wolf had seen before, but many that he hadn't. There were far too many animals for such a small place, but there were rocks and canyons in between them, so they couldn't run away or get at each other. The two-legger would walk through this place, and watch the animals, but he would always go to the same spot, where there were two wolves. They were fat, and their fur was dull and scraggly, and they were very bored; they would just walk around in circles, or stand and watch the humans, or lie down and sleep. The wolf felt sorry for them; they would never starve, that was clear, but he couldn't understand how they could live in such a small place for so long, and with only one wolf for company. But the two-legger would watch them, and watch, and watch; the other two-leggers would come and go, and even the wolves would lose interest in him, and still he would watch. And sometimes he would be happy, and sometimes sad.

But sometimes, the wolves would howl together, to break the boredom; and the two-legger would close his eyes and listen. And then he would always be sad then, and there would be a ''longing,'' deeper than anything else the two-legger felt--like he wanted to howl too, wanted to be on the other side of the canyon and the rocks, where the wolves were.

And the wolf thought he could understand that.

Because when the howling stopped, the two-legger would always turn and leave that place, and go back to his den, and watch the pictures in the box until it was time to sleep. And it was never cold or wet there, and there was always food.

But he was always alone.

The wolf could imagine how hard it would be to live in that small place with the other wolves lived--to look at the same things every day, to pace in circles, to never leave.

But he could not even imagine what it would be like to live alone.

The wolf knew now that he thought differently from the others in his pack. He saw the same things that his packmates did, but he saw meanings in those things that they did not. On the hunt, he quickly became a master at studying a herd, picking out its weakest member. And when the chase was on, he could take a quick glance around him, know the twists and turns that would happen in the next few seconds--not just which way the prey would run to, but how his packmates would respond to that--and know where he should be as well. It often wasn't enough--the prey still escaped more often than not. But he made more than his share of kills, and the pack did not want for food, even when winter came and times grew hard.

He rose through the pack; not only was he smart, but quick and strong as well. Rarely did he have to fight for his position, and when he did, it was short. Even when he strained a muscle in his hind leg and was hobbled for a time, he was not challenged, and no one questioned his place at the kill.

The memories still came, and he learned more and more. He started to understand how some of the two-leggers' strange sounds worked; they were ''things''--a sound for every thing. The rock trails were "road"; the loud things that took the two-leggers down them were "car"; their dens were "home"; and the two-leggers themselves were "human". He could see where such a thing would be very useful; they could tell each other about the things, with those sounds, rather than showing them. He even tried making those sounds himself; but they wouldn't come out right at all--that must be why wolves didn't use them--and his packmates just looked at him strangely.

And the two-leggers--the humans--gave themselves sounds as well, each human had a sound of their own. The wolf wondered a bit about that--they knew who they were talking to; why did they need a sound for that too?--but he supposed it might come in handy too.

His human's sound was "Jason".

That seemed familiar somehow. He wondered why that was.

----

Life in the wolf pack was pleasant... as pleasant as it got. The wolf had earned the respect of his pack. The males above him left him alone, perhaps afraid to force a confrontation; those below him needed only occasional reminders... a snarl here, a nip there... to keep them in their places.

The seasons came and went, and in time, he was the beta male. The Jason's memories in his head felt more like his own, now; he could think of them when he wanted, rather than waiting for them to happen. And he was making more and more sense of the sounds the humans made.

He studied the alpha--his father--carefully, judging his chances. The alpha was getting old, but he hadn't lost his strength, and had a lifetime of experience fending off rivals like him. It would be a tough fight, if it came to that. But somehow, he still knew that he would win that fight. The alpha's place could be his. Springtime would come soon, and with it the breeding season; he knew that only the alphas would mate, and that desire called to him--he wanted that chance, more deeply than he had wanted anything before. It was almost like what the human... the Jason... felt, when he closed his eyes, and listened to the wolves howl.

He could take it whenever he wanted.

But he was troubled.

He knew that he could win. But he also knew that the alpha had much more experience with the world than he did, had seen so much more than he had. The alpha knew where the prey would run to when the snow went away, where the dangerous ground was. If he were alpha, he would have to lead the pack... and he knew that he could not do it as well.

It was one of those odd feelings. It was something that a Jason would worry about, not a wolf. The wolf knew it.

But the more he thought about it, the more he agreed with it.

So he waited. And life in the pack stopped being so pleasant.

The alpha--perhaps trying to discourage him from challenging, perhaps confused as to why that challenge hadn't come--harassed him unmercifully. Stoically, he took it. Sensing weakness, other males pressed him as well; the battle to keep his place in the pack was constant, and several times he had to leave a younger packmate bloody to make his point.

To make matters worse, the winter was getting hard, and the prey was vanishing. There was simply not enough food to go around; the wolves started fighting for their places at the kill, and those who could not fight, starved. Two of that spring's pups died in the same day. The omega male left the pack, desperate for any chance to find food on its own; the pack found the body a week later, curled up next to a frozen stream. The pack sniffed at the remains for a few moments, then moved on; there was no energy for sentimentality.

The wolf started to think that this human worrying was too much trouble after all.

Then, one day, the pack was at the edge of a forest, looking for any signs of prey.

The wolf heard something; a ''whupwhupwhupwhup'' in the sky. A helicopter, he thought, not stopping to realize that he was thinking in sounds, like the humans did. He had heard helicopters before, and not just in the Jason's memories; but this one sounded different. It sounded... lower.

Then the helicopter cleared the trees, and his packmates looked up, watching it; they had never seen one so close. Fear battled with curiosity, and curiosity--and the need to save their energy--won out.

The wolf looked up at the helicopter too; he was curious as well. But he saw that the door was open, saw a human pointing a long round metal rod out towards them...

...and he turned in a flash and streaked towards the treeline, barking frantically at his packmates...

...and the rest of the pack, needing little incentive to get away from the loud shiny thing, ran after him...

...and the alpha male, perhaps trying to prove his place in the pack once and for all, stood his ground, bared his teeth at the thing and growled...

...and there was a sound, like a crack of thunder...

...and the alpha gave one brief cry, and dropped in his tracks, and died...

...and the pack watched from the trees, whimpering softly, as the helicopter landed, as two humans got out, picked up the alpha's body, and tossed him in...

...and one of the male yearlings growled, and took a few steps towards the humans; and the wolf crossed the distance in a flash, jumped on the yearling's back, drove him to the ground, then dragged him back behind a tree by the tail...

...and the humans got back in, and the door closed, and it lifted off, and vanished into the distance.

And all was quiet.

The pack slowly edged out into the clearing; the wolves made their way to the red spot in the snow where the alpha had stood, and they sniffed at the place. Then they huddled together, heads down, rubbing close against each other, whining softly.

The wolf joined them, his heart sick. He closed his eyes, tried to force the image from his mind; but he could still smell his father's blood, mixed with the strange odors of gasoline and human sweat. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he threw back his head and howled, low and long; he felt the pack press up against him, heard their voices join his. And they howled on, until he lost track of time, until he managed to stop thinking for a while, and just ''be.''

Finally, the howl drifted to a stop. The pack stayed tightly together for a few more moments; then a few wolves began pacing aimlessly, looking at each other. And the wolf knew what had to be done.

He pulled away from the huddle, looked at the pack, barked once, then started walking away, back in the direction they had come from, head and tail held high, ears up, forcing himself not to look back.

Without a murmur of protest, the pack silently formed into single file, and followed his trail through the snow.

His new role was not an easy one. As he feared he would, he made mistakes. But fate was kind; they found food--not as often as they would like, but often enough that there were no more deaths in the pack. He was never seriously challenged.

As the snow melted, the alpha female became more aggressive and dominating towards the other females; he, in turn, found himself snapping at males, sometimes for reasons he couldn't understand. The two of them had no such friction with each other; they got along very well indeed.

Then, one afternoon, they slipped away from the pack, and it was glorious.

They repeated the process over the next few days--one had to make sure of these things, after all...

Not long after that, the pack returned to the den--where the wolf had been born, and two more litters after him. Prey was plentiful; it would be a good year. His mate settled in, and he knew the pups would come soon.

One night, the wolf felt strangely restless; he walked away, as he often did, to look at the stars.

He had grown used to his role as alpha, and there was little dissension in the ranks. He had grown used to Jason's memories as well; he thought he had seen all there was to see in them. He still enjoyed them; they were like looking into another world... like watching television. He loved Jason's trip to Colorado the best--flying down the mountain on skis, soaring over it on a hang-glider, basking in the warmth of a roaring fire...

Sometimes he wondered what had happened to Jason. He could remember Jason getting a letter, telling him that his father had died. Jason had felt sad about that--not nearly as sad as he should have, the wolf thought--and he had taken some time away from work, had flown to Florida where his father had lived, to see to the arrangements. He could remember Jason pulling into the driveway of his father's house... and after that, the memory just faded away.

Tonight, the wolf wondered, and he remembered... but this time, the memory did not stop there...

: "I wonder where Dad got this old thing?" Jason muttered to himself. He rubbed some of the dust off the lamp, to get a better look at it.

: A plume of smoke erupted in his face.

: He dropped the lamp with a clatter, and scrambled back, tripping over a box and going down in a pile of old magazines. He lay still for a few seconds, mentally making sure that all his limbs were still attached. Then he looked up... and wished he hadn't.

: Beard. Silk clothing. Turban. Just like in the books.

: '''"FREE AT LAST!"''' it boomed, making his ears ring. '''"THREE HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT ACCURSED PRISON!"'''

: Jason felt like he should say something, but he had no idea what. "Ummmm... congratulations?"

: The genie seemed to notice him for the first time. It looked down. '''"YOU ARE THE ONE WHO RELEASED ME, MORTAL?"'''

: Jason managed a nod.

: '''"THEN I AM BOUND TO GRANT THEE THREE WISHES. WHAT IS THY BIDDING, MASTER?"'''

: Jason closed his eyes. He thought for, perhaps, thirty seconds. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant, like he was listening to someone else.

: "I wish I was a wolf."

: The silence in the attic was deafening. For a moment, Jason thought that maybe this was all a dream; that he'd knocked himself out somehow, and he'd just woke up. He opened his eyes.

: The genie stared down at him, eyes wide.

: '''"YOU WHAT?"'''

: "You heard me."

: '''"FOR MILLENNIA, MEN HAVE RACKED THEIR BRAINS, TRYING TO PHRASE THEIR LUSTS FOR WEALTH AND POWER IN WAYS I COULD NOT DESTROY THEM WITH, AND NONE SUCCEEDED. NOW YOU WISH FOR SOMETHING THAT ANY SANE MAN WOULD CALL A CURSE. AND YOU WISH FOR IT IN A WAY THAT A BABE COULD FIND A HUNDRED WAYS TO TURN AGAINST YOU. HAS YOUR FALL ADDLED YOUR BRAINS, MORTAL, OR ARE YOU A FOOL BY NATURE?"'''

: Jason was eerily calm; perhaps he was beyond fear. "You said it yourself; if you're out to screw me, I could spend the rest of my life trying to find a foolproof way to phrase it, and I'd still probably miss something. And if you're not out to screw me, it doesn't matter. So why worry about it? And it's the one thing I've always wanted that I could never get on my own; what else would I wish for?"

: The genie stared down at him for a few more seconds, as if he'd sprouted wings or burst into flames. '''"YOU ARE A VERY STRANGE MORTAL,"''' it said finally. '''"BUT THAT IS NOT MY CONCERN. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED."'''

: Everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet.

: The world seemed to squeeze him from all sides. He tried to scream, but he had no breath.

: The pressure increased... and then he was free, and cold. Something hard was underneath him. He tried to see what it was, but he couldn't seem to find his eyes. Something else... something warm, and wet... pressed into his side, poked softly against him. He opened his mouth, and drew in a breath, nearly choking. He tried again to cry out, and this time he found his lungs, but still he heard nothing.

: Then he felt a hot wind across his back... and something warm, and rough, and wonderful, pressed against him. It went up his back, pushing him into the hard thing beneath him, and some of the cold and wetness went away. It made pass after pass, working its way along his back and up his side, pushing him over and starting in on his underside. For a moment, he forgot about seeing and hearing, and just concentrated on arching his body into it, basking in the warmth. Then it reached his face, and touched his nose... and the universe was suddenly filled with the smells of earth and water and wolf. And, most interestingly, the smell of ''food.''

: Maybe I should have been more specific, Jason thought, but only for a moment. Then he concentrated on crawling towards the smell...

The wolf blinked, looked down at the ground. The world smelled and sounded and looked the same as it did a moment ago; how could it suddenly be so very different?

He had a sense that he should be feeling something profound right now... happiness, that he had gotten what he wanted, or despair, that he had gotten what he wanted. But every time he thought about it, the only real reaction that came to mind was: Oh. So that explains things...

'''"AS I SAID, A VERY STRANGE MORTAL."'''

The wolf waited for his heart to start beating again; then he turned to face the genie.

'''"SO, WHAT IS YOUR SECOND WISH?"'''

The wolf knew, somehow, that he could talk, and didn't waste time wondering how that could be. "I wish that my cubs, and their cubs, and their cubs beyond them, could understand the world as I do."

'''"A NOBLE WISH, BUT ONE YOUR CUBS MAY NOT THANK YOU FOR,"''' the genie replied. '''"AND NOT A SIMPLE ONE. INTELLIGENCE IS AN EASY MATTER, BUT UNDERSTANDING COMES FROM EXPERIENCE. AND YOUR EXPERIENCE IS A UNIQUE ONE..."'''

The genie fell silent, as if lost in thought. The wolf waited patiently.

: Far away, a young man sat at a computer keyboard, tapping his fingers unconsciously, waiting for the download to complete. On the screen, an image slowly appeared--a black wolf, bounding through snowdrifts towards the camera, a small dot of white clinging defiantly to the tip of its nose.

: He felt a familiar pang... then forced it from his mind, brought another window forward, went back to reading Usenet. He could not see the eyes watching him; nor could he feel the small blood clot forming in his thigh, poised to break loose and drift towards the lungs, towards the brain...

'''"NEVER MIND; I SEE A WAY NOW. YOUR WISH IS GRANTED. AND YOUR FINAL WISH?"'''

The wolf thought about this, long and hard. He knew what he wanted; he opened his mouth to say it... then he changed his mind, and closed his mouth. He already had what he wanted.

"I wish for good fortune for my pack," he said finally.

'''"AND SO IT SHALL BE, FOR A DOZEN DOZEN YEARS," the genie replied. "GOOD HUNTING TO YOU, AND TO YOUR CUBS."'''

The wolf tried to say "Thank you", but nothing came out but a yip. He simply nodded, and padded silently back to his mate and his pack.

The pups arrived not longer than that; only six--a small litter--but all alive, and all healthy. The wolf looked down at them, and nuzzled them, and felt a joy like nothing he had felt before.

Raising them--and the litters after that, in the following years--was a story too long to tell. But the pack prospered; and the prey, while not always plentiful, was always there to be found.

And one day, the old wolf looked in the eyes of one of his sons, and he saw the look of confusion, of uncertainty--the look that must have been in his own eyes, years ago. He nodded to himself; it was time. And that night, he looked proudly at his pack for one last time, then walked quietly away.

He got along by himself for a little while, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath the way he used to, couldn't run for long. And then one day, as he was trying to catch a rabbit, his legs simply failed him; he went down in a heap, and there was no pain, only a wave of numbness that started in his hindquarters and quickly worked its way forward. ''I'm dying,'' he realized, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went black, and quiet, and warm, and wet...

...and he felt the pressure pushing him out into the cold.

And just before his mind fogged over, he realized that he'd gotten his own third wish after all.

{{author note|I wrote most of this story as an entry for a contest that Magus the Fox was running for his archive. The contest deadline got moved up by a day somewhere along the way, and I received the contest results while I was still finishing up the last part--always a disheartening sign. So I wound up shelving the story for a few weeks. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing, since the ending wound up being quite a bit better than the one I originally had in mind.

I've pretty much given up on figuring out people's reaction to my stories. I don't care that much for this one at all, but most people seem to like it much better than I do...}}

User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-30T02:52:19Z

Phaedrus: Removed incorrect category

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Gorilla]][[Category:Horror]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Reinkarmation}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Gorilla}}
{{title|name=Reinkarmation|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story was written for a contest on the TSA-Talk mailing list. The theme of the contest was "nasty stories." This story won. It is indeed nasty, involving a variety of distasteful acts. '''Please''' don't read this if you're young or easily offended.}}

When Scott returned from his day at the beach, there was a paper bag on his doorstep. A note, in a familiar handwriting, was attached:

: Darling,

: Is there something wrong? Now that we're engaged, we're supposed to be seeing ''more'' of each other, aren't we?

: I hope you haven't forgotten about the costume party tonight at six; I've been ''so'' looking forward to it. Remember, it's at Fourth and Ivy--you can't miss it. Please do be there; I'm so concerned about you...

: Debbie

Scott sighed, crumpled up the note. Costume party? Of all the dumb ideas... But, dammit, he had to go. Anything to keep her happy--for the next three months or so, at least.

He looked at his watch. Shit. 5:15. And the cab was long gone already. He grabbed the bag without a second, went inside, called the cab company--they'd have another cab there in 15 minutes--it would be close, but he'd make it. Then he opened the bag, pulled out the costume.

A gorilla suit.

He was halfway through dialing the cab company's number again when he got hold of himself, took a deep breath. It was all for Debbie. All for Debbie. That beautiful face. Those beautiful eyes. Those twelve million beautiful dollars. His biggest haul yet, by far, if he could pull it off.

One night of utter embarrassment was a damn small price to pay.

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, he quickly stripped down to his underwear, and slipped into the suit. He was half-hoping that it wouldn't fit--but, knowing Debbie, it would. And, sure enough, it did. He had to admit, it was a ''damn good'' gorilla suit. It was made from some kind of stretch fabric; it was tight, but comfortable. It put just the right amount of pressure on his knees and waist, pulling him down into a realistic-looking half-squat. The hands and feet were nicely detailed, and the head was incredible; he could see clearly out the eye-holes, and the jaw even moved with his own. Some nobody in Taiwan had worked overtime on this thing.

There seemed to be only two problems. First, he could barely hear a thing. But, with Debbie's friends, that would be a big plus with him. Second, there were no pockets.

The taxi honked.

Scott cursed a blue streak. No time to worry about that. He grabbed a twenty from his wallet, and the note. He'd get a ride back with Debbie. Those eyes. Those lips. Those bank accounts.

----

Sure enough, the party was impossible to miss. The taxi arrived at six on the dot--but Debbie must have wanted him to be fashionably late. Things were in full swing, and nobody batted an eye as Scott shuffled through the door. Even with his ears covered, the music managed to be loud; he doubted he would understand the lyrics even without the suit, and didn't mind in the least.

He saw no sign of Debbie--of course, he had no idea what she'd be wearing, so that didn't mean much. Well, he'd just have to mingle; as long as he was embarrassing himself, there was no reason to do it halfway. And she'd recognize him; he was the only gorilla in the room...

There was only one other "animal" in the room--in some kind of humanoid dog suit, the sort of thing a mascot would wear. As good a place to start as any. So he headed that way, walking on his knuckles as best he could, and ook-ing up a storm.

As he got closer, his target turned, saw him, and immediately started clapping. It was a coyote, not a dog; and he--it was definitely a he--was at least nine inches too tall to be Debbie. Still, Scott thought, it would be nice to have someone to be embarrassed with; and this fellow seemed agreeable enough.

Between the suits and the music, conversation was impossible. But the two of them seemed to synthesize an act from thin air--the coyote and his pet gorilla--and started working the room with it. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.

Wherever they went in the room, there were ripples of applause. People shook the coyote's paw. People patted Scott on the head. People talked to the coyote; Scott couldn't understand a word of it over the music, but it seemed very pleasant, and everyone would smile and laugh. People would lean down to try to talk to Scott; he couldn't understand a word of that either, but he nodded and ooked in reply, and everyone laughed.

Many people brought them drinks; and they accepted graciously. Thanks to the marvelous mask, Scott found drinking out of a glass to be no problem. And he realized that this was one of those wondrous times in life when public drunkenness can actually be an advantage; the more he drank, the less embarrassed he felt. The more he drank, the easier it got to shamble around the room on all fours, and the more convincing his hoots and grunts became. He was having a blast.

When he started having trouble holding the glass correctly, the coyote disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bowl; people simply poured the drinks into it, and he lapped them up. The applause doubled.

The evening spun happily on. More people arrived. The music blared. Scott couldn't see straight anymore, but that was all right; he could still hear bits and pieces of the laughter. He just smiled, and grunted, and licked the bowl clean. Everybody was happy...

Everything faded to black.

----

Some time later, Scott came to, slowly. He was under a table. The music was gone. Every cell in his body screamed in agony. He howled. Somebody walked over, petted him; it was the coyote. He said something, and poured something from a bottle into Scott's bowl. Almost without thought, Scott slurped it down, and within moments everything felt warm and wonderful again.

Something poked him, softly. He looked up; the coyote was gesturing towards the door, and saying something--Scott could make out the word "home". The coyote took a few steps toward the door, holding the bowl and the bottle, and beckoned for Scott to follow.

A ride home. That would be nice.

Scott shambled out after the coyote, walking expertly on all fours.

Outside, the jumble of cars had long since cleared; just a few scattered vehicles were left. One of them was a green van with tinted windows. The coyote opened the rear doors, and beckoned Scott inside. Scott hopped in happily. There was something odd about the van, he thought; but he couldn't think of what it was. And just then, the coyote put the bowl down next to him, and filled it up again; and Scott stopped paying attention to the van. As he slurped up the contents of the bowl, he barely noticed the doors slam shut.

Scott slumped to the floor. Everything was so hot all of a sudden; and he was so tired...

In a few seconds, he was fast asleep.

The van smoothly drove away into the night.

----

By the time Scott woke up again, the sun was high in the sky.

The pain was back, but nowhere near as bad as last time. Scott managed not to cry out. He had had many, many hangovers before, and he knew what to do. He waited for his senses to report on how bad things were.

He could hear the van's engine rumbling, the gentle vibrations from the road.

He could feel the pain in his muscles. His bladder throbbed with pain, full to the bursting point; and he could feel the dampness in his skin, smell the gentle stench of urine.

''Oh, God. A bad one.''

He finally managed to open his eyes...and he saw a blur of silver.

''Huh?''

He pulled himself up a few inches, got his eyes to focus.

He was in a cage.

Adrenaline surged through him. Almost instantly, he was fully awake.

He looked around. The cage filled the rear half of the van, with solid metal mesh on all six sides. The floor was lined with straw; there was a rubber ball and a big bunch of bananas in one corner, and a feeding tube poking through one wall, hooked to a large bottle of clear fluid. He was still in the suit; the fur at the waist was damp with urine.

Gods, he hadn't even noticed that the suit was anatomically correct...

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead! It's nice to have you up, the road getslonely."

He whirled to face the front of the van. The coyote was driving.

"What the '''''fuck''''' are you do..." yelled Scott, and ground to a halt, eyes wide. He had meant to say that; but it had come out as an incomprehensible mishmash of hoots and grunts.

The coyote laughed. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't speak your language."

There was something different about the coyote. His head was smaller, more refined-looking; the padded paws were gone, replaced by clawed hands, still covered with golden fur.

What the hell was going on?

Then Scott noticed the two bundles of fur on the floor next to the driver's seat--one of them golden-brown, the other a very familiar, deeper shade...

A few seconds of utter panic followed, as Scott groped for the zipper that was no longer there, pulled at his own head in the desperate hope that it would come off. His hands caught on something, but it wasn't a suit; it was a collar, tight around his neck--a collar that didn't seem to have a buckle...

"Whaddaya think? A pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

Scott rushed towards the front of the cage, slammed his massive shoulder into it once, twice...

It didn't budge a millimeter.

"Unless you think you can pick those locks back there, I'd listen reeeeal carefully to what I'm about to say."

Scott ground to a halt, muscles still quivering. He stared at the coyote--the coyote glanced back once, in the rear-view mirror, then turned his eyes back to the road.

"You're probably wondering why I've called this meeting," the coyote said, conversationally. "Well, I'll be happy to tell you--it's a lot more fun to watch if you know exactly what's happening...

"You've been a real asshole, Scott. You've done some pretty damn nasty things, and you've managed to fuck up a lot of decent people's lives. You've made yourself a problem, Scott. And I'm a problem-solver from wayback.

"You've got one thing going for you. I don't kill people. Death is messy, and it's bad karma. Life is a precious thing, even when it's wasted on a shithead like you. And frankly, killing you would be letting you off pretty damn easy. So, when I run into useless specimens of humanity such as yourself, I just find a way to make 'em useful. There's not many things out there that are so damn useless that you can't find ''something'' to do with 'em if you try hard enough. We coyotes are kinda resourceful that way.

"In your case, the answer is pretty damn simple. You've been a completely useless specimen of a human being, but with a few weeks of training, you'll make a very nice gorilla. Before you know it, you'll be in a zoo somewhere, providing cheap amusement value to thousands. For once in your life, you'll actually be useful. Won't that be nice?"

Scott slammed into the walls of the cage; the coyote just laughed. He tried to find the latch to the door; the coyote just laughed. He screamed and howled until he was hoarse; the coyote just laughed, and turned up the radio. Finally, he stood at the front of the cage, and pissed until his bladder was empty; he hosed down the coyote, the seat, the dashboard. The coyote laughed harder than ever. "You're getting the idea already!" He even leaned to one side, away from the seat, giving Scott a better angle of aim. Then, when Scott finally ran dry, the coyote got up, turned around--the van rolled on, apparently driving itself--and expertly returned fire. The barrage went on for minutes on end, impossibly long and impossibly strong; the whole cage was damp with urine, and Scott was a dripping mass of wet fur huddled in the back corner of the cage. Finally, the coyote sat back down in the damp driver's seat, and turned his attention back to the road, still laughing.

For long minutes, perhaps an hour, Scott sat in the back of the cage, glumly staring out the windshield at the unfamiliar road. The coyote howled along with the radio, and hurled good-natured profanities at the other drivers, who never heard or saw a thing.

Gradually, Scott found himself staring less and less at the road, and more and more at the bananas.

He started across the cage towards them... then caught himself, and returned to his corner.

A few minutes later, he went halfway across before he stopped. Then he howled, slammed into the front wall of the cage once more. He grabbed the mesh with both hands, reared his head back, as if to smash his head against the iron... but as he started forward, he came to a halt, as if he had lost his will at the last moment. He tried again, with the same result.

He crawled back to the corner of the cage, and put his head in his hands.

Ten minutes later, he crossed the cage once more, pulled a banana from the bunch, peeled it, and began eating it. Halfway through, he looked at it, threw it down, and retreated to the back corner... but a few minutes later, he returned to finish it off.

A few minutes later, after eating another banana, the gorilla was sucking the feeding tube, enjoying the sugary fluid.

The coyote just smiled. Everything proceeding according to plan.

The van rolled on, into the sunset.

Some hours later, it finally arrived at an isolated ranch. It backed up to a large, caged enclosure, already fitted out with food and straw. With minimal encouragement from the coyote, the gorilla placidly emerged into the larger quarters. The door swung shut, and the locks clicked into place on their own.

"Well, I must say you've been a thoroughly enjoyable guest so far, Scott," the coyote said, chuckling. "Get a good night's sleep; we do have work ahead of us tomorrow." With that, the coyote turned and walked towards his own house, whistling off-key.

To the gorilla, the words were just soothing sounds; as the coyote disappeared through the front door of the house, the gorilla calmly inspected his new surroundings. He picked a comfortable-looking corner, quickly gathered some of the straw into a nest, curled up in it, and drifted off to sleep.

----

Scott woke up just as the sun poked over the horizon in the east.

He rolled over, stretched. ''God, what a weird dream.''

Then he looked down at his furry chest, saw the iron bars surrounding him...

It took just a few seconds for the events of the previous day to sink in.

Then he attacked the door. When that failed, he methodically worked his way around the cage, trying every bar, every weld.

Then he howled at the top of his lungs, for long minutes on end, until he collapsed, gasping, to the dirt floor...

The coyote just rolled over in bed, and smiled.

----

A lesser man would give up hope. But Scott was not about to be a lesser man.

His life settled into a routine. Every morning, he would wake up, knowing what he would see. The straw was always clean; the piles of leaves and fruits were always there, and the feeding tube would always be full. And there, next to the cage door, would be the morning newspaper... and, neatly placed on top of that, a chocolate mint. The writing on the wrapper was always the same: ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US.

He could not break out on his own; there was no question about that. Every morning, he made the rounds, testing every bar and weld of his prison, climbing methodically up the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Every day, he seemed to be a little bit larger, a little bit stronger; but the bars never moved.

He could not yell for help, even if there was any hope of being understood. Wherever he was, nobody seemed to come here... nobody but the coyote. In his first few days here, he had hooted and screeched for most of the morning; and sometimes the coyote had come out to howl along with him. There was never a reply.

Several times, he had tried to kill himself--and had found that that was not an option either. Every time he deliberately tried to hurt himself--by slamming his head into the mesh, or by choking himself on fruit--his will would weaken at the last moment. He wasn't sure whether the magic was responsible, or whether he simply couldn't really conceive of dying--at least not while the coyote lived. For that was his goal now. He doubted that he could ever be changed back. But at least he could have the satisfaction of choking that coyote until his tongue turned blue, until those eyes of his turned red with ruptured blood vessels, until he lost control of his muscles, until his neck finally snapped...

So there was only one course available to him. He would simply have to wait for his captor to make a mistake. And when that mistake happened, Scott would be there to capitalize on it.

But the mistake never seemed to come. Sometimes, the coyote wouldn't even show his face in the morning. Other times, he would sit next to the cage, and watch Scott for hours, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking nonstop about anything at all--the book, the weather, current events, the keepers at the zoos Scott might be visiting. He never sat within reach of the cage. But sometimes, he would sit within a few yards, as if inviting Scott to take a shot at him--and Scott would drink his fill at the tube every morning, just to be ready if that opportunity arose. It clearly didn't faze the coyote in the slightest--in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. But Scott enjoyed it too, and he didn't care what the coyote thought.

But there was one more thing that was constant, every day. Within a few hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Scott would feel his mind start to wander--the gorilla's thoughts creeping in. For the first few days, he fought it--sitting in the corner of the cage, gripping the bars with both hands, concentrating on nothing but don't move. But soon, he learned that it was useless, and switched tactics; he would deliberately act dumb, hoping to lull the coyote into a false sense of security. But the coyote never bought it; in fact, he would almost always leave Scott to himself for the next few hours, as his thoughts spiraled downwards, as his movements in the cage became more and more meandering. And by midafternoon, Scott would be gone, and only the gorilla would be left, gorging itself on leaves, playing with the rubber ball.

It was then, in the evening, that the coyote would enter the cage. The gorilla loved him. He would make soothing sounds to it, and it would placidly watch him as he changed the straw and replenished the food. Then, some nights, he would walk over to it, and smile, and wave a hand; and the gorilla would go limp. And the coyote would kneel down next to it. And one hand would stroke the fur on its chest, while the other hand gently massaged the top of the gorilla's head, sending waves of pleasure that seemed to penetrate all the way into its brain, gently rearranging things...

Eventually, the coyote would finish up its tasks, and smile once more, and leave, taking the old newspaper with him. He never left the new paper, or the mint; they just seemed to show up on their own, during the night.

The gorilla would pace the cage for a few more minutes, then curl up in its corner, and go to sleep.

The next morning, Scott would wake up, and remember all this. He would fantasize for a few minutes, about breaking the coyote's back, about shoving a long stick up his ass and seeing how hard he could twist it, about slamming him into the cage wall until his skull came apart and his brains flew out.

Then, he would go to the door of the cage, and begin methodically testing the bars...

----

That first morning, Scott had urinated on the newspaper, thrown it out of the cage. These days, he read it; there might be something useful, and besides, it was something to do.

Some of the stories were about himself. For the first three days after his disappearance, he was front-page news; after that, he shifted to page two, then farther back. But the stories were always there.

That second morning, when he first read the paper, the stories were about his mysterious disappearance. Police had been called to his residence when his fiance, Deborah Danvers, had gotten no answer to repeated phone calls. There was possible evidence of foul play, police said; there was clothing strewn around the living room, as well as his wallet and identification. There was a photograph of Debbie crying, pleading for any word. Scott had hoped; ''maybe they would look here.'' But there was no mention of the party, no last known whereabouts. The police had no leads.

And the next day, the lead story wasn't about the search. It was about a taxi driver, who said that he had picked Scott up at his home, taken him to the bank, then to the airport. He had said that he was leaving for two weeks in Bermuda; but he had no luggage, just a briefcase. He had seemed nervous, irritable. He hadn't tipped. The police hedged; there was a strong possibility that his disappearance was voluntary, they said. The search continued.

The day after that, the nothings started to come out of the woodwork, and they were talking. His old boss in New York, and those "accounting discrepancies". The geezers in Pensecola, and their "investment fund". The DA in Orange County, who thought that he might be the "Gregory Scott" wanted for insurance fraud. A search warrant was being sought for his bank accounts, as well as for a storage locker near his residence...

The day after that, the search had been called off; he was believed to have fled the country. Fingerprints were being sent to the FBI, for comparison to those of other wanted felons. Debbie was interviewed once again, this time wondering how she could have been so close to a man, and been so wrong about him...

By this time, Scott was losing interest. There was only one detail that concerned him; and, in the next few days, it played itself out. One by one, his bank accounts, his brokerage accounts, his safe deposit boxes, were turned up. Almost a million dollars was found in two accounts; and the lawyers were already lining up for their cracks at it. But almost everything else--at least eight million dollars, the papers estimated--had already been cleaned out, the funds transferred through shell accounts, leaving nothing behind but convoluted paper trails that seemed to lead nowhere. He had clearly been planning his disappearance for some time, the police said; and when the time came, he had executed his plan quickly and professionally. He would likely never be seen on US soil again...

Scott crumpled up the paper, threw it in a corner of the cage. He knew who was responsible. He turned to stare at the coyote's house--only to see his captor on the roof, happily tightening the final bolt on his new satellite dish...

That was the final straw. No, he wouldn't shove a stick up the coyote's ass; he'd use his fist. He'd pull out his intestines and shove them down his throat...

But the days passed, and the mistake never came.

And within a week or so, Scott found himself having more and more trouble reading the paper. He could still sound out the words, but the meanings seemed to be sliding away. And when the coyote sat by his cage and talked to him, the words seemed to run together as well.

He knew exactly why this was--every time the coyote would visit the gorilla in the cage, and run his fingers into its scalp, a bit more would be missing from Scott's mind the next day. And there was absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it.

In another week, Scott couldn't read the articles in the paper anymore, or follow what the coyote was saying; he could pick out the individual words, but he couldn't put them together in his mind anymore.

In another week, even the words were gone--they were just a stream of ink and sound.

And a few days after that, as the sun set, the coyote pulled the van up to Scott's cage.

----

The new arrival had no name--just a number. But within a week, one of the keepers had suggested Aries, and the name had immediately stuck. Like a ram, he would lower his head and charge at the walls of the enclosure, only to pull up at the last moment. And he was like the month of March--in like a lion, out like a lamb...

In the morning, he was utterly unpredictable. He might attack the door, trying to batter it down. He might climb up the front wall of the enclosure, and piss on the signs and the railing. Or he might do something completely inscrutable--like painstakingly collecting leaves and straw, and arranging them into meaningless patterns, then crouching by them, and staring at the visitors as they walked by.

But by midday, he would start to settle down. And by three o'clock, he was the kindest, gentlest gorilla you could ever hope to meet.

The keepers had never seen anything like it. He was transferred to San Diego, then to Portland, in the hopes that a change of scenery would calm him; but nothing worked. He couldn't be kept with other gorillas--he would frequently attack them in the morning, only to be attacked in turn at night. Finally, he was placed in a separate enclosure with Tanuki, a female who had also shown difficulty socializing; the two of them worked out better than expected--she could fend for herself in the morning, and seemed to hold no grudge. And before long, the two of them would be playing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

A year passed. They were not expected to mate; Tanuki was barely ten, and Aries looked to be fairly young himself. But, as animals were prone to do, the two of them surprised their keepers; they were seen experimenting with each other, and before long, Tanuki was obviously expecting. The keepers were overjoyed, but the sight seemed to throw Aries into a rage; he had to be kept isolated. Sometimes the keepers allowed him to see Tanuki, but only in the evenings...

----

Early one morning, Scott paced his cell.

"I have a proposal for you. Are you interested?"

It took Scott a moment to realize that he understood the words. He turned... and saw the coyote standing there, just a few feet away, on the other side of the iron mesh.

Every fantasy he had ever had flashed through his mind. But he never moved. He knew it was useless; he had tried those bars so many times before.

Instead, he simply turned back around, facing away from the coyote, and sat down, paying no attention whatsoever.

"Suit yourself."

A few seconds later, when Scott grudgingly turned to look, the coyote was gone.

----

More months passed. Tanuki gave birth to a female; she was named Star, after a light mark on her forehead. Aries had to be kept far away. But Tanuki showed poor mothering skills, and before long, Star was taken away, to be hand-raised. Aries was carefully returned to Tanuki's enclosure; and before long, things were back to normal--or at least back to what passed for normal around Aries.

The months turned into another year, then two. Aries and Tanuki mated again from time to time, but no new young were produced. The keepers were disappointed. They tranquilized Aries, took semen samples. His sperm count was low, almost zero. The keepers were disappointed--but perhaps, with time, things would improve. And in the meantime, at least Aries was manageable.

Every so often--perhaps once or twice a year; Scott had little interest in keeping track--the coyote would appear, always early in the morning. Each time, the question was the same--"Are you interested yet?" Scott would studiously ignore him, and he would go away.

Another year passed. Aries was back in isolation. An interior door had been left improperly latched; Aries had managed to open it, and had made his way into the service corridors. He was captured. Better locks were being installed.

"Are you interested yet?"

This time, Scott didn't turn away. He stared at the coyote. Whatever he had to say, it might be useful. And besides, it was something to do.

"Have you ever wondered what else I do with my time?"

Scott just stared. He couldn't say that he had. And it didn't seem interesting.

"The world is a damn big place, Scott. Damn big. To say nothing of the universe. Like the song says, there's much more to see than can ever be seen. You of all people should know that, right?"

Scott thought about turning his back. But he didn't move.

"There's no way that anybody can ever know everything that's going on. So there's no way that anybody can ever know how everything ''works'' either. So people look at what they ''can'' see, and they figure out how ''that'' works.

"But then people make a mistake. They start taking all those rules that they've worked out to explain what they've seen, and they start thinking that those same rules must work for ''everything.'' They start thinking round and round in circles, locking themselves up in cages, thinking about everything the same old way. And when something comes along that's outside the cage--something that doesn't fit inside all those little rules they've worked up--they pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Well, we coyotes, we sort of like to do something about that. We play tricks on people. And sometimes it's just for fun. But sometimes, it's to get people outside their cages--even if we have to push 'em out to get 'em there. And when we can't get 'em out, sometimes we can just get their attention. You can pretend all you want that that guy outside the cage doesn't exist--but when he stands up and pisses in your face, it sorta grabs your attention, doesn't it?"

Scott was half-expecting the coyote to demonstrate his point; but he made no move to. Did any of this ''have'' a point?

"I wasn't born this way, you know."

That grabbed Scott's undivided attention.

"Some are born great; some have greatness thrust upon them. Up until about six years ago, I was as normal as you'd ever want to see. Hell, I was a schmuck... not half as much of one as you, but a schmuck nonetheless. And then, one day, a magnificent stranger showed up, and he showed me the way.

"Thought about a career change lately, Scott?"

''He can't be serious,'' Scott thought. ''This is crazy.''

But Scott couldn't bring himself to turn away. After all, he already knew that the coyote was crazy...

"I did say I'd find a way to make you useful, after all. And besides, if I can turn a shithead like you into a decent coyote, I'll be a legend.

"The question is... if I do that for you, are you willing to do what it takes?"

There was only one sane answer. Scott nodded.

"Sure about that?"

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

"I thought so. Everything's all set. See ya in three days."

And with that, the coyote vanished.

And Scott just stared, past the bars of the cage, at the big world beyond.

----

Scott went about his business, such as it was. He refused to let himself believe it.

But, three days to the dot later, in the wee hours of the morning, a transfer team showed up at his cage. And behind them, he could see a stranger, a perfectly normal human... but somehow, when he looked again, he could see the shadow of the pointed ears, the muzzle. He was smiling. As always.

''My God. It's really happening.''

He made a token show of resistance, but allowed himself to be herded into the carrier cage. In a matter of minutes, he was once again in the back of a truck, rolling down the empty pathways of the zoo.

Every fantasy he had ever had evaporated. If he could really get out of here, he would kiss the coyote's feet. He would clean his house with his tongue. He would smear himself with Vaseline and get down on hands and knees. He would...

The truck pulled up to an unfamiliar building, at the outskirts of the zoo. Scott couldn't read the sign, but he dimly remembered what the red cross stood for.

A needle poked him from behind.

His muscles began to go limp. He saw the coyote looking in at him, and he saw the look in those eyes...

And he knew.

With the strength that he had left, he slammed his body weight twice into the door of the cage, desperately trying to escape. But it was hopeless, and he knew that from the start.

As his head sunk to the floor of the cage, he prayed that he would lose consciousness.

He did not.

He was hauled out of the cage, strapped to a gurney, wheeled into an operating room. He could not move a muscle, could not utter a sound. But he could hear the keepers talking, though he couldn't understand a word. And he could feel the straps press against his flesh. He could feel everything. Very clearly.

The coyote stood over him, holding a scalpel, and smiled.

His mouth never moved--not his human one, not even the muzzle that only Scott could see. But Scott heard a single word, very clearly, in his mind.

"Gotcha."

The scalpel bit into his flesh...

----

The keepers were sad. They had given up hope of Aries ever mating again, and they had hoped that neutering him would at least curb his violent impulses. And it had worked--all too well.

Every morning, Aries would just huddle in the corner of his cage, refusing to move at all, staring hopelessly at the bars. Not even the electric prod could budge him. It was as if he was waiting to die.

There was no risk of that, of course. Aries was still young, and showed no signs at all of ill health. With any luck, he would live for another thirty years, perhaps even forty.

And he always snapped out of it around noon.

User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-30T02:51:28Z

Phaedrus: Fixed category tag

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Gorilla]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Horror]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Reinkarmation}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Gorilla}}
{{title|name=Reinkarmation|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story was written for a contest on the TSA-Talk mailing list. The theme of the contest was "nasty stories." This story won. It is indeed nasty, involving a variety of distasteful acts. '''Please''' don't read this if you're young or easily offended.}}

When Scott returned from his day at the beach, there was a paper bag on his doorstep. A note, in a familiar handwriting, was attached:

: Darling,

: Is there something wrong? Now that we're engaged, we're supposed to be seeing ''more'' of each other, aren't we?

: I hope you haven't forgotten about the costume party tonight at six; I've been ''so'' looking forward to it. Remember, it's at Fourth and Ivy--you can't miss it. Please do be there; I'm so concerned about you...

: Debbie

Scott sighed, crumpled up the note. Costume party? Of all the dumb ideas... But, dammit, he had to go. Anything to keep her happy--for the next three months or so, at least.

He looked at his watch. Shit. 5:15. And the cab was long gone already. He grabbed the bag without a second, went inside, called the cab company--they'd have another cab there in 15 minutes--it would be close, but he'd make it. Then he opened the bag, pulled out the costume.

A gorilla suit.

He was halfway through dialing the cab company's number again when he got hold of himself, took a deep breath. It was all for Debbie. All for Debbie. That beautiful face. Those beautiful eyes. Those twelve million beautiful dollars. His biggest haul yet, by far, if he could pull it off.

One night of utter embarrassment was a damn small price to pay.

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, he quickly stripped down to his underwear, and slipped into the suit. He was half-hoping that it wouldn't fit--but, knowing Debbie, it would. And, sure enough, it did. He had to admit, it was a ''damn good'' gorilla suit. It was made from some kind of stretch fabric; it was tight, but comfortable. It put just the right amount of pressure on his knees and waist, pulling him down into a realistic-looking half-squat. The hands and feet were nicely detailed, and the head was incredible; he could see clearly out the eye-holes, and the jaw even moved with his own. Some nobody in Taiwan had worked overtime on this thing.

There seemed to be only two problems. First, he could barely hear a thing. But, with Debbie's friends, that would be a big plus with him. Second, there were no pockets.

The taxi honked.

Scott cursed a blue streak. No time to worry about that. He grabbed a twenty from his wallet, and the note. He'd get a ride back with Debbie. Those eyes. Those lips. Those bank accounts.

----

Sure enough, the party was impossible to miss. The taxi arrived at six on the dot--but Debbie must have wanted him to be fashionably late. Things were in full swing, and nobody batted an eye as Scott shuffled through the door. Even with his ears covered, the music managed to be loud; he doubted he would understand the lyrics even without the suit, and didn't mind in the least.

He saw no sign of Debbie--of course, he had no idea what she'd be wearing, so that didn't mean much. Well, he'd just have to mingle; as long as he was embarrassing himself, there was no reason to do it halfway. And she'd recognize him; he was the only gorilla in the room...

There was only one other "animal" in the room--in some kind of humanoid dog suit, the sort of thing a mascot would wear. As good a place to start as any. So he headed that way, walking on his knuckles as best he could, and ook-ing up a storm.

As he got closer, his target turned, saw him, and immediately started clapping. It was a coyote, not a dog; and he--it was definitely a he--was at least nine inches too tall to be Debbie. Still, Scott thought, it would be nice to have someone to be embarrassed with; and this fellow seemed agreeable enough.

Between the suits and the music, conversation was impossible. But the two of them seemed to synthesize an act from thin air--the coyote and his pet gorilla--and started working the room with it. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.

Wherever they went in the room, there were ripples of applause. People shook the coyote's paw. People patted Scott on the head. People talked to the coyote; Scott couldn't understand a word of it over the music, but it seemed very pleasant, and everyone would smile and laugh. People would lean down to try to talk to Scott; he couldn't understand a word of that either, but he nodded and ooked in reply, and everyone laughed.

Many people brought them drinks; and they accepted graciously. Thanks to the marvelous mask, Scott found drinking out of a glass to be no problem. And he realized that this was one of those wondrous times in life when public drunkenness can actually be an advantage; the more he drank, the less embarrassed he felt. The more he drank, the easier it got to shamble around the room on all fours, and the more convincing his hoots and grunts became. He was having a blast.

When he started having trouble holding the glass correctly, the coyote disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bowl; people simply poured the drinks into it, and he lapped them up. The applause doubled.

The evening spun happily on. More people arrived. The music blared. Scott couldn't see straight anymore, but that was all right; he could still hear bits and pieces of the laughter. He just smiled, and grunted, and licked the bowl clean. Everybody was happy...

Everything faded to black.

----

Some time later, Scott came to, slowly. He was under a table. The music was gone. Every cell in his body screamed in agony. He howled. Somebody walked over, petted him; it was the coyote. He said something, and poured something from a bottle into Scott's bowl. Almost without thought, Scott slurped it down, and within moments everything felt warm and wonderful again.

Something poked him, softly. He looked up; the coyote was gesturing towards the door, and saying something--Scott could make out the word "home". The coyote took a few steps toward the door, holding the bowl and the bottle, and beckoned for Scott to follow.

A ride home. That would be nice.

Scott shambled out after the coyote, walking expertly on all fours.

Outside, the jumble of cars had long since cleared; just a few scattered vehicles were left. One of them was a green van with tinted windows. The coyote opened the rear doors, and beckoned Scott inside. Scott hopped in happily. There was something odd about the van, he thought; but he couldn't think of what it was. And just then, the coyote put the bowl down next to him, and filled it up again; and Scott stopped paying attention to the van. As he slurped up the contents of the bowl, he barely noticed the doors slam shut.

Scott slumped to the floor. Everything was so hot all of a sudden; and he was so tired...

In a few seconds, he was fast asleep.

The van smoothly drove away into the night.

----

By the time Scott woke up again, the sun was high in the sky.

The pain was back, but nowhere near as bad as last time. Scott managed not to cry out. He had had many, many hangovers before, and he knew what to do. He waited for his senses to report on how bad things were.

He could hear the van's engine rumbling, the gentle vibrations from the road.

He could feel the pain in his muscles. His bladder throbbed with pain, full to the bursting point; and he could feel the dampness in his skin, smell the gentle stench of urine.

''Oh, God. A bad one.''

He finally managed to open his eyes...and he saw a blur of silver.

''Huh?''

He pulled himself up a few inches, got his eyes to focus.

He was in a cage.

Adrenaline surged through him. Almost instantly, he was fully awake.

He looked around. The cage filled the rear half of the van, with solid metal mesh on all six sides. The floor was lined with straw; there was a rubber ball and a big bunch of bananas in one corner, and a feeding tube poking through one wall, hooked to a large bottle of clear fluid. He was still in the suit; the fur at the waist was damp with urine.

Gods, he hadn't even noticed that the suit was anatomically correct...

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead! It's nice to have you up, the road getslonely."

He whirled to face the front of the van. The coyote was driving.

"What the '''''fuck''''' are you do..." yelled Scott, and ground to a halt, eyes wide. He had meant to say that; but it had come out as an incomprehensible mishmash of hoots and grunts.

The coyote laughed. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't speak your language."

There was something different about the coyote. His head was smaller, more refined-looking; the padded paws were gone, replaced by clawed hands, still covered with golden fur.

What the hell was going on?

Then Scott noticed the two bundles of fur on the floor next to the driver's seat--one of them golden-brown, the other a very familiar, deeper shade...

A few seconds of utter panic followed, as Scott groped for the zipper that was no longer there, pulled at his own head in the desperate hope that it would come off. His hands caught on something, but it wasn't a suit; it was a collar, tight around his neck--a collar that didn't seem to have a buckle...

"Whaddaya think? A pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

Scott rushed towards the front of the cage, slammed his massive shoulder into it once, twice...

It didn't budge a millimeter.

"Unless you think you can pick those locks back there, I'd listen reeeeal carefully to what I'm about to say."

Scott ground to a halt, muscles still quivering. He stared at the coyote--the coyote glanced back once, in the rear-view mirror, then turned his eyes back to the road.

"You're probably wondering why I've called this meeting," the coyote said, conversationally. "Well, I'll be happy to tell you--it's a lot more fun to watch if you know exactly what's happening...

"You've been a real asshole, Scott. You've done some pretty damn nasty things, and you've managed to fuck up a lot of decent people's lives. You've made yourself a problem, Scott. And I'm a problem-solver from wayback.

"You've got one thing going for you. I don't kill people. Death is messy, and it's bad karma. Life is a precious thing, even when it's wasted on a shithead like you. And frankly, killing you would be letting you off pretty damn easy. So, when I run into useless specimens of humanity such as yourself, I just find a way to make 'em useful. There's not many things out there that are so damn useless that you can't find ''something'' to do with 'em if you try hard enough. We coyotes are kinda resourceful that way.

"In your case, the answer is pretty damn simple. You've been a completely useless specimen of a human being, but with a few weeks of training, you'll make a very nice gorilla. Before you know it, you'll be in a zoo somewhere, providing cheap amusement value to thousands. For once in your life, you'll actually be useful. Won't that be nice?"

Scott slammed into the walls of the cage; the coyote just laughed. He tried to find the latch to the door; the coyote just laughed. He screamed and howled until he was hoarse; the coyote just laughed, and turned up the radio. Finally, he stood at the front of the cage, and pissed until his bladder was empty; he hosed down the coyote, the seat, the dashboard. The coyote laughed harder than ever. "You're getting the idea already!" He even leaned to one side, away from the seat, giving Scott a better angle of aim. Then, when Scott finally ran dry, the coyote got up, turned around--the van rolled on, apparently driving itself--and expertly returned fire. The barrage went on for minutes on end, impossibly long and impossibly strong; the whole cage was damp with urine, and Scott was a dripping mass of wet fur huddled in the back corner of the cage. Finally, the coyote sat back down in the damp driver's seat, and turned his attention back to the road, still laughing.

For long minutes, perhaps an hour, Scott sat in the back of the cage, glumly staring out the windshield at the unfamiliar road. The coyote howled along with the radio, and hurled good-natured profanities at the other drivers, who never heard or saw a thing.

Gradually, Scott found himself staring less and less at the road, and more and more at the bananas.

He started across the cage towards them... then caught himself, and returned to his corner.

A few minutes later, he went halfway across before he stopped. Then he howled, slammed into the front wall of the cage once more. He grabbed the mesh with both hands, reared his head back, as if to smash his head against the iron... but as he started forward, he came to a halt, as if he had lost his will at the last moment. He tried again, with the same result.

He crawled back to the corner of the cage, and put his head in his hands.

Ten minutes later, he crossed the cage once more, pulled a banana from the bunch, peeled it, and began eating it. Halfway through, he looked at it, threw it down, and retreated to the back corner... but a few minutes later, he returned to finish it off.

A few minutes later, after eating another banana, the gorilla was sucking the feeding tube, enjoying the sugary fluid.

The coyote just smiled. Everything proceeding according to plan.

The van rolled on, into the sunset.

Some hours later, it finally arrived at an isolated ranch. It backed up to a large, caged enclosure, already fitted out with food and straw. With minimal encouragement from the coyote, the gorilla placidly emerged into the larger quarters. The door swung shut, and the locks clicked into place on their own.

"Well, I must say you've been a thoroughly enjoyable guest so far, Scott," the coyote said, chuckling. "Get a good night's sleep; we do have work ahead of us tomorrow." With that, the coyote turned and walked towards his own house, whistling off-key.

To the gorilla, the words were just soothing sounds; as the coyote disappeared through the front door of the house, the gorilla calmly inspected his new surroundings. He picked a comfortable-looking corner, quickly gathered some of the straw into a nest, curled up in it, and drifted off to sleep.

----

Scott woke up just as the sun poked over the horizon in the east.

He rolled over, stretched. ''God, what a weird dream.''

Then he looked down at his furry chest, saw the iron bars surrounding him...

It took just a few seconds for the events of the previous day to sink in.

Then he attacked the door. When that failed, he methodically worked his way around the cage, trying every bar, every weld.

Then he howled at the top of his lungs, for long minutes on end, until he collapsed, gasping, to the dirt floor...

The coyote just rolled over in bed, and smiled.

----

A lesser man would give up hope. But Scott was not about to be a lesser man.

His life settled into a routine. Every morning, he would wake up, knowing what he would see. The straw was always clean; the piles of leaves and fruits were always there, and the feeding tube would always be full. And there, next to the cage door, would be the morning newspaper... and, neatly placed on top of that, a chocolate mint. The writing on the wrapper was always the same: ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US.

He could not break out on his own; there was no question about that. Every morning, he made the rounds, testing every bar and weld of his prison, climbing methodically up the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Every day, he seemed to be a little bit larger, a little bit stronger; but the bars never moved.

He could not yell for help, even if there was any hope of being understood. Wherever he was, nobody seemed to come here... nobody but the coyote. In his first few days here, he had hooted and screeched for most of the morning; and sometimes the coyote had come out to howl along with him. There was never a reply.

Several times, he had tried to kill himself--and had found that that was not an option either. Every time he deliberately tried to hurt himself--by slamming his head into the mesh, or by choking himself on fruit--his will would weaken at the last moment. He wasn't sure whether the magic was responsible, or whether he simply couldn't really conceive of dying--at least not while the coyote lived. For that was his goal now. He doubted that he could ever be changed back. But at least he could have the satisfaction of choking that coyote until his tongue turned blue, until those eyes of his turned red with ruptured blood vessels, until he lost control of his muscles, until his neck finally snapped...

So there was only one course available to him. He would simply have to wait for his captor to make a mistake. And when that mistake happened, Scott would be there to capitalize on it.

But the mistake never seemed to come. Sometimes, the coyote wouldn't even show his face in the morning. Other times, he would sit next to the cage, and watch Scott for hours, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking nonstop about anything at all--the book, the weather, current events, the keepers at the zoos Scott might be visiting. He never sat within reach of the cage. But sometimes, he would sit within a few yards, as if inviting Scott to take a shot at him--and Scott would drink his fill at the tube every morning, just to be ready if that opportunity arose. It clearly didn't faze the coyote in the slightest--in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. But Scott enjoyed it too, and he didn't care what the coyote thought.

But there was one more thing that was constant, every day. Within a few hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Scott would feel his mind start to wander--the gorilla's thoughts creeping in. For the first few days, he fought it--sitting in the corner of the cage, gripping the bars with both hands, concentrating on nothing but don't move. But soon, he learned that it was useless, and switched tactics; he would deliberately act dumb, hoping to lull the coyote into a false sense of security. But the coyote never bought it; in fact, he would almost always leave Scott to himself for the next few hours, as his thoughts spiraled downwards, as his movements in the cage became more and more meandering. And by midafternoon, Scott would be gone, and only the gorilla would be left, gorging itself on leaves, playing with the rubber ball.

It was then, in the evening, that the coyote would enter the cage. The gorilla loved him. He would make soothing sounds to it, and it would placidly watch him as he changed the straw and replenished the food. Then, some nights, he would walk over to it, and smile, and wave a hand; and the gorilla would go limp. And the coyote would kneel down next to it. And one hand would stroke the fur on its chest, while the other hand gently massaged the top of the gorilla's head, sending waves of pleasure that seemed to penetrate all the way into its brain, gently rearranging things...

Eventually, the coyote would finish up its tasks, and smile once more, and leave, taking the old newspaper with him. He never left the new paper, or the mint; they just seemed to show up on their own, during the night.

The gorilla would pace the cage for a few more minutes, then curl up in its corner, and go to sleep.

The next morning, Scott would wake up, and remember all this. He would fantasize for a few minutes, about breaking the coyote's back, about shoving a long stick up his ass and seeing how hard he could twist it, about slamming him into the cage wall until his skull came apart and his brains flew out.

Then, he would go to the door of the cage, and begin methodically testing the bars...

----

That first morning, Scott had urinated on the newspaper, thrown it out of the cage. These days, he read it; there might be something useful, and besides, it was something to do.

Some of the stories were about himself. For the first three days after his disappearance, he was front-page news; after that, he shifted to page two, then farther back. But the stories were always there.

That second morning, when he first read the paper, the stories were about his mysterious disappearance. Police had been called to his residence when his fiance, Deborah Danvers, had gotten no answer to repeated phone calls. There was possible evidence of foul play, police said; there was clothing strewn around the living room, as well as his wallet and identification. There was a photograph of Debbie crying, pleading for any word. Scott had hoped; ''maybe they would look here.'' But there was no mention of the party, no last known whereabouts. The police had no leads.

And the next day, the lead story wasn't about the search. It was about a taxi driver, who said that he had picked Scott up at his home, taken him to the bank, then to the airport. He had said that he was leaving for two weeks in Bermuda; but he had no luggage, just a briefcase. He had seemed nervous, irritable. He hadn't tipped. The police hedged; there was a strong possibility that his disappearance was voluntary, they said. The search continued.

The day after that, the nothings started to come out of the woodwork, and they were talking. His old boss in New York, and those "accounting discrepancies". The geezers in Pensecola, and their "investment fund". The DA in Orange County, who thought that he might be the "Gregory Scott" wanted for insurance fraud. A search warrant was being sought for his bank accounts, as well as for a storage locker near his residence...

The day after that, the search had been called off; he was believed to have fled the country. Fingerprints were being sent to the FBI, for comparison to those of other wanted felons. Debbie was interviewed once again, this time wondering how she could have been so close to a man, and been so wrong about him...

By this time, Scott was losing interest. There was only one detail that concerned him; and, in the next few days, it played itself out. One by one, his bank accounts, his brokerage accounts, his safe deposit boxes, were turned up. Almost a million dollars was found in two accounts; and the lawyers were already lining up for their cracks at it. But almost everything else--at least eight million dollars, the papers estimated--had already been cleaned out, the funds transferred through shell accounts, leaving nothing behind but convoluted paper trails that seemed to lead nowhere. He had clearly been planning his disappearance for some time, the police said; and when the time came, he had executed his plan quickly and professionally. He would likely never be seen on US soil again...

Scott crumpled up the paper, threw it in a corner of the cage. He knew who was responsible. He turned to stare at the coyote's house--only to see his captor on the roof, happily tightening the final bolt on his new satellite dish...

That was the final straw. No, he wouldn't shove a stick up the coyote's ass; he'd use his fist. He'd pull out his intestines and shove them down his throat...

But the days passed, and the mistake never came.

And within a week or so, Scott found himself having more and more trouble reading the paper. He could still sound out the words, but the meanings seemed to be sliding away. And when the coyote sat by his cage and talked to him, the words seemed to run together as well.

He knew exactly why this was--every time the coyote would visit the gorilla in the cage, and run his fingers into its scalp, a bit more would be missing from Scott's mind the next day. And there was absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it.

In another week, Scott couldn't read the articles in the paper anymore, or follow what the coyote was saying; he could pick out the individual words, but he couldn't put them together in his mind anymore.

In another week, even the words were gone--they were just a stream of ink and sound.

And a few days after that, as the sun set, the coyote pulled the van up to Scott's cage.

----

The new arrival had no name--just a number. But within a week, one of the keepers had suggested Aries, and the name had immediately stuck. Like a ram, he would lower his head and charge at the walls of the enclosure, only to pull up at the last moment. And he was like the month of March--in like a lion, out like a lamb...

In the morning, he was utterly unpredictable. He might attack the door, trying to batter it down. He might climb up the front wall of the enclosure, and piss on the signs and the railing. Or he might do something completely inscrutable--like painstakingly collecting leaves and straw, and arranging them into meaningless patterns, then crouching by them, and staring at the visitors as they walked by.

But by midday, he would start to settle down. And by three o'clock, he was the kindest, gentlest gorilla you could ever hope to meet.

The keepers had never seen anything like it. He was transferred to San Diego, then to Portland, in the hopes that a change of scenery would calm him; but nothing worked. He couldn't be kept with other gorillas--he would frequently attack them in the morning, only to be attacked in turn at night. Finally, he was placed in a separate enclosure with Tanuki, a female who had also shown difficulty socializing; the two of them worked out better than expected--she could fend for herself in the morning, and seemed to hold no grudge. And before long, the two of them would be playing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

A year passed. They were not expected to mate; Tanuki was barely ten, and Aries looked to be fairly young himself. But, as animals were prone to do, the two of them surprised their keepers; they were seen experimenting with each other, and before long, Tanuki was obviously expecting. The keepers were overjoyed, but the sight seemed to throw Aries into a rage; he had to be kept isolated. Sometimes the keepers allowed him to see Tanuki, but only in the evenings...

----

Early one morning, Scott paced his cell.

"I have a proposal for you. Are you interested?"

It took Scott a moment to realize that he understood the words. He turned... and saw the coyote standing there, just a few feet away, on the other side of the iron mesh.

Every fantasy he had ever had flashed through his mind. But he never moved. He knew it was useless; he had tried those bars so many times before.

Instead, he simply turned back around, facing away from the coyote, and sat down, paying no attention whatsoever.

"Suit yourself."

A few seconds later, when Scott grudgingly turned to look, the coyote was gone.

----

More months passed. Tanuki gave birth to a female; she was named Star, after a light mark on her forehead. Aries had to be kept far away. But Tanuki showed poor mothering skills, and before long, Star was taken away, to be hand-raised. Aries was carefully returned to Tanuki's enclosure; and before long, things were back to normal--or at least back to what passed for normal around Aries.

The months turned into another year, then two. Aries and Tanuki mated again from time to time, but no new young were produced. The keepers were disappointed. They tranquilized Aries, took semen samples. His sperm count was low, almost zero. The keepers were disappointed--but perhaps, with time, things would improve. And in the meantime, at least Aries was manageable.

Every so often--perhaps once or twice a year; Scott had little interest in keeping track--the coyote would appear, always early in the morning. Each time, the question was the same--"Are you interested yet?" Scott would studiously ignore him, and he would go away.

Another year passed. Aries was back in isolation. An interior door had been left improperly latched; Aries had managed to open it, and had made his way into the service corridors. He was captured. Better locks were being installed.

"Are you interested yet?"

This time, Scott didn't turn away. He stared at the coyote. Whatever he had to say, it might be useful. And besides, it was something to do.

"Have you ever wondered what else I do with my time?"

Scott just stared. He couldn't say that he had. And it didn't seem interesting.

"The world is a damn big place, Scott. Damn big. To say nothing of the universe. Like the song says, there's much more to see than can ever be seen. You of all people should know that, right?"

Scott thought about turning his back. But he didn't move.

"There's no way that anybody can ever know everything that's going on. So there's no way that anybody can ever know how everything ''works'' either. So people look at what they ''can'' see, and they figure out how ''that'' works.

"But then people make a mistake. They start taking all those rules that they've worked out to explain what they've seen, and they start thinking that those same rules must work for ''everything.'' They start thinking round and round in circles, locking themselves up in cages, thinking about everything the same old way. And when something comes along that's outside the cage--something that doesn't fit inside all those little rules they've worked up--they pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Well, we coyotes, we sort of like to do something about that. We play tricks on people. And sometimes it's just for fun. But sometimes, it's to get people outside their cages--even if we have to push 'em out to get 'em there. And when we can't get 'em out, sometimes we can just get their attention. You can pretend all you want that that guy outside the cage doesn't exist--but when he stands up and pisses in your face, it sorta grabs your attention, doesn't it?"

Scott was half-expecting the coyote to demonstrate his point; but he made no move to. Did any of this ''have'' a point?

"I wasn't born this way, you know."

That grabbed Scott's undivided attention.

"Some are born great; some have greatness thrust upon them. Up until about six years ago, I was as normal as you'd ever want to see. Hell, I was a schmuck... not half as much of one as you, but a schmuck nonetheless. And then, one day, a magnificent stranger showed up, and he showed me the way.

"Thought about a career change lately, Scott?"

''He can't be serious,'' Scott thought. ''This is crazy.''

But Scott couldn't bring himself to turn away. After all, he already knew that the coyote was crazy...

"I did say I'd find a way to make you useful, after all. And besides, if I can turn a shithead like you into a decent coyote, I'll be a legend.

"The question is... if I do that for you, are you willing to do what it takes?"

There was only one sane answer. Scott nodded.

"Sure about that?"

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

"I thought so. Everything's all set. See ya in three days."

And with that, the coyote vanished.

And Scott just stared, past the bars of the cage, at the big world beyond.

----

Scott went about his business, such as it was. He refused to let himself believe it.

But, three days to the dot later, in the wee hours of the morning, a transfer team showed up at his cage. And behind them, he could see a stranger, a perfectly normal human... but somehow, when he looked again, he could see the shadow of the pointed ears, the muzzle. He was smiling. As always.

''My God. It's really happening.''

He made a token show of resistance, but allowed himself to be herded into the carrier cage. In a matter of minutes, he was once again in the back of a truck, rolling down the empty pathways of the zoo.

Every fantasy he had ever had evaporated. If he could really get out of here, he would kiss the coyote's feet. He would clean his house with his tongue. He would smear himself with Vaseline and get down on hands and knees. He would...

The truck pulled up to an unfamiliar building, at the outskirts of the zoo. Scott couldn't read the sign, but he dimly remembered what the red cross stood for.

A needle poked him from behind.

His muscles began to go limp. He saw the coyote looking in at him, and he saw the look in those eyes...

And he knew.

With the strength that he had left, he slammed his body weight twice into the door of the cage, desperately trying to escape. But it was hopeless, and he knew that from the start.

As his head sunk to the floor of the cage, he prayed that he would lose consciousness.

He did not.

He was hauled out of the cage, strapped to a gurney, wheeled into an operating room. He could not move a muscle, could not utter a sound. But he could hear the keepers talking, though he couldn't understand a word. And he could feel the straps press against his flesh. He could feel everything. Very clearly.

The coyote stood over him, holding a scalpel, and smiled.

His mouth never moved--not his human one, not even the muzzle that only Scott could see. But Scott heard a single word, very clearly, in his mind.

"Gotcha."

The scalpel bit into his flesh...

----

The keepers were sad. They had given up hope of Aries ever mating again, and they had hoped that neutering him would at least curb his violent impulses. And it had worked--all too well.

Every morning, Aries would just huddle in the corner of his cage, refusing to move at all, staring hopelessly at the bars. Not even the electric prod could budge him. It was as if he was waiting to die.

There was no risk of that, of course. Aries was still young, and showed no signs at all of ill health. With any luck, he would live for another thirty years, perhaps even forty.

And he always snapped out of it around noon.

User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation

2009-08-30T02:50:42Z

Phaedrus: Initial Wikification

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal[[Category:Gorilla]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Horror]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Reinkarmation}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Gorilla}}
{{title|name=Reinkarmation|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story was written for a contest on the TSA-Talk mailing list. The theme of the contest was "nasty stories." This story won. It is indeed nasty, involving a variety of distasteful acts. '''Please''' don't read this if you're young or easily offended.}}

When Scott returned from his day at the beach, there was a paper bag on his doorstep. A note, in a familiar handwriting, was attached:

: Darling,

: Is there something wrong? Now that we're engaged, we're supposed to be seeing ''more'' of each other, aren't we?

: I hope you haven't forgotten about the costume party tonight at six; I've been ''so'' looking forward to it. Remember, it's at Fourth and Ivy--you can't miss it. Please do be there; I'm so concerned about you...

: Debbie

Scott sighed, crumpled up the note. Costume party? Of all the dumb ideas... But, dammit, he had to go. Anything to keep her happy--for the next three months or so, at least.

He looked at his watch. Shit. 5:15. And the cab was long gone already. He grabbed the bag without a second, went inside, called the cab company--they'd have another cab there in 15 minutes--it would be close, but he'd make it. Then he opened the bag, pulled out the costume.

A gorilla suit.

He was halfway through dialing the cab company's number again when he got hold of himself, took a deep breath. It was all for Debbie. All for Debbie. That beautiful face. Those beautiful eyes. Those twelve million beautiful dollars. His biggest haul yet, by far, if he could pull it off.

One night of utter embarrassment was a damn small price to pay.

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, he quickly stripped down to his underwear, and slipped into the suit. He was half-hoping that it wouldn't fit--but, knowing Debbie, it would. And, sure enough, it did. He had to admit, it was a ''damn good'' gorilla suit. It was made from some kind of stretch fabric; it was tight, but comfortable. It put just the right amount of pressure on his knees and waist, pulling him down into a realistic-looking half-squat. The hands and feet were nicely detailed, and the head was incredible; he could see clearly out the eye-holes, and the jaw even moved with his own. Some nobody in Taiwan had worked overtime on this thing.

There seemed to be only two problems. First, he could barely hear a thing. But, with Debbie's friends, that would be a big plus with him. Second, there were no pockets.

The taxi honked.

Scott cursed a blue streak. No time to worry about that. He grabbed a twenty from his wallet, and the note. He'd get a ride back with Debbie. Those eyes. Those lips. Those bank accounts.

----

Sure enough, the party was impossible to miss. The taxi arrived at six on the dot--but Debbie must have wanted him to be fashionably late. Things were in full swing, and nobody batted an eye as Scott shuffled through the door. Even with his ears covered, the music managed to be loud; he doubted he would understand the lyrics even without the suit, and didn't mind in the least.

He saw no sign of Debbie--of course, he had no idea what she'd be wearing, so that didn't mean much. Well, he'd just have to mingle; as long as he was embarrassing himself, there was no reason to do it halfway. And she'd recognize him; he was the only gorilla in the room...

There was only one other "animal" in the room--in some kind of humanoid dog suit, the sort of thing a mascot would wear. As good a place to start as any. So he headed that way, walking on his knuckles as best he could, and ook-ing up a storm.

As he got closer, his target turned, saw him, and immediately started clapping. It was a coyote, not a dog; and he--it was definitely a he--was at least nine inches too tall to be Debbie. Still, Scott thought, it would be nice to have someone to be embarrassed with; and this fellow seemed agreeable enough.

Between the suits and the music, conversation was impossible. But the two of them seemed to synthesize an act from thin air--the coyote and his pet gorilla--and started working the room with it. The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic.

Wherever they went in the room, there were ripples of applause. People shook the coyote's paw. People patted Scott on the head. People talked to the coyote; Scott couldn't understand a word of it over the music, but it seemed very pleasant, and everyone would smile and laugh. People would lean down to try to talk to Scott; he couldn't understand a word of that either, but he nodded and ooked in reply, and everyone laughed.

Many people brought them drinks; and they accepted graciously. Thanks to the marvelous mask, Scott found drinking out of a glass to be no problem. And he realized that this was one of those wondrous times in life when public drunkenness can actually be an advantage; the more he drank, the less embarrassed he felt. The more he drank, the easier it got to shamble around the room on all fours, and the more convincing his hoots and grunts became. He was having a blast.

When he started having trouble holding the glass correctly, the coyote disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bowl; people simply poured the drinks into it, and he lapped them up. The applause doubled.

The evening spun happily on. More people arrived. The music blared. Scott couldn't see straight anymore, but that was all right; he could still hear bits and pieces of the laughter. He just smiled, and grunted, and licked the bowl clean. Everybody was happy...

Everything faded to black.

----

Some time later, Scott came to, slowly. He was under a table. The music was gone. Every cell in his body screamed in agony. He howled. Somebody walked over, petted him; it was the coyote. He said something, and poured something from a bottle into Scott's bowl. Almost without thought, Scott slurped it down, and within moments everything felt warm and wonderful again.

Something poked him, softly. He looked up; the coyote was gesturing towards the door, and saying something--Scott could make out the word "home". The coyote took a few steps toward the door, holding the bowl and the bottle, and beckoned for Scott to follow.

A ride home. That would be nice.

Scott shambled out after the coyote, walking expertly on all fours.

Outside, the jumble of cars had long since cleared; just a few scattered vehicles were left. One of them was a green van with tinted windows. The coyote opened the rear doors, and beckoned Scott inside. Scott hopped in happily. There was something odd about the van, he thought; but he couldn't think of what it was. And just then, the coyote put the bowl down next to him, and filled it up again; and Scott stopped paying attention to the van. As he slurped up the contents of the bowl, he barely noticed the doors slam shut.

Scott slumped to the floor. Everything was so hot all of a sudden; and he was so tired...

In a few seconds, he was fast asleep.

The van smoothly drove away into the night.

----

By the time Scott woke up again, the sun was high in the sky.

The pain was back, but nowhere near as bad as last time. Scott managed not to cry out. He had had many, many hangovers before, and he knew what to do. He waited for his senses to report on how bad things were.

He could hear the van's engine rumbling, the gentle vibrations from the road.

He could feel the pain in his muscles. His bladder throbbed with pain, full to the bursting point; and he could feel the dampness in his skin, smell the gentle stench of urine.

''Oh, God. A bad one.''

He finally managed to open his eyes...and he saw a blur of silver.

''Huh?''

He pulled himself up a few inches, got his eyes to focus.

He was in a cage.

Adrenaline surged through him. Almost instantly, he was fully awake.

He looked around. The cage filled the rear half of the van, with solid metal mesh on all six sides. The floor was lined with straw; there was a rubber ball and a big bunch of bananas in one corner, and a feeding tube poking through one wall, hooked to a large bottle of clear fluid. He was still in the suit; the fur at the waist was damp with urine.

Gods, he hadn't even noticed that the suit was anatomically correct...

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead! It's nice to have you up, the road getslonely."

He whirled to face the front of the van. The coyote was driving.

"What the '''''fuck''''' are you do..." yelled Scott, and ground to a halt, eyes wide. He had meant to say that; but it had come out as an incomprehensible mishmash of hoots and grunts.

The coyote laughed. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't speak your language."

There was something different about the coyote. His head was smaller, more refined-looking; the padded paws were gone, replaced by clawed hands, still covered with golden fur.

What the hell was going on?

Then Scott noticed the two bundles of fur on the floor next to the driver's seat--one of them golden-brown, the other a very familiar, deeper shade...

A few seconds of utter panic followed, as Scott groped for the zipper that was no longer there, pulled at his own head in the desperate hope that it would come off. His hands caught on something, but it wasn't a suit; it was a collar, tight around his neck--a collar that didn't seem to have a buckle...

"Whaddaya think? A pretty good job, if I do say so myself."

Scott rushed towards the front of the cage, slammed his massive shoulder into it once, twice...

It didn't budge a millimeter.

"Unless you think you can pick those locks back there, I'd listen reeeeal carefully to what I'm about to say."

Scott ground to a halt, muscles still quivering. He stared at the coyote--the coyote glanced back once, in the rear-view mirror, then turned his eyes back to the road.

"You're probably wondering why I've called this meeting," the coyote said, conversationally. "Well, I'll be happy to tell you--it's a lot more fun to watch if you know exactly what's happening...

"You've been a real asshole, Scott. You've done some pretty damn nasty things, and you've managed to fuck up a lot of decent people's lives. You've made yourself a problem, Scott. And I'm a problem-solver from wayback.

"You've got one thing going for you. I don't kill people. Death is messy, and it's bad karma. Life is a precious thing, even when it's wasted on a shithead like you. And frankly, killing you would be letting you off pretty damn easy. So, when I run into useless specimens of humanity such as yourself, I just find a way to make 'em useful. There's not many things out there that are so damn useless that you can't find ''something'' to do with 'em if you try hard enough. We coyotes are kinda resourceful that way.

"In your case, the answer is pretty damn simple. You've been a completely useless specimen of a human being, but with a few weeks of training, you'll make a very nice gorilla. Before you know it, you'll be in a zoo somewhere, providing cheap amusement value to thousands. For once in your life, you'll actually be useful. Won't that be nice?"

Scott slammed into the walls of the cage; the coyote just laughed. He tried to find the latch to the door; the coyote just laughed. He screamed and howled until he was hoarse; the coyote just laughed, and turned up the radio. Finally, he stood at the front of the cage, and pissed until his bladder was empty; he hosed down the coyote, the seat, the dashboard. The coyote laughed harder than ever. "You're getting the idea already!" He even leaned to one side, away from the seat, giving Scott a better angle of aim. Then, when Scott finally ran dry, the coyote got up, turned around--the van rolled on, apparently driving itself--and expertly returned fire. The barrage went on for minutes on end, impossibly long and impossibly strong; the whole cage was damp with urine, and Scott was a dripping mass of wet fur huddled in the back corner of the cage. Finally, the coyote sat back down in the damp driver's seat, and turned his attention back to the road, still laughing.

For long minutes, perhaps an hour, Scott sat in the back of the cage, glumly staring out the windshield at the unfamiliar road. The coyote howled along with the radio, and hurled good-natured profanities at the other drivers, who never heard or saw a thing.

Gradually, Scott found himself staring less and less at the road, and more and more at the bananas.

He started across the cage towards them... then caught himself, and returned to his corner.

A few minutes later, he went halfway across before he stopped. Then he howled, slammed into the front wall of the cage once more. He grabbed the mesh with both hands, reared his head back, as if to smash his head against the iron... but as he started forward, he came to a halt, as if he had lost his will at the last moment. He tried again, with the same result.

He crawled back to the corner of the cage, and put his head in his hands.

Ten minutes later, he crossed the cage once more, pulled a banana from the bunch, peeled it, and began eating it. Halfway through, he looked at it, threw it down, and retreated to the back corner... but a few minutes later, he returned to finish it off.

A few minutes later, after eating another banana, the gorilla was sucking the feeding tube, enjoying the sugary fluid.

The coyote just smiled. Everything proceeding according to plan.

The van rolled on, into the sunset.

Some hours later, it finally arrived at an isolated ranch. It backed up to a large, caged enclosure, already fitted out with food and straw. With minimal encouragement from the coyote, the gorilla placidly emerged into the larger quarters. The door swung shut, and the locks clicked into place on their own.

"Well, I must say you've been a thoroughly enjoyable guest so far, Scott," the coyote said, chuckling. "Get a good night's sleep; we do have work ahead of us tomorrow." With that, the coyote turned and walked towards his own house, whistling off-key.

To the gorilla, the words were just soothing sounds; as the coyote disappeared through the front door of the house, the gorilla calmly inspected his new surroundings. He picked a comfortable-looking corner, quickly gathered some of the straw into a nest, curled up in it, and drifted off to sleep.

----

Scott woke up just as the sun poked over the horizon in the east.

He rolled over, stretched. ''God, what a weird dream.''

Then he looked down at his furry chest, saw the iron bars surrounding him...

It took just a few seconds for the events of the previous day to sink in.

Then he attacked the door. When that failed, he methodically worked his way around the cage, trying every bar, every weld.

Then he howled at the top of his lungs, for long minutes on end, until he collapsed, gasping, to the dirt floor...

The coyote just rolled over in bed, and smiled.

----

A lesser man would give up hope. But Scott was not about to be a lesser man.

His life settled into a routine. Every morning, he would wake up, knowing what he would see. The straw was always clean; the piles of leaves and fruits were always there, and the feeding tube would always be full. And there, next to the cage door, would be the morning newspaper... and, neatly placed on top of that, a chocolate mint. The writing on the wrapper was always the same: ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US.

He could not break out on his own; there was no question about that. Every morning, he made the rounds, testing every bar and weld of his prison, climbing methodically up the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Every day, he seemed to be a little bit larger, a little bit stronger; but the bars never moved.

He could not yell for help, even if there was any hope of being understood. Wherever he was, nobody seemed to come here... nobody but the coyote. In his first few days here, he had hooted and screeched for most of the morning; and sometimes the coyote had come out to howl along with him. There was never a reply.

Several times, he had tried to kill himself--and had found that that was not an option either. Every time he deliberately tried to hurt himself--by slamming his head into the mesh, or by choking himself on fruit--his will would weaken at the last moment. He wasn't sure whether the magic was responsible, or whether he simply couldn't really conceive of dying--at least not while the coyote lived. For that was his goal now. He doubted that he could ever be changed back. But at least he could have the satisfaction of choking that coyote until his tongue turned blue, until those eyes of his turned red with ruptured blood vessels, until he lost control of his muscles, until his neck finally snapped...

So there was only one course available to him. He would simply have to wait for his captor to make a mistake. And when that mistake happened, Scott would be there to capitalize on it.

But the mistake never seemed to come. Sometimes, the coyote wouldn't even show his face in the morning. Other times, he would sit next to the cage, and watch Scott for hours, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking nonstop about anything at all--the book, the weather, current events, the keepers at the zoos Scott might be visiting. He never sat within reach of the cage. But sometimes, he would sit within a few yards, as if inviting Scott to take a shot at him--and Scott would drink his fill at the tube every morning, just to be ready if that opportunity arose. It clearly didn't faze the coyote in the slightest--in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. But Scott enjoyed it too, and he didn't care what the coyote thought.

But there was one more thing that was constant, every day. Within a few hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Scott would feel his mind start to wander--the gorilla's thoughts creeping in. For the first few days, he fought it--sitting in the corner of the cage, gripping the bars with both hands, concentrating on nothing but don't move. But soon, he learned that it was useless, and switched tactics; he would deliberately act dumb, hoping to lull the coyote into a false sense of security. But the coyote never bought it; in fact, he would almost always leave Scott to himself for the next few hours, as his thoughts spiraled downwards, as his movements in the cage became more and more meandering. And by midafternoon, Scott would be gone, and only the gorilla would be left, gorging itself on leaves, playing with the rubber ball.

It was then, in the evening, that the coyote would enter the cage. The gorilla loved him. He would make soothing sounds to it, and it would placidly watch him as he changed the straw and replenished the food. Then, some nights, he would walk over to it, and smile, and wave a hand; and the gorilla would go limp. And the coyote would kneel down next to it. And one hand would stroke the fur on its chest, while the other hand gently massaged the top of the gorilla's head, sending waves of pleasure that seemed to penetrate all the way into its brain, gently rearranging things...

Eventually, the coyote would finish up its tasks, and smile once more, and leave, taking the old newspaper with him. He never left the new paper, or the mint; they just seemed to show up on their own, during the night.

The gorilla would pace the cage for a few more minutes, then curl up in its corner, and go to sleep.

The next morning, Scott would wake up, and remember all this. He would fantasize for a few minutes, about breaking the coyote's back, about shoving a long stick up his ass and seeing how hard he could twist it, about slamming him into the cage wall until his skull came apart and his brains flew out.

Then, he would go to the door of the cage, and begin methodically testing the bars...

----

That first morning, Scott had urinated on the newspaper, thrown it out of the cage. These days, he read it; there might be something useful, and besides, it was something to do.

Some of the stories were about himself. For the first three days after his disappearance, he was front-page news; after that, he shifted to page two, then farther back. But the stories were always there.

That second morning, when he first read the paper, the stories were about his mysterious disappearance. Police had been called to his residence when his fiance, Deborah Danvers, had gotten no answer to repeated phone calls. There was possible evidence of foul play, police said; there was clothing strewn around the living room, as well as his wallet and identification. There was a photograph of Debbie crying, pleading for any word. Scott had hoped; ''maybe they would look here.'' But there was no mention of the party, no last known whereabouts. The police had no leads.

And the next day, the lead story wasn't about the search. It was about a taxi driver, who said that he had picked Scott up at his home, taken him to the bank, then to the airport. He had said that he was leaving for two weeks in Bermuda; but he had no luggage, just a briefcase. He had seemed nervous, irritable. He hadn't tipped. The police hedged; there was a strong possibility that his disappearance was voluntary, they said. The search continued.

The day after that, the nothings started to come out of the woodwork, and they were talking. His old boss in New York, and those "accounting discrepancies". The geezers in Pensecola, and their "investment fund". The DA in Orange County, who thought that he might be the "Gregory Scott" wanted for insurance fraud. A search warrant was being sought for his bank accounts, as well as for a storage locker near his residence...

The day after that, the search had been called off; he was believed to have fled the country. Fingerprints were being sent to the FBI, for comparison to those of other wanted felons. Debbie was interviewed once again, this time wondering how she could have been so close to a man, and been so wrong about him...

By this time, Scott was losing interest. There was only one detail that concerned him; and, in the next few days, it played itself out. One by one, his bank accounts, his brokerage accounts, his safe deposit boxes, were turned up. Almost a million dollars was found in two accounts; and the lawyers were already lining up for their cracks at it. But almost everything else--at least eight million dollars, the papers estimated--had already been cleaned out, the funds transferred through shell accounts, leaving nothing behind but convoluted paper trails that seemed to lead nowhere. He had clearly been planning his disappearance for some time, the police said; and when the time came, he had executed his plan quickly and professionally. He would likely never be seen on US soil again...

Scott crumpled up the paper, threw it in a corner of the cage. He knew who was responsible. He turned to stare at the coyote's house--only to see his captor on the roof, happily tightening the final bolt on his new satellite dish...

That was the final straw. No, he wouldn't shove a stick up the coyote's ass; he'd use his fist. He'd pull out his intestines and shove them down his throat...

But the days passed, and the mistake never came.

And within a week or so, Scott found himself having more and more trouble reading the paper. He could still sound out the words, but the meanings seemed to be sliding away. And when the coyote sat by his cage and talked to him, the words seemed to run together as well.

He knew exactly why this was--every time the coyote would visit the gorilla in the cage, and run his fingers into its scalp, a bit more would be missing from Scott's mind the next day. And there was absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it.

In another week, Scott couldn't read the articles in the paper anymore, or follow what the coyote was saying; he could pick out the individual words, but he couldn't put them together in his mind anymore.

In another week, even the words were gone--they were just a stream of ink and sound.

And a few days after that, as the sun set, the coyote pulled the van up to Scott's cage.

----

The new arrival had no name--just a number. But within a week, one of the keepers had suggested Aries, and the name had immediately stuck. Like a ram, he would lower his head and charge at the walls of the enclosure, only to pull up at the last moment. And he was like the month of March--in like a lion, out like a lamb...

In the morning, he was utterly unpredictable. He might attack the door, trying to batter it down. He might climb up the front wall of the enclosure, and piss on the signs and the railing. Or he might do something completely inscrutable--like painstakingly collecting leaves and straw, and arranging them into meaningless patterns, then crouching by them, and staring at the visitors as they walked by.

But by midday, he would start to settle down. And by three o'clock, he was the kindest, gentlest gorilla you could ever hope to meet.

The keepers had never seen anything like it. He was transferred to San Diego, then to Portland, in the hopes that a change of scenery would calm him; but nothing worked. He couldn't be kept with other gorillas--he would frequently attack them in the morning, only to be attacked in turn at night. Finally, he was placed in a separate enclosure with Tanuki, a female who had also shown difficulty socializing; the two of them worked out better than expected--she could fend for herself in the morning, and seemed to hold no grudge. And before long, the two of them would be playing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

A year passed. They were not expected to mate; Tanuki was barely ten, and Aries looked to be fairly young himself. But, as animals were prone to do, the two of them surprised their keepers; they were seen experimenting with each other, and before long, Tanuki was obviously expecting. The keepers were overjoyed, but the sight seemed to throw Aries into a rage; he had to be kept isolated. Sometimes the keepers allowed him to see Tanuki, but only in the evenings...

----

Early one morning, Scott paced his cell.

"I have a proposal for you. Are you interested?"

It took Scott a moment to realize that he understood the words. He turned... and saw the coyote standing there, just a few feet away, on the other side of the iron mesh.

Every fantasy he had ever had flashed through his mind. But he never moved. He knew it was useless; he had tried those bars so many times before.

Instead, he simply turned back around, facing away from the coyote, and sat down, paying no attention whatsoever.

"Suit yourself."

A few seconds later, when Scott grudgingly turned to look, the coyote was gone.

----

More months passed. Tanuki gave birth to a female; she was named Star, after a light mark on her forehead. Aries had to be kept far away. But Tanuki showed poor mothering skills, and before long, Star was taken away, to be hand-raised. Aries was carefully returned to Tanuki's enclosure; and before long, things were back to normal--or at least back to what passed for normal around Aries.

The months turned into another year, then two. Aries and Tanuki mated again from time to time, but no new young were produced. The keepers were disappointed. They tranquilized Aries, took semen samples. His sperm count was low, almost zero. The keepers were disappointed--but perhaps, with time, things would improve. And in the meantime, at least Aries was manageable.

Every so often--perhaps once or twice a year; Scott had little interest in keeping track--the coyote would appear, always early in the morning. Each time, the question was the same--"Are you interested yet?" Scott would studiously ignore him, and he would go away.

Another year passed. Aries was back in isolation. An interior door had been left improperly latched; Aries had managed to open it, and had made his way into the service corridors. He was captured. Better locks were being installed.

"Are you interested yet?"

This time, Scott didn't turn away. He stared at the coyote. Whatever he had to say, it might be useful. And besides, it was something to do.

"Have you ever wondered what else I do with my time?"

Scott just stared. He couldn't say that he had. And it didn't seem interesting.

"The world is a damn big place, Scott. Damn big. To say nothing of the universe. Like the song says, there's much more to see than can ever be seen. You of all people should know that, right?"

Scott thought about turning his back. But he didn't move.

"There's no way that anybody can ever know everything that's going on. So there's no way that anybody can ever know how everything ''works'' either. So people look at what they ''can'' see, and they figure out how ''that'' works.

"But then people make a mistake. They start taking all those rules that they've worked out to explain what they've seen, and they start thinking that those same rules must work for ''everything.'' They start thinking round and round in circles, locking themselves up in cages, thinking about everything the same old way. And when something comes along that's outside the cage--something that doesn't fit inside all those little rules they've worked up--they pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Well, we coyotes, we sort of like to do something about that. We play tricks on people. And sometimes it's just for fun. But sometimes, it's to get people outside their cages--even if we have to push 'em out to get 'em there. And when we can't get 'em out, sometimes we can just get their attention. You can pretend all you want that that guy outside the cage doesn't exist--but when he stands up and pisses in your face, it sorta grabs your attention, doesn't it?"

Scott was half-expecting the coyote to demonstrate his point; but he made no move to. Did any of this ''have'' a point?

"I wasn't born this way, you know."

That grabbed Scott's undivided attention.

"Some are born great; some have greatness thrust upon them. Up until about six years ago, I was as normal as you'd ever want to see. Hell, I was a schmuck... not half as much of one as you, but a schmuck nonetheless. And then, one day, a magnificent stranger showed up, and he showed me the way.

"Thought about a career change lately, Scott?"

''He can't be serious,'' Scott thought. ''This is crazy.''

But Scott couldn't bring himself to turn away. After all, he already knew that the coyote was crazy...

"I did say I'd find a way to make you useful, after all. And besides, if I can turn a shithead like you into a decent coyote, I'll be a legend.

"The question is... if I do that for you, are you willing to do what it takes?"

There was only one sane answer. Scott nodded.

"Sure about that?"

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

"I thought so. Everything's all set. See ya in three days."

And with that, the coyote vanished.

And Scott just stared, past the bars of the cage, at the big world beyond.

----

Scott went about his business, such as it was. He refused to let himself believe it.

But, three days to the dot later, in the wee hours of the morning, a transfer team showed up at his cage. And behind them, he could see a stranger, a perfectly normal human... but somehow, when he looked again, he could see the shadow of the pointed ears, the muzzle. He was smiling. As always.

''My God. It's really happening.''

He made a token show of resistance, but allowed himself to be herded into the carrier cage. In a matter of minutes, he was once again in the back of a truck, rolling down the empty pathways of the zoo.

Every fantasy he had ever had evaporated. If he could really get out of here, he would kiss the coyote's feet. He would clean his house with his tongue. He would smear himself with Vaseline and get down on hands and knees. He would...

The truck pulled up to an unfamiliar building, at the outskirts of the zoo. Scott couldn't read the sign, but he dimly remembered what the red cross stood for.

A needle poked him from behind.

His muscles began to go limp. He saw the coyote looking in at him, and he saw the look in those eyes...

And he knew.

With the strength that he had left, he slammed his body weight twice into the door of the cage, desperately trying to escape. But it was hopeless, and he knew that from the start.

As his head sunk to the floor of the cage, he prayed that he would lose consciousness.

He did not.

He was hauled out of the cage, strapped to a gurney, wheeled into an operating room. He could not move a muscle, could not utter a sound. But he could hear the keepers talking, though he couldn't understand a word. And he could feel the straps press against his flesh. He could feel everything. Very clearly.

The coyote stood over him, holding a scalpel, and smiled.

His mouth never moved--not his human one, not even the muzzle that only Scott could see. But Scott heard a single word, very clearly, in his mind.

"Gotcha."

The scalpel bit into his flesh...

----

The keepers were sad. They had given up hope of Aries ever mating again, and they had hoped that neutering him would at least curb his violent impulses. And it had worked--all too well.

Every morning, Aries would just huddle in the corner of his cage, refusing to move at all, staring hopelessly at the bars. Not even the electric prod could budge him. It was as if he was waiting to die.

There was no risk of that, of course. Aries was still young, and showed no signs at all of ill health. With any luck, he would live for another thirty years, perhaps even forty.

And he always snapped out of it around noon.

User:Phaedrus/Commission

2009-08-30T02:35:38Z

Phaedrus: Moved author note to end

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Commission}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Fox}}
{{title|name=Commission|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1997 Phaedrus

Greywing smiled to himself. It had been a good con, well worth showing up for. The crowds had been reasonably well-behaved, the organizers were on the ball, and the ventilation system in the hall was wonderful. The hall was nearly dead now--it was a Sunday night, the last night of the con, and people had lives to get back to--and many of the tables were empty now, their occupants already heading home, or for the next con. But the aisles had been packed for most of the day, and for Friday and Saturday before that, and sales had been good.

And, if he was any judge of character, they were about to get better.

''Go ahead. Make the first move. You know you will.''

The man in the grey Erma Felna T-shirt had already passed his table three times, maybe more. Each time, he had stopped for a few moments, looking at the table out of the corner of his eye, then moved on. This time, he had stopped two tables away... but he was still looking this way.

''Not quite ready yet? That's fine. I'm not going anywhere. And I bet you aren't either. Go on, have a look at his stuff. It's good. But you're after something else, aren't you?''

He was old for the room--in his mid-thirties at least, maybe even his forties. His T-shirt and jeans were new, and his shoes were expensive Nikes. And he had that little look of wonder and discomfort on his face, that screamed "This is my first con" to anyone with the eyes to see it.

''You've heard the stories about me, though, haven't you? Don't worry. See? I don't bite. I'm not even making eye contact. Wouldn't you like to meet me? You're not going to do it standing over there, you know.''

A midlife crisis, probably; too much money to know what to do with, and out to recapture his lost childhood. Perfect.

''Still wondering whether you'd rather spend your money somewhere else? Take your time. Take all the time you need.''

Smile never wavering, Greywing picked up a sketchbook from the pile, flipped through it. A theme book--Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! He chuckled, considering his options. A lyin', bare tiger, perhaps? No; wouldn't fit with the rest of the book. He sharpened a pencil, then started on an anthro lioness, holding the book where the man in the Felna shirt could almost--but not quite--see what he was doing.

''Wouldn't you like to have a look at this? This is nothing, you know. I have so many wonderful things to show you. Just a few steps this way...''

He was about a third of the way through the sketch when the man in the Felna shirt finally walked up, grinning nervously.

Greywing closed the book, put it back on top of the pile. "May I help you?" ''You know I can.''

"Um, yes. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Greywing... I've seen some of your work, and I'm very fond of it. I understand that you do commissions? I have something in mind..."

"That I do," Greywing replied, handing him The Binder. His best stuff. Not the originals, of course, but good color copies. "I've got about a six-week backlog right now, but I can certainly schedule you in. Why don't you have a look through here? If you can point out something that's close to what you want, it'll help me know where to start. And if you happen to find exactly what you're after, well, then you've saved yourself some money."

''No, you won't find exactly what you're after. You know it, and I know it. You don't want something that ten people already have. You want an '''original'''. It's all over your face.''

"Sounds good," the man replied, and opened it. Greywing watched his reactions carefully.

''In two pages, you'll reach the price list, and one of two things will happen.
You'll keep going, and you'll be mine.
Or you'll put the book down and give me an excuse for why you'll be back in a few minutes, and I'll never see you again.
But you don't want to do that, do you? A man like you won't let a little money stand in the way, will you?

The man turned a page, turned another... paused for a few long seconds, then continued, turning pages slowly.

''Told you so. There, see how easy that was?'' Greywing smiled just a bit more, and went back to his lioness.

Ten minutes later, he'd sold three portfolios to a bunch of kids looking to blow the rest of their money before they headed home. He was putting the finishing touches on the lioness when the man reached the last page.

"See anything you like?"

"Well, there's one here that's close to right."

''Someone who doesn't say, "Oh, I like everything." A point for you, sir.'' "Then let's have a look."

The man spread The Binder open on the table; the colored ribbons glued to the spine were tucked in between various pages. ''And someone who can figure out what a bookmark is for. Another point.''

He flipped to an anthro fox. "This is just about what I'm after... the eyes, the proportions, the stance. But the style isn't quite what I had in mind; it's a little bit too cartoony. I was hoping for something a little more along the lines of what you did with this otter..." He turned to another page.

''Good taste.'' "So, you're after something realistic, but still not crossing over into 'grim'? Just a little bit on the light side?"

"Yeah, that's it exactly. And the color scheme... the red is a little strong. Could you mix in a little more brown, like you did on this one?" He flipped back to the fox, pointed out a natural one on the next page.

"Okay, I see. That might make the white in the chest seem a little brighter; do you want me to mix a little more grey in that?"

"No, I don't think so; leave it like that. And the tail... maybe it's just the perspective, but the tail seems a little shorter than I had in mind."

"All right. Let me get this all down." Greywing pulled out a pen and an order sheet, wrote down several lines. Most of it was gibberish, even to him. ''Doctors and lawyers have it right... if the patient can understand it, it loses half its appeal. If someone wants to spend their money, help them feel like they're spending it on something deep and Byzantine, something they couldn't possibly understand. They'll enjoy it all the more.'' "Everything else looks okay? The posture, the hands and feet, the ears, that sort of thing?" ''This is where you come up with one more little change, so you feel like you had the last word.''

"Well... the ears could be a little bit wider, more rounded. Other than that, it all looks great."

''Very good.'' Greywing drew a few quick ear curves on the sheet. "Something like one of these, then?"

"That last one is perfect."

''Of course it is.'' "All right, I think we're set." Greywing circled the last curve, added a few more nonsense abbreviations, dropped the pen on the form and pushed them both across the table. "Just fill the rest of this out... and your check, of course..."

''Not a bad choice, actually. It'll be more than worth the money, won't it? You'll show it off at all the parties, and tell your friends where you got it. Trust me.''

----

Some weeks later, George was at his desk, leaning into his speakerphone. He was not a happy man.

"Dammit, Jay, you were supposed to have this fixed three builds ago! QA is breathing fire down my butt... we were supposed to go beta a week ago! What is the damn problem here?"

"Boss, we've been through this... I've traced it every which way, and it's NT screwing up, there's no other explanation. I've got Micro--"

"Jay, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard 'It's an OS bug', I'd be on a beach in Hawaii right now! I don't care... who..."

He ground to a halt. Something was tickling his ear.

He reached up, and felt... fur.

For the first time all day, he smiled.

"I'm turning into a fox, Jay. Could I call you back?"

There was a long pause. "Umm... sure, boss. Good luck with that." The line went dead.

But George didn't hear it. He was already halfway to the bathroom. Thank God, it was empty. He stood at the mirror, and watched.

The change had already covered the top of his head, spreading downward in smooth, steady strokes. His ears had just the curve he was after. He turned his head to one side, then watched in fascination as his muzzle rippled out from his face in six quick lurches.

His arms came next. followed by his chest and back. He had been so wrapped up in watching the change that he had forgotten to remove his shirt; no matter--it simply disappeared, bit by bit, as the fur encroached on it. He hurried to a stall and pulled off his shoes and pants, just before his new claws sprouted from his hands.

He sat on the toilet, watched as the wave of reddish-brown slowly worked its way down, as his legs and feet gradually twisted into their new digitigrade shape. He stood up, marvelling at how natural it already felt. As he did, he felt a tingle; he looked behind him, and saw his new tail lengthening, stroke by stroke, until it touched the floor. He wiggled it experimentally. It felt good.

He went back to the mirror--leaving the remains of his clothing forgotten in the stall--and stared again at the mirror, at his face, at his now-green eyes. Just as he had imagined. And even a little bit better.

He felt one last tickle, on the front of his left leg, just above the ankle. He looked down, and saw it... a greyish marking, subtle, but clearly visible in the reddish fur. He didn't recognize it at first; then something clicked. He smiled, and lifted his foot up to the mirror. Sure enough; in the reflected image, it was perfectly clear... a flowing "G", and the stylized curve of a bird's wing.

He nodded to himself. Perfect. He couldn't wait to show it around.

But first, he headed back to his office. Jay was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that...

----

Greywing smiled, waiting for the ink to dry, admiring his work. He stretched his arms, feathers ruffling against the chair. ''You know, he's right; that color scheme does work. You learn something new every day...''

He muttered two Words, then passed a hand over the page, locking the Matrix in place. He stamped his address on the back of the drawing, slid it into a sheet protector, slipped that into a mailing envelope--along with his catalog, of course. Thirty seconds later, the envelope was sealed, addressed and in the mailbag.

''Another satisfied customer.''

He scanned the next order sheet in the pile--an Appaloosa stallion. He licked the edge of his beak, mapped out the color scheme in his mind, and started to draw...

{{author note|I included this note when I originally posted this story to the TSA-Talk list. Despite my misgivings, the reaction was actually pretty positive.

I usually don't think of myself as an author. If I called myself an author, that would imply that I come up with my own ideas--that I think my own characters up, for example. And sometimes, I believe that's true. But most of the time, I can't shake the suspicion that the characters think themselves up. Then they show up on my doorstep--probably because the people on the list who can actually write are already booked solid--and wait for me to do something intelligent with them. So I feel kind of bad when a story misfires; I feel like I've let the character down.

Greywing showed up a few weeks ago. This is the best home I've been able to come up with for him so far. It's far from my best--it has pretty much every "wrong thing to do in a short story" from our recent discussion on the list. Please don't hold it against him.}}

User:Phaedrus/Transitions

2009-08-30T02:26:44Z

Phaedrus: Initial Wikification

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Transitions}}

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}
{{title|name=Transitions|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 2005 Phaedrus

She walks to town with Her empty basket. She usually does, when the weather is good. The earth is a bit damp and the air smells of rain, but the rain has not come yet and may not come for several hours more, and that must be good enough for Her.

The market is not as busy as usual. The spring harvest has passed, and some of the farmers are too busy planting the second season's crops to socialize in the square. The farmers' pushcarts are half-full of radishes and carrots and peppers, and one small load of scrawny-looking potatoes. At one edge of the square, a smoky fire burns near a sturdier cart piled with wrapped slabs of beef -- someone must have slaughtered a cow. My stomach growls a little, and I am thankful when a gust of wind carries most of the scent away.

She moves through the market, totally at ease, chatting with nearly everyone She passes, gently haggling, buying here and there. Most of the crowd is locals, of no real concern. But there are always a few strangers, and strangers must always be watched. I've long since settled on nine good watching-spots at the edge of the market square -- the corner of a house here, behind a stack of firewood there -- places where I can get a reasonable view while staying out of sight. I slip from one watching-spot to the next, doing my best to keep an eye on anyone unfamiliar who seems to be approaching Her. It would be so much easier if I could just stay closer to Her. But I know She would only send me away, or maybe even hurt me; and I cannot blame Her, not in the least.

The locals pay no attention to me -- or at least make a show of paying no attention, though their scent and the brief pauses in their breathing suggest otherwise.

The strangers do not notice me at all. I take great pride in that.

Today, a fat stranger in grey robes concerns me most; he could be hiding almost anything, and he carries a strong scent of metal. Much like me, he stays at the edge of the crowd, watching for something. I wait just long enough to make sure his attention is focused elsewhere, then quietly edge to a closer watching-spot, a shallow depression behind an unused watering trough. Someone has left a raw chicken neck tucked behind a post there; it smells untainted, so I quickly gulp it down, without taking my eyes off the man in grey. The locals almost always leave things for me. I'm not concerned about their reasons; it may be fear, or pity, or something complicated. But I suppose I'm thankful for it. Large game is rare around here, and hunting is terribly slow and unpredictable.

The stranger in grey makes eye contact with Her, and lunges through the crowd in Her direction, and I leave cover and start towards them, ready to charge at the first glint of a blade, and excitement mixes with a quick twinge of desperation -- am I too far and too late?

But he smiles and waves to Her, and shows Her some gaudy necklaces, and She looks at one with no trace of fear. And I relax, a little, and draw back behind the watering trough. Just another merchant, it seems, looking for a customer rich enough to afford his wares. And She studies them long enough to be polite, and then sends him away.

I'm quite sure She saw me behind him. But She pretends not to see.

A few minutes later, She says Her goodbyes and starts home with Her basket of fresh vegetables. I stay quietly behind Her until She reaches the edge of town. Then I circle around in front of Her, staying in the grass to one side of the trail, just outside of Her sight and hearing -- or at least the limits She chooses to pretend to have.

Her shack is in a meadow, perhaps a thousand paces outside of town, perhaps more. I cannot come too close to it; She has wards there to keep out the beasts of the forest, and I know that all too well. So I stay in the shadows, and watch Her carefully as She enters and shuts the door.

I wait a few minutes to make sure all is well. Then I curl up and try to fall asleep. Night will come soon, and it's a full moon, and that is when She is most vulnerable. I must be ready.

----

Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I think about what my life used to be. It seems fanciful enough now that it takes my mind off the present, and distant enough that I can imagine the details without worrying about whether they're true, and all of that makes sleep come more easily.

I remember being human. I've forgotten most of the details, except that it was complicated. I do remember knowing some magic, and I remember caring very deeply about it. I can't begin to understand why, because all I remember about how magic worked, other than being complicated, is that it was a very rare thing, and terribly, terribly tedious.

Well, then She came along, and liked this place, and decided to stay. And I remember being frightened, and very angry. She was stronger, and She was in my territory. I can certainly understand that. But what I don't understand is why I didn't run.

I fought Her. I can't understand that at all.

I remember how terribly angry and hurt She looked. I don't remember anything after that... except the pain. And then She chased me away.

And I know that I can never make it up to Her. Ever.

But I have to try.

----

It must be almost midnight. The rain has come at last, and it's making up for lost time. I'm soaked to the skin, and the cold feels like it's working its way through to the bone. But I must be on watch. The clouds don't block the moon, and the earth itself seems to faintly glow with moonlight. But there are still many shadows, and I hide myself. I know She will come soon.

And She does.

She is dressed all in white, in a long, flowing gown. She's unbundled Her hair, and it hangs almost to Her knees, glistening in the light. The rain does not touch Her. How could it dare?

She closes Her eyes, and She begins to dance.

She is so very beautiful.

I want so much to be near Her. But it can never be.

She dances, slowly at first, but ever so gradually gaining in speed and intensity. I try so very hard to take my eyes off Her, to keep watch, but I keep finding my focus drawn back to Her. The wind swirls around Her, stronger and stronger, making a whistling sound that slowly builds into a howl; and the edges of Her gown start to leave trails of light, nebulous patterns that are swept away by the wind and replaced by still stranger ones. The ground, the shadows, everything seems to pulse in tune with the wind, in step with the music that only She can hear...

...and at the very edge of my sight, one shadow remains still.

And then, just for a moment, it moves in the wrong direction.

A shudder comes over me, tearing me away from the dance. I begin to circle around the meadow, staying low, knowing that I must not get too close to the wards. Or to Her.

From the depths of that one wrong shadow, I see a faint reddish glow... and lit by it, the face of a man dressed in black.

I know next to nothing about magic now. But I still know what a Fire spell looks like. And I know that I am probably already too late -- that in a few seconds that glow will build into a raging ball of flame, and that this man will throw it at Her, and that I am too far to the side to get in the way, and that She will never see it or hear it coming...

I leap from the shadows, charging headlong towards him, paws kicking up a spray of rainwater behind me. I know that my fur shines in the moonlight, and that if he sees me all is lost. But I know also that the man is focused on Her, and the fire gleams in his eyes, and that for just a few seconds it will blind him. And that is the one hope I have; if he holds his fire until he can see his target clearly again, then maybe, just maybe...

He does.

There is no point in calling out to Her; I know She can hear nothing over the wind. But just as I am about to reach him, and just as he finishes the last syllable of his spell, I growl like I have never done before. And his head jerks in my direction, and I leap...

And the world turns to flame.

I am blind and almost deaf. I feel the thump of the two of us tumbling to the ground. Every muscle in my body cries out as I lash around, feel for something soft, and bite down. I taste blood and I can dimly hear a scream. I lock my jaws with all my remaining strength, stifling a whine. Through the pain, I can dimly feel the soft thuds of three blows to the back of my head. Then a pause, then the muffled bite of a dagger sinking into my back once. Twice.

Then, for a moment, the world convulses, and my ruined vision goes white, and my ears ring with the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard.

I can't feel the man's flesh in my jaws anymore. I can't feel anything anymore.

I wait to die.

Then a new feeling rolls over every inch of my skin... something warm and indescribably wonderful.

Somehow, I open my eyes.

She is standing over me, almost on top of me, a goddess in white stepping out of the moon. I can see Her clearly. I can see Her face, so terribly hurt and angry, but not at me. I cannot move a muscle, but I know in my heart that She is looking at him.

She points at him, and says something complicated. And he screams, an awful scream that seems to go on forever. I can hear cloth tearing, and some snapping sounds that might be bone or something worse. And the scream starts to warble and shift in pitch, until it becomes a howl.

And finally, when the sounds stop, She chases him away.

And then She looks down at me, and She smiles, and as She bends down towards me, I know that everything will finally be all right.

And at last the world fades away.

----

She walks to town with Her empty basket. It rained yesterday, but the skies are clear this morning, and the air is crisp and dry.

I walk just ahead of Her, watching intently.

The market is busy. The corn harvest is in full swing; carts are overflowing with it, and the farmers' haggling is far more energetic and freewheeling than usual. No beef is for sale, but the smell of pork and chicken wafts over the square.

She works the crowd, radiant as always, and unless I see something that needs checking out, I stay by Her side. The locals' children always seem excited to see me, though their parents have taught them to keep a respectful distance. The adults no longer pretend to look elsewhere. In fact, they often compliment Her on my appearance and demeanor as they chat. Naturally, I pretend not to notice, but I secretly take great pride in that.

When they think She is not watching, some of them still eye me with very complicated looks indeed. But that is no bother to me.

When the strangers come, they often do the most delightful double-takes upon first seeing me. Inevitably, a local will then discreetly pull the stranger aside for a few minutes' chat. No doubt they have some dreadful, complicated story to explain away the nosy wolf with the silver runes in its fur. Again, no bother to me, especially since the strangers seem to respect Her all the more for it.

One of the merchants -- he comes too often to be a 'stranger', but he's certainly not a local -- stops briefly at the butcher's cart, then comes over to try his luck at selling to Her. He does his best to smile warmly, then bends down and offers me a sliver of roast pork. It smells wonderful, but I step back, cock my head just slightly to one side, and stare calmly up at him. It takes him a moment to realize that he has forgotten the protocol for these matters. He blushes, mutters an apology, and extends the morsel to Her instead. She nods, delicately takes the morsel in Her gloved hand, and holds it toward me. I lower my head and tail to Her in proper deference and thanks, and She drops it at my feet. I snap it up and pretend to look preoccupied elsewhere, while he stumbles through his pitch and excuses himself.

Before long, She has finished Her errands and made Her exit, and we head for home. The trip is almost entirely uneventful. But as we near the shack, I catch a familiar scent, and see a black-furred ear barely visible in the tall grass. I head towards him at a deliberate pace, and growl evenly but menacingly.

Immediately, I hear a most satisfying whine, and the grass rustles as he quickly vanishes into the distance. I return to Her, tail held high.

He has earned nothing more from me, and certainly not from Her.

I still almost never come into Her shack; I can't keep a proper watch in there, and it makes me feel uncomfortably like I'm imposing and ignoring my duty. And frankly, it smells quite strange. But I can come as close as I choose now, and pick the best spots without fear. And the runes don't just keep the wards at bay; they keep me warm on cold nights, and the rain and snow just run right off. It's a very satisfying arrangement.

And best off all, almost every time She sees me, She is smiling.

{{author note|I mailed this one to the TSA-Talk list when I wrote it, but never even added it to my own website. Not sure why.

There's a story behind the writing of this. My stories tend to be very dialogue-heavy, and they tend to focus on descriptions of the TFs. So I gave myself two challenges: "Write a story without a single line of dialogue", and "Write a story in which the main character's TF is never described at all -- the reader learns about it purely through its implications on what's going on in the story." The original version of this story actually met both these criteria. In fact, the main character's species was left completely undefined. And it was a pretty darn good story. But the ending wound up feeling unsatisfying; I think that most readers are looking for at least ''some'' more closure than that. So I compromised a bit in the final version.}}

User:Phaedrus

2009-08-30T02:14:21Z

Phaedrus: /* Completed Stories */ Screwed that up...

I used to be a fairly active denizen of the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I have a [http://www.lycanon.org/stories website] with some of my own stories.

I went for years without writing any fiction, but a recent storyverse on TSA-Talk has me writing at least a little, so I might get started again -- we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll at least be copying my stories over here.

==Story Series==

*[[User:Phaedrus/A_Trickster's_Tail|A Trickster's Tail]] (ADULT)

==Completed Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Commission|Commission]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Field_Trip|Field Trip]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation|Reinkarmation]] (ADULT)
*[[User:Phaedrus/Transitions|Transitions]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Wishes|Wishes]]

==Unfinished Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Outfoxed|Outfoxed]]

{{author page}}
[[Category:Phaedrus]]

User:Phaedrus

2009-08-30T02:13:56Z

Phaedrus: /* Completed Stories */ Added "Transitions"

I used to be a fairly active denizen of the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I have a [http://www.lycanon.org/stories website] with some of my own stories.

I went for years without writing any fiction, but a recent storyverse on TSA-Talk has me writing at least a little, so I might get started again -- we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll at least be copying my stories over here.

==Story Series==

*[[User:Phaedrus/A_Trickster's_Tail|A Trickster's Tail]] (ADULT)

==Completed Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Commission|Commission]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Field_Trip|Field Trip]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation|Reinkarmation]] (ADULT)
*[[User:Phaedrus/Transitions]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Wishes|Wishes]]

==Unfinished Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Outfoxed|Outfoxed]]

{{author page}}
[[Category:Phaedrus]]

User:Phaedrus

2009-08-29T21:52:44Z

Phaedrus: Adding a few extra stories I'll be copying over

I used to be a fairly active denizen of the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I have a [http://www.lycanon.org/stories website] with some of my own stories.

I went for years without writing any fiction, but a recent storyverse on TSA-Talk has me writing at least a little, so I might get started again -- we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll at least be copying my stories over here.

==Story Series==

*[[User:Phaedrus/A_Trickster's_Tail|A Trickster's Tail]] (ADULT)

==Completed Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Commission|Commission]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Field_Trip|Field Trip]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Reinkarmation|Reinkarmation]] (ADULT)
*[[User:Phaedrus/Wishes|Wishes]]

==Unfinished Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Outfoxed|Outfoxed]]

{{author page}}
[[Category:Phaedrus]]

User:Phaedrus/Field Trip

2009-08-29T21:45:58Z

Phaedrus: Added request for formatting help

__NOTOC__
{{Universe|Circe Treatment}}
{{byline|name=Field Trip|author=Phaedrus|user=Phaedrus}}
[[Category:Story]][[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]][[Category:Editing requested]]

Copyright 1996 Phaedrus
{{author note|This was written May 1, 1996. It was the first story I had written in several years, and that shows in a variety of ways.

This story is part of the Circe Treatment series from the TSA-Talk mailing list, and you'll find that things make more sense if you read the first two stories in that series --[http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/ashellgame.html Shell Game] and [http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/breassignment.html Reassignment] -- first.

Note to fellow authors: Is there any markup I can use this will give the first and last parts of this story the "printed letter" look shown in [http://www.lycanon.org/stories/FieldTrip.html this HTML version]?}}

: ARTHUR BLAKELY
: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR
: 1849 C STREET, NORTHWEST
: WASHINGTON, D. C. 20240

: June Taylor
: 2443 East 14th Avenue, Apt. 6B
: Helena, Montana 59601

: June 29, 2043

: Dear Miss Taylor:

: Once again, both on my own behalf and on the behalf of the Department of the Interior, I wish to offer my deepest sympathies and apologies on the loss of your son Dexter. The needless loss of any life is tragic; the fact that your son was such a promising student makes it all the more so.

: Since our telephone conversation yesterday, I have been in near-constant contact with those investigators and officials in charge of this case. I regret that your son's body cannot be released to you at this time, pending the outcome of this investigation. As I am sure you can appreciate, the circumstances of this case require that all evidence involved be handled very carefully, in accordance with federal and state regulations. I assure you that every effort is being made to conduct the investigation as quickly and thoroughly as possible, and I promise to keep you fully informed.

: At this time, I can share some additional information with you, that may answer some of your remaining questions. Your son's palmtop computer, which he was carrying when the tragedy occurred, contained a diary file. I think that anything more I can say to you will make much more sense in the context of this file; so here is a partial transcript which I received this morning. I will send you the complete file as soon as I receive it. Please be assured that everything is being held in the strictest confidence. I would greatly appreciate you holding this information in the same confidence, at least until the investigation is concluded.

: (continued; page 1 of 2)

----

Case 34421-54-203-239-023 File 342

'''NOT FOR EVIDENTIARY PURPOSES--NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION'''

'''[TEXT ENTERED THROUGH VOICE-RECOGNITION. SOME REFORMATTING; MINOR SPELLING ERRORS CORRECTED -JC]'''

==24-Mar==

Testing, testing. Wow, this is great. I didn't think I'd ever get one of these, let alone one that could handle my voice. Mom must have saved up for months for this. I don't know how you did it, but thanks, Mom. This will really help out at school.

More good news today. I got on the state Honors List again. Being a science geek has its advantages sometimes, I guess. Anyway, it'll look good on my college applications next year.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==4-May==
I don't believe it. I got a letter from the Gates Foundation today. They're doing a bunch of summer programs for "gifted youth". I got picked for the biology camp at Yellowstone! (With all the new wildlife reintroductions, I guess there's actually something to study there now...) Four weeks, all expenses paid. Just twenty people invited, too; I'm not sure how I got picked, but I'm not complaining. In, fucking, credible. With something like this on my record, I might actually have a shot at a scholarship at Stanford after all. Now all I have to do is talk Mom into letting me go...

==4-May==
Yes! Launch clearance received!

==6-May==
Geez, this is happening in a hurry. The tickets arrived today, and a check to cover clothes and camping gear--thanks to my "disadvantaged status", I guess. And a reading list a mile long-- about a book a day for the next month. Until now, I still didn't quite think this was real. Looks like it's real now.

Hiking boots are on the list. Sounds like we're going to be "in the field". Hoo boy. Not only do I have to get this reading done, I've gotta get in shape too.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==15-June==
The plane leaves tomorrow. I'm all packed. Stanford, here I come.

==16-June==
Wow. Here we are. I still can't quite get over this place. I guess Montana used to be the middle of nowhere; now it's pretty much the same as everywhere else. But this is actual ''wilderness''. Trees as far as you can see. It's beautiful. It must have cost a lot to bring this place back to this. We're staying the night in bunks on the edge of the park; but supposedly we'll be camping out the rest of the time. I hope so.

They're all set up for "special" people. They gave me a translator to use for the duration, but I don't think I'll need it; the voice recognition on this should be good enough to get me by.

==17-June==
First day out in the field. I'm not sure I want to be an engineer anymore; I'm thinking of being a biologist. I think most of us are feeling that way. I didn't realize just how pretty ''nothing'' can be. This is really something special.

We haven't seen much wildlife yet, but supposedly there's a lot more near the center of the park. We spent most of the day learning about the ecosystem here, and the reintroduction programs. They still haven't gotten things very close to what they used to be; no predator species, for one thing. That makes sense--you don't want predators until there's enough prey to go around.

I think it's going to be hard to get to sleep tonight.

==18-June==
I was wrong about one thing; I don't think I've ever slept better than I did last night. Walking all day will do that to you, I guess. I hope I don't get blisters.

It just keeps getting prettier and prettier as we move farther in. The air is even clear here. Leaving here is going to be a bummer. There's no question in my mind; I have to find some way to do this for a living. Maybe Stanford isn't the best choice after all. I'll have to do some digging, see what colleges still have programs in biology or zoology. If I can find one with a good genetics program, so much the better.

==19-June==
I don't think I'm ever going to get to college. I think I'm going to die of exhaustion right here. But at least I'll die happy.

We got our first look at big wildlife today. Deer, mostly. I think I saw a raccoon.

We're going to split up for a good part of the day tomorrow.

==20-June==
Very interesting day today.

We split up for most of the afternoon. The instructors were a little reluctant to let me go alone, but I talked them into it; I've made it this far, haven't I? For once I had to take the translator along, so they could page me through it when it was time to regroup. We all had to take a panic button too, in case we broke a leg or something. Lovely thought.

Everything was fine for a couple of hours. The woods somehow seem even more real when you're alone. I didn't see any more wildlife, other than a few squirrels; I thought maybe the bigger animals had been scared off by the noise of the group, so I kept moving out.

Then something bit me on the back of the leg.

I was caught so much by surprise that I fell over. I turned around, and I saw something running full-speed away from me. No question about it; it was a wolf. What happened to "no predators in the park"? And why would a wolf bite and then run away? It makes no sense. Maybe someone got reassigned as a wolf, then got away from wherever they were supposed to be and wound up here. But there's no way that a wolf, even one with a human brain, could cross open country to get here. Or maybe some rich wacko actually bought a wolf treatment for themselves, and then snuck into the park before the change started. That at least makes a little sense. But why bite and run away? I dunno; maybe it's a game.

I thought about telling the instructors when I got back to the group, but I decided not to. No matter what the explanation, if someone reports a wolf in Yellowstone, or just about anyplace else for that matter, it's going to get hunted down. And this one certainly could have killed me if it wanted to; it wouldn't be right to return the favor by getting it killed. Nature red in tooth and claw, and all that. The bite wasn't that bad to begin with; I put some first aid creme on the wound to kill off infection, bandaged it up, and let it go at that. If anybody notices the bandage, I'll tell them I cut my leg on a branch. No big deal.

==21-June==
Nothing unusual today; no sign of the Big Bad Wolf. Just more countryside, and eight more hours of lectures while we walked.

I want to live out here someday; at least close enough that I can come out here once a week or so. This is just too beautiful to leave. The land around here is awful expensive, so I'd better hope to get a job here--or hit the lottery.

The bite is already almost gone; that first aid creme is good stuff.

==22-June==
First week nearly gone. Oh, well; three more weeks still to go.

Another split-up day tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it; I want to see if I can spot that wolf again. It's certainly not going to come this close to a big group. I just hope it doesn't decide to bite my other leg to even things up.

'''[REST OF TEXT ENTERED THROUGH TOUCH SCREEN. MORE SPELLING ERRORS, CORRECTED. -JC]'''

==23-June==
sure is tough to type this way.

im scared.

split up again for afternoon. had muscle aches all over this morning. thought it was just from walking so much. i wasnt going to miss a day because of it.

saw deer. mice. badger. no sign of the wolf.

all of a sudden i couldnt walk anymore. my whole body started spasming. i thought i was dying. i couldnt even hit the panic button. then i saw the fur start sprouting, and i knew what was happening. that made it easier to deal with, in a way.

it was over in just a few minutes. i was a wolf. just like the one i saw before.

this cant happen. the treatment isn't supposed to work on more than one person like this. but its happened.

its weird. my eyes dont see colors right, but they pick out movement really well. i can smell a lot too. i cant tell what half the things im smelling are. but theres sure a lot of them. but thats not the big thing.

people always told me all the things i was missing. what music was like. how much more sense movies made. i knew it must be great to be able to hear people talk.

but i never really guessed what it was like. i can hear now. so many things. from so far around. all of a sudden the world is everywhere. not just in front of me.

i feel whole now.

i almost hit the panic button. but i didnt. if i went back, if they found a way to change me back i might never be able to do this again. and i dont think i want to give this up. this is too good.

im writing this in case something happens. and so i can tell if this starts changing my mind too. i dont think it has so far. i can still remember the capital of new russia and all that stuff. if i start not being able to understand what ive written, ill know im in trouble.

i trashed a perfectly good hiking outfit climbing out of it. the gates foundation will be pissed.

i need to think. but i dont really want to. i just want to see everything. no. i just want to hear everything.

==23-June==
dog tired. sorry. couldnt resist.

i covered a lot of ground today. i think i saw more than i saw the whole week. if theyre going to have these camps they really should let everyone do this. we humans just arent meant to see this stuff. im glad they didnt though. mom never would have gone along with that idea.

i carried this thing with me most of the time. slobber all over it. yuck. good thing its waterproof.

i wonder if theyre looking for me yet. maybe ill find out what a helicopter sounds like. i found a good place to hide for the night. i doubt theyll be looking for wolves anyway. i hope mom doesnt know about this yet.

==24-June==
ive made up my mind. if my mind doesnt go downhill, im not going back. this is too good.

==24-June==
shit. shit shit shit.

i dont know what to do anymore. i got hungry this afternoon. im surprised i didnt earlier. i think i lost some weight in the change. maybe that left me with some energy left over.

i found a deer. followed it. i didnt quite know what to do. neither did the deer. it finally started running. i chased it. i dont think ive ever felt quite so alive. it tired out before i did. finally i caught it from behind and brought it down.

it looked back at me. i was about to bite its neck and try to kill it that way. then i saw the look in its eyes. dont ask me how i knew. but i knew. it was human. another reassignment.

i couldnt do it. i wanted to but i couldnt. it would have been murder. the law might not think so. but the law wasnt what mattered.

now i know why there are no predators here.

i let it go. it should be okay.

i guess i have to go back now. i have no choice. i cant live on plants. but i still dont want to give this up.

maybe theres another way. i hope so.

ill carry this with me. maybe theyll get the idea that im friendly. and if they read this they can help me out.

i sure am hungry.

i love you mom.

===[END OF FILE -JC]===

----

: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR

: (page 2 of 2)

: At around 9 am on June 25, your son was spotted by a security patrol near the Northwest Gate of the park. At the time, gate security patrols were not equipped with tranquilizer guns; they were only equipped with standard-issue police weaponry. (I assure you that, as of yesterday, we have corrected this situation.) We also believe that, in your son's physical state at the time, he may not have been able to read the guards' lips, and therefore he could not have understood their verbal commands. These factors, combined with the other extraordinary circumstances, may have contributed to the tragic shooting. The investigation is proceeding, and all personnel involved have been removed from duty pending the outcome of that investigation.

: We have not confirmed the details mentioned in this transcript. If true, they raise some very troubling points. First of all, I assure you that no one has undergone reassignment into a wolf, and that no legitimate program would offer such a treatment. Second, as you are well aware, even if such a reassignee existed, the virus should not be contagious through saliva or through any other means; it keys itself to the DNA of its original host, and thereafter remains dormant in the system of any other host it subsequently encounters, and does not reproduce under such conditions. It may be that your son was genetically very similar to whoever he encountered; in that case, it is theoretically possible that the virus could be transmitted successfully, though a case similar to this has never been reported in testing or in the field. This is pure speculation at this point, however. We have sealed the park, and an exhaustive search is underway for any animal or person potentially responsible for your son's infection.

: I know that nothing can properly compensate you for a tragic loss such as this. Nevertheless, despite the waiver signed by you and by your son, I want to assure you that the government has every intention of providing you with just compensation. We will be contacting you again regarding this, as soon as the investigation is completed. I would urge you to obtain counsel to handle these arrangements on your behalf; I would be happy to provide recommendations. In the meantime, I would ask that you please do not discuss this case with the press or with others, until the investigation is completed; press coverage could hamper the investigation, and could potentially complicate the process of compensating you.

: Again, my deepest sympathies for your tragic loss. I promise to contact you again within 48 hours, to share any new information I may have.

: Very truly yours,

: Arthur Blakely
: Secretary of the Interior

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-29T21:39:29Z

Phaedrus: Added "stopped" category

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}{{Stopped}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here. The story contains foul language; and part 10, in particular, contains some quite adult material. This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

Kickaha was finding Portland even more to his liking than Seattle. It was still large enough to get lost in, but not large enough to make him feel cut off from the real world. There were parks and trees everywhere, even more so than in Seattle. The air was a little clearer, the sounds a little calmer. And there was this simply wonderful place called Powell's, that seemed to have every book that existed in this world. He was going to have to talk to Keith about setting up housekeeping there tonight; with a little magic, there was no reason why they couldn't... and he didn't think that Keith would need too much persuading. After all, he could always threaten to find other forms of entertainment...

Everything was looking great. Their disguise spells were working perfectly; nobody batted an eye at the fox browsing the shelves at Powell's, or at the coyote loping through the shopping district on all fours.

Of course, all of this good news meant that it was about time for something to blow up. And Kickaha had an idea of what that might be.

Keith was up to something.

About ten minutes after they'd left that old man, Keith had started smiling. He'd stopped at the next decent-sized forest they came to, and Sung for just a few minutes--a land speed record for him. When he came out of it, he'd kept on heading south, as if nothing had happened; he'd even let Kickaha do the flying. But that mental grin of his was ear-to-ear now. He'd figured something out. And he wasn't talking about it--he was waiting for Kickaha to ask, and knowing that he eventually would.

And, of course, that redoubled Kickaha's resolve ''not'' to ask; he'd been someone else's straightman just a wee bit too often lately. Oh, sure, he could just look in Keith's mind... but that would be cheating, and they both knew it. Twice over the course of the afternoon, he started to peek... then immediately caught himself, and went nonchalantly on about his business, as if nothing could be less important than Keith's little insight. And Keith's grin got just that little bit wider...

----

It was about seven o'clock--the workers had largely cleared out of downtown, and the streets were coming alive with the nighttime rush. Keith wandered the streets at random, taking in the sights; Kickaha amused himself--and distracted himself--with incidental magic. An odd trail of spilled drinks and Freudian slips marked their passage.

Just as Kickaha was getting bored, and deciding how to sell Keith on the Powell's thing, he noticed the magician working the corner across the street.

<<Mind if I take over for a sec?>>

<By all means, go right ahead.>

<<Damn, you're agreeable today,>> Kickaha muttered, as they rippled into coyote form.

Keith just grinned some more.

----

Gregor was about to pack up his card table and go home. There couldn't be more than ten dollars in his hat, and he'd put half of that there himself. His tricks were working fine, and people were stopping to watch, but not for long. Maybe this whole street-magic thing just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

As he shuffled his cards, he noticed a new onlooker--a guy in a coyote suit, wearing a cloak. Just when the day couldn't get any more surreal. Cool suit, though. Well, it never hurt to try...

"Perhaps you could help me, sir." He slid the deck across the table, letting the cards fan themselves out face-down. "Would you be so kind as to pick a card?"

"Anything for a total stranger," the coyote said. He tapped a card with his claw, and Gregor flipped it over--the Queen of Diamonds.

"Watch that card carefully, sir; you never know where it might turn up next." As he said this, Gregor smoothly gathered the cards back up, palming the Queen in the process. Squaring the cards up--and sliding the Queen back on top of the pack--he shuffled them repeatedly, keeping the Queen on top each time. Finally, he squared the pack up once more, palming the Queen again in the process, and started dealing cards off the deck. "Now, sir, I need you to concentrate on that card--and when you feel its presence, tell me to stop."

The coyote smiled, let him deal cards for a few more seconds. "Now, I think."

"A fine choice," Gregor said, picking up what was left of the pack in both hands, and dropping the Queen back on top once more. "Now, let us see what we've arrived at." He smiled, picked up the top card, and slowly flipped it over, to reveal... the joker.

"A tragedy, really," the coyote replied sadly, drooping its muzzle. "It's the story of my life. Whenever I go in search of feminine companionship, I find nothing but laughter and jests... and the object of my affections always seems to hide at the bottom of the deck."

Gregor stared at the coyote, eyebrows raised. He slowly turned the pack of cards over in his hand... and there on the bottom was the Queen.

"And there she is," Gregor said, almost as much to himself as to the coyote.

"Say, you ''are'' good at this," the coyote replied.

An older couple had stopped to watch, along with a young man in a business suit. The couple applauded politely, and the husband put a dollar in the hat. After a moment, the young man followed suit. A group of four college students stopped to see what the fuss was about.

"I feel like I should pay you for such a wonderful trick," the coyote continued, fishing into his cloak and pulling out a bill. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything smaller than this twenty. Perhaps we could make this a contest. I can't help but notice those three cups on your table. May I assume that you are familiar with the Cups and Balls?"

"Why, yes; I believe I could manage that trick," Gregor replied, the smoothness coming back into his voice. He didn't like the idea of another magician horning in on his turf--and that's clearly what this coyote character was. But he'd just made more in two minutes than he'd made in the last two hours; he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he ''really'' wanted to know what happened to that last trick...

"Splendid. It's a favorite of mine. I would truly appreciate it if you would perform it for me--and if I can't guess which cup has the ball, these twenty dollars are yours. But if I guess correctly, I get five dollars from your hat. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." To be honest, Gregor was more than a bit taken aback by the wager--if this fellow knew the trick, then he knew that Gregor could make that ball show up anywhere he wanted. Why would he want to make a bet that he knew he would lose? He had an angle somewhere. And Gregor would gladly give five dollars to find out what that angle was.

So Gregor arranged the cups, showed the ball to the coyote, and let ''him'' put it under the center cup. Then he started shuffling the cups, keeping up a steady stream of patter. Three more people stopped to watch, then two more, forming a solid wall around the table. Every so often, he raised a cup to show the ball... and, just after the last time, he made The Move, and he felt the ball slip under the back of the cup and into his palm. A few shuffles later, as he slid another cup, he raised the back edge just a bit, and slipped the ball underneath. He snuck a quick glance at the crowd, and at the coyote in particular; there was no hint of recognition.

He quickly shuffled for a few more seconds, then shuffled, and waited for the coyote to make his choice.

The coyote smiled--''How do you make a mask that can do that?'', Gregor thought--and pointed to the leftmost cup. He was right, and he was wrong. The ball had been there, but it wasn't anymore. Smiling, Gregor lifted the cup, to show the empty air.

The coyote lowered his muzzle again. "I can never seem to follow it--it's always that last move that gets me. Where was it?"

Gregor almost felt guilty. "I have the same trouble myself--the cups just seem to blend together, don't they? It was over here, I believe."

He lifted the center cup--and nothing was there.

"Perhaps that last move was even better than I thought," Gregor said with forced cheer, and lifted the rightmost cup. Nothing there either.

"Well, I've never seen ''that'' happen before," the coyote said, clearly puzzled. "Under the circumstances, I think we'll have to call it a draw. Perhaps if we reverse roles? If you can pick the cup where I've hidden the ball, the twenty dollars is yours--if you can't, I take the five. Agreed?"

Gregor gave a nervous glance at the crowd; this wasn't the right time to make waves. And, dammit, he'd give twenty himself to see this guy work. "Agreed."

"Fine, fine. But we still seem to be missing a ball. Perhaps we can improvise something... excuse me, miss? Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your son's yo-yo for a moment? I promise to return it promptly."

The young mother chuckled, nodded. The young boy next to her wrapped up the string on the yo-yo, then handed it to the coyote, giggling. The crowd was getting thicker, Gregor couldn't even see how many people were watching.

"Yes, this will have to do." The coyote put the yo-yo on the table; it was so large that it barely fit inside the cup. He started shuffling them, clumsily. Every time he moved the cup with the yo-yo, the entire crowd could hear it sliding; every few seconds, the end of the string would even peek out from under the cup. The coyote didn't seem to notice. The crowd chuckled, but a bit uncomfortably; was he really that dense?

Finally, the coyote stopped--sliding the leftmost cup one last centimeter, and producing that telltale sound--and smiled. "Go ahead; guess."

Gregor tried to keep a straight face. "I'm not at all sure; you've clearly done this before. But I would have to say... that one." He pointed at the leftmost cup.

"Why don't you look for yourself? I'm really rather nervous."

"Certainly, kind sir." Gregor lifted the cup... and his jaw dropped, as the crowd gasped along with him. There was nothing there. He even flipped the cup over, to see if the yo-yo had somehow gotten stuck in it--knowing all the while that it wasn't; the extra weight would have been a dead giveaway. Sure enough, there was nothing there.

Disbelievingly, Gregor lifted the other two cups; there was nothing there either. The buzz of the crowd grew to a dull roar.

"Now this is just becoming bizarre," the coyote said. "We're still getting nowhere, and now I owe this poor child a yo-yo. Where could it be?"

The crowd was staring at the coyote, in rapt attention. Gregor was an afterthought.

"There must be a logical explanation for this," the coyote continued, thinking out loud. "They say that nature abhors a vacuum. So, logically, if an object were to disappear, the most likely place for it to turn up would be the nearest empty spot. Now, where would that be... I have it!" Without the slightest hesitation, he slapped his right ear--hard--with his right hand.

And the yo-yo sailed out from his left ear and landed on the table. The ball was right behind it; it bounced once, then landed neatly in one of the upturned cups.

The crowd stared in absolute silence for a moment... then erupted in applause. Kickaha presented the yo-yo to the boy, bowing; the boy laughed, turning the yo-yo over and over in his hands, as if looking for the magic. Someone threw a five-dollar bill on the table; a flurry of money followed it--ones and fives, mostly, but several tens mixed in.

"Well, that's one mystery solved," the coyote said, smiling. "But I'm afraid that our little contest still seems to be a draw."

"On the contrary," Gregor said, still not believing what he had just seen, but determined to play his part for all it was worth. "You certainly guessed where the ball was--even if it was after the fact--and I certainly never guessed correctly. In fact, you would appear to have won twice."

"Why, how kind of you to look at it that way. And it seems that there is more than enough here to go around." The coyote tucked one of the tens from the table into his cloak. "Well, I fear that I have stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. Best of luck with your career, young man." And with that, the coyote turned and walked away, to another ripple of applause from the crowd.

Gregor applauded along with them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. But I fear that I have had enough for tonight as well." ''And there's no way in hell that I'm following an act like that.''

The crowd nodded, applauded once more, and started to disperse.

"Maybe I should get a suit like that," Gregor muttered, as he gathered the money into his hat.

"A suit like what?", a man standing nearby asked.

"Like that coyote suit. Have you ever seen one as good-looking as that?"

The man chuckled nervously. "I don't get it."

Gregor looked up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but several of the people who were left were staring at him with confused expressions as well.

Gregor looked in the direction where the coyote had gone not twenty seconds before. There were several dozen people there, walking in the right direction, but nobody looked out of the ordinary at all.

But just then, one of those people--a man in a black shirt and blue jeans--turned and looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. And just for that moment, Gregor could see the long ears, the muzzle still turned up in a grin.

"Don't mind me," Gregor said quietly. "Just a little private joke."

He went back to gathering up his props.

----

It was five in the morning. Powell's was dark and quiet; even the late-night stock clerks had finished for the night. Not a creature was stirring.

Well, ''one'' creature was stirring.

In the Rose Room, curled up on top of one of the massive bookcases, a fox was just finishing ''The Dilbert Principle''.

<>

The fox just nodded. <Believe it. A few years ago, I was there.>

<<And now look how far you've come.>>

<Yep. I'm sleeping on a bookshelf. How could I ever ask for more than that?>

<>



<<You know, it's not as if we ''need'' to sleep at this point.>>

<Humor me. It feels good. And it's a few hours of peace and quiet.>

<>

The fox closed the book, then curled up nose-to-tail, and closed its eyes.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

<Okay. You win.>

<<Ummm-hmmm. I win what?>>

<You've got more self-control than I thought. You never did ask.>

Kickaha didn't have to say <<Ask about what?>> They both knew.

<Remember when we were trying to figure out what sort of magic I had?>

Interesting. <<Ummm-hmmm. Any insights in that regard?>>

<Could be. Could be.>

<<And will you be sharing these insights with the rest of the class?>>

<Could be. I just need to check one thing first.>

<<The tension is electric.>>



<<Mysteries upon mysteries. Okay, I'll play your little game.>>

Kickaha thought for a moment... then the fox's eyes opened, and concentrated on the book still lying next to them. The nose twitched... and the air above the book shimmered. In a moment, a second copy of the book had appeared, on top of the original.

<<There you go.>>

<Scott Adams is gonna be pissed at you, buddy. But that'll do. Now, watch this.>

Now Keith concentrated on the books. Kickaha felt the strange magic flow--from the feel of things, quite a bit more than Kickaha had used. Kickaha waited to be impressed...

...and nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

The fox grinned.

<Perfect.>

Kickaha said nothing for a few seconds. <<All right. I'm waiting for the explanation. And you ''know'' you're dying to give it to me.>>

<It's simple. Look at the books.>

Kickaha looked at them.

<<Congratulations. They're still books.>>

<No, no. You're missing it, and you'll ''kill'' me if I tell you. Look at them. Look.>

<<Oh, for the love of...>> Kickaha took full control of the body; it shifted into coyote form as he did. He got up and paced around the books, looking at them from every angle. He shifted his forepaws to hands, and opened them up, comparing a few pages. As near as he could tell, they were absolutely unchanged, and absolutely identical. There was nothing unusual about either of them. There wasn't even any aura of magic around them.

So why the hell was Keith so damn smug?

Grumbling to himself, Kickaha flipped the books shut again, looked at the covers once more. There had to be some''wait a fucking minute...''

No aura of magic?

Concentrating harder than he ever had since he'd shown up on this godforsaken planet, Kickaha stared at the second book, the one he'd just created two minutes ago. There should be magic seeping away from it, ticking away the moments until it vanished into the ether from whence it came.

There was absolutely nothing there.

But that meant...

Kickaha sat down on his haunches with a thud, still staring at the book.

<<Keith.>>

<Yeeeesss?>

<<Am I really not seeing what I'm not seeing?>>

<That would depend on what you're not seeing, wouldn't it?>

<<Keith. There's. No. Magic. Here.>>

<Really? What an interesting observation.>

<<Keith. Are you telling me that this is fucking '''PERMANENT?'''>>

<I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I've stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. We'll continue this fascinating conversation in the morning, okay?>

<<We're already in the damn morning!>>

<Then it won't be long now, will it? Pleasant dreams.>

Kickaha started to reply--then he caught himself. He curled up just as Keith had done, and closed his eyes. But those two books were still etched in his mind--the books that he knew would still be there when he woke up.

For long minutes, his mind buzzed with all the possibilities.

Then he picked out a few possibilities he liked.

And when he finally got to sleep, his dreams were indeed pleasant.

User:Phaedrus/Field Trip

2009-08-29T21:36:34Z

Phaedrus: Initial version

__NOTOC__
{{Universe|Circe Treatment}}
{{byline|name=Field Trip|author=Phaedrus|user=Phaedrus}}
[[Category:Story]][[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Wolf]]

Copyright 1996 Phaedrus
{{author note|This was written May 1, 1996. It was the first story I had written in several years, and that shows in a variety of ways.

This story is part of the Circe Treatment series from the TSA-Talk mailing list, and you'll find that things make more sense if you read the first two stories in that series --[http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/ashellgame.html Shell Game] and [http://tsa.transform.to/worlds/circe/breassignment.html Reassignment] -- first.}}

: ARTHUR BLAKELY
: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR
: 1849 C STREET, NORTHWEST
: WASHINGTON, D. C. 20240

: June Taylor
: 2443 East 14th Avenue, Apt. 6B
: Helena, Montana 59601

: June 29, 2043

: Dear Miss Taylor:

: Once again, both on my own behalf and on the behalf of the Department of the Interior, I wish to offer my deepest sympathies and apologies on the loss of your son Dexter. The needless loss of any life is tragic; the fact that your son was such a promising student makes it all the more so.

: Since our telephone conversation yesterday, I have been in near-constant contact with those investigators and officials in charge of this case. I regret that your son's body cannot be released to you at this time, pending the outcome of this investigation. As I am sure you can appreciate, the circumstances of this case require that all evidence involved be handled very carefully, in accordance with federal and state regulations. I assure you that every effort is being made to conduct the investigation as quickly and thoroughly as possible, and I promise to keep you fully informed.

: At this time, I can share some additional information with you, that may answer some of your remaining questions. Your son's palmtop computer, which he was carrying when the tragedy occurred, contained a diary file. I think that anything more I can say to you will make much more sense in the context of this file; so here is a partial transcript which I received this morning. I will send you the complete file as soon as I receive it. Please be assured that everything is being held in the strictest confidence. I would greatly appreciate you holding this information in the same confidence, at least until the investigation is concluded.

: (continued; page 1 of 2)

----

Case 34421-54-203-239-023 File 342

'''NOT FOR EVIDENTIARY PURPOSES--NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION'''

'''[TEXT ENTERED THROUGH VOICE-RECOGNITION. SOME REFORMATTING; MINOR SPELLING ERRORS CORRECTED -JC]'''

==24-Mar==

Testing, testing. Wow, this is great. I didn't think I'd ever get one of these, let alone one that could handle my voice. Mom must have saved up for months for this. I don't know how you did it, but thanks, Mom. This will really help out at school.

More good news today. I got on the state Honors List again. Being a science geek has its advantages sometimes, I guess. Anyway, it'll look good on my college applications next year.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==4-May==
I don't believe it. I got a letter from the Gates Foundation today. They're doing a bunch of summer programs for "gifted youth". I got picked for the biology camp at Yellowstone! (With all the new wildlife reintroductions, I guess there's actually something to study there now...) Four weeks, all expenses paid. Just twenty people invited, too; I'm not sure how I got picked, but I'm not complaining. In, fucking, credible. With something like this on my record, I might actually have a shot at a scholarship at Stanford after all. Now all I have to do is talk Mom into letting me go...

==4-May==
Yes! Launch clearance received!

==6-May==
Geez, this is happening in a hurry. The tickets arrived today, and a check to cover clothes and camping gear--thanks to my "disadvantaged status", I guess. And a reading list a mile long-- about a book a day for the next month. Until now, I still didn't quite think this was real. Looks like it's real now.

Hiking boots are on the list. Sounds like we're going to be "in the field". Hoo boy. Not only do I have to get this reading done, I've gotta get in shape too.

'''[ENTRIES OMITTED -JC]'''

==15-June==
The plane leaves tomorrow. I'm all packed. Stanford, here I come.

==16-June==
Wow. Here we are. I still can't quite get over this place. I guess Montana used to be the middle of nowhere; now it's pretty much the same as everywhere else. But this is actual ''wilderness''. Trees as far as you can see. It's beautiful. It must have cost a lot to bring this place back to this. We're staying the night in bunks on the edge of the park; but supposedly we'll be camping out the rest of the time. I hope so.

They're all set up for "special" people. They gave me a translator to use for the duration, but I don't think I'll need it; the voice recognition on this should be good enough to get me by.

==17-June==
First day out in the field. I'm not sure I want to be an engineer anymore; I'm thinking of being a biologist. I think most of us are feeling that way. I didn't realize just how pretty ''nothing'' can be. This is really something special.

We haven't seen much wildlife yet, but supposedly there's a lot more near the center of the park. We spent most of the day learning about the ecosystem here, and the reintroduction programs. They still haven't gotten things very close to what they used to be; no predator species, for one thing. That makes sense--you don't want predators until there's enough prey to go around.

I think it's going to be hard to get to sleep tonight.

==18-June==
I was wrong about one thing; I don't think I've ever slept better than I did last night. Walking all day will do that to you, I guess. I hope I don't get blisters.

It just keeps getting prettier and prettier as we move farther in. The air is even clear here. Leaving here is going to be a bummer. There's no question in my mind; I have to find some way to do this for a living. Maybe Stanford isn't the best choice after all. I'll have to do some digging, see what colleges still have programs in biology or zoology. If I can find one with a good genetics program, so much the better.

==19-June==
I don't think I'm ever going to get to college. I think I'm going to die of exhaustion right here. But at least I'll die happy.

We got our first look at big wildlife today. Deer, mostly. I think I saw a raccoon.

We're going to split up for a good part of the day tomorrow.

==20-June==
Very interesting day today.

We split up for most of the afternoon. The instructors were a little reluctant to let me go alone, but I talked them into it; I've made it this far, haven't I? For once I had to take the translator along, so they could page me through it when it was time to regroup. We all had to take a panic button too, in case we broke a leg or something. Lovely thought.

Everything was fine for a couple of hours. The woods somehow seem even more real when you're alone. I didn't see any more wildlife, other than a few squirrels; I thought maybe the bigger animals had been scared off by the noise of the group, so I kept moving out.

Then something bit me on the back of the leg.

I was caught so much by surprise that I fell over. I turned around, and I saw something running full-speed away from me. No question about it; it was a wolf. What happened to "no predators in the park"? And why would a wolf bite and then run away? It makes no sense. Maybe someone got reassigned as a wolf, then got away from wherever they were supposed to be and wound up here. But there's no way that a wolf, even one with a human brain, could cross open country to get here. Or maybe some rich wacko actually bought a wolf treatment for themselves, and then snuck into the park before the change started. That at least makes a little sense. But why bite and run away? I dunno; maybe it's a game.

I thought about telling the instructors when I got back to the group, but I decided not to. No matter what the explanation, if someone reports a wolf in Yellowstone, or just about anyplace else for that matter, it's going to get hunted down. And this one certainly could have killed me if it wanted to; it wouldn't be right to return the favor by getting it killed. Nature red in tooth and claw, and all that. The bite wasn't that bad to begin with; I put some first aid creme on the wound to kill off infection, bandaged it up, and let it go at that. If anybody notices the bandage, I'll tell them I cut my leg on a branch. No big deal.

==21-June==
Nothing unusual today; no sign of the Big Bad Wolf. Just more countryside, and eight more hours of lectures while we walked.

I want to live out here someday; at least close enough that I can come out here once a week or so. This is just too beautiful to leave. The land around here is awful expensive, so I'd better hope to get a job here--or hit the lottery.

The bite is already almost gone; that first aid creme is good stuff.

==22-June==
First week nearly gone. Oh, well; three more weeks still to go.

Another split-up day tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it; I want to see if I can spot that wolf again. It's certainly not going to come this close to a big group. I just hope it doesn't decide to bite my other leg to even things up.

'''[REST OF TEXT ENTERED THROUGH TOUCH SCREEN. MORE SPELLING ERRORS, CORRECTED. -JC]'''

==23-June==
sure is tough to type this way.

im scared.

split up again for afternoon. had muscle aches all over this morning. thought it was just from walking so much. i wasnt going to miss a day because of it.

saw deer. mice. badger. no sign of the wolf.

all of a sudden i couldnt walk anymore. my whole body started spasming. i thought i was dying. i couldnt even hit the panic button. then i saw the fur start sprouting, and i knew what was happening. that made it easier to deal with, in a way.

it was over in just a few minutes. i was a wolf. just like the one i saw before.

this cant happen. the treatment isn't supposed to work on more than one person like this. but its happened.

its weird. my eyes dont see colors right, but they pick out movement really well. i can smell a lot too. i cant tell what half the things im smelling are. but theres sure a lot of them. but thats not the big thing.

people always told me all the things i was missing. what music was like. how much more sense movies made. i knew it must be great to be able to hear people talk.

but i never really guessed what it was like. i can hear now. so many things. from so far around. all of a sudden the world is everywhere. not just in front of me.

i feel whole now.

i almost hit the panic button. but i didnt. if i went back, if they found a way to change me back i might never be able to do this again. and i dont think i want to give this up. this is too good.

im writing this in case something happens. and so i can tell if this starts changing my mind too. i dont think it has so far. i can still remember the capital of new russia and all that stuff. if i start not being able to understand what ive written, ill know im in trouble.

i trashed a perfectly good hiking outfit climbing out of it. the gates foundation will be pissed.

i need to think. but i dont really want to. i just want to see everything. no. i just want to hear everything.

==23-June==
dog tired. sorry. couldnt resist.

i covered a lot of ground today. i think i saw more than i saw the whole week. if theyre going to have these camps they really should let everyone do this. we humans just arent meant to see this stuff. im glad they didnt though. mom never would have gone along with that idea.

i carried this thing with me most of the time. slobber all over it. yuck. good thing its waterproof.

i wonder if theyre looking for me yet. maybe ill find out what a helicopter sounds like. i found a good place to hide for the night. i doubt theyll be looking for wolves anyway. i hope mom doesnt know about this yet.

==24-June==
ive made up my mind. if my mind doesnt go downhill, im not going back. this is too good.

==24-June==
shit. shit shit shit.

i dont know what to do anymore. i got hungry this afternoon. im surprised i didnt earlier. i think i lost some weight in the change. maybe that left me with some energy left over.

i found a deer. followed it. i didnt quite know what to do. neither did the deer. it finally started running. i chased it. i dont think ive ever felt quite so alive. it tired out before i did. finally i caught it from behind and brought it down.

it looked back at me. i was about to bite its neck and try to kill it that way. then i saw the look in its eyes. dont ask me how i knew. but i knew. it was human. another reassignment.

i couldnt do it. i wanted to but i couldnt. it would have been murder. the law might not think so. but the law wasnt what mattered.

now i know why there are no predators here.

i let it go. it should be okay.

i guess i have to go back now. i have no choice. i cant live on plants. but i still dont want to give this up.

maybe theres another way. i hope so.

ill carry this with me. maybe theyll get the idea that im friendly. and if they read this they can help me out.

i sure am hungry.

i love you mom.

===[END OF FILE -JC]===

----

: SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR

: (page 2 of 2)

: At around 9 am on June 25, your son was spotted by a security patrol near the Northwest Gate of the park. At the time, gate security patrols were not equipped with tranquilizer guns; they were only equipped with standard-issue police weaponry. (I assure you that, as of yesterday, we have corrected this situation.) We also believe that, in your son's physical state at the time, he may not have been able to read the guards' lips, and therefore he could not have understood their verbal commands. These factors, combined with the other extraordinary circumstances, may have contributed to the tragic shooting. The investigation is proceeding, and all personnel involved have been removed from duty pending the outcome of that investigation.

: We have not confirmed the details mentioned in this transcript. If true, they raise some very troubling points. First of all, I assure you that no one has undergone reassignment into a wolf, and that no legitimate program would offer such a treatment. Second, as you are well aware, even if such a reassignee existed, the virus should not be contagious through saliva or through any other means; it keys itself to the DNA of its original host, and thereafter remains dormant in the system of any other host it subsequently encounters, and does not reproduce under such conditions. It may be that your son was genetically very similar to whoever he encountered; in that case, it is theoretically possible that the virus could be transmitted successfully, though a case similar to this has never been reported in testing or in the field. This is pure speculation at this point, however. We have sealed the park, and an exhaustive search is underway for any animal or person potentially responsible for your son's infection.

: I know that nothing can properly compensate you for a tragic loss such as this. Nevertheless, despite the waiver signed by you and by your son, I want to assure you that the government has every intention of providing you with just compensation. We will be contacting you again regarding this, as soon as the investigation is completed. I would urge you to obtain counsel to handle these arrangements on your behalf; I would be happy to provide recommendations. In the meantime, I would ask that you please do not discuss this case with the press or with others, until the investigation is completed; press coverage could hamper the investigation, and could potentially complicate the process of compensating you.

: Again, my deepest sympathies for your tragic loss. I promise to contact you again within 48 hours, to share any new information I may have.

: Very truly yours,

: Arthur Blakely
: Secretary of the Interior

{{TF tag | type=Animal | degree=Full form | species=Wolf}}

User:Phaedrus

2009-08-29T21:17:39Z

Phaedrus: /* Completed Stories */ Added "Field Trip"

I used to be a fairly active denizen of the TSA-Talk mailing list, and I have a [http://www.lycanon.org/stories website] with some of my own stories.

I went for years without writing any fiction, but a recent storyverse on TSA-Talk has me writing at least a little, so I might get started again -- we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll at least be copying my stories over here.

==Story Series==

*[[User:Phaedrus/A_Trickster's_Tail|A Trickster's Tail]]

==Completed Stories==

*[[User:Phaedrus/Commission|Commission]]
*[[User:Phaedrus/Field_Trip|Field Trip]]

{{author page}}
[[Category:Phaedrus]]

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-29T21:02:22Z

Phaedrus: /* Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28) */ Added part 17

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here. The story contains foul language; and part 10, in particular, contains some quite adult material. This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

Kickaha was finding Portland even more to his liking than Seattle. It was still large enough to get lost in, but not large enough to make him feel cut off from the real world. There were parks and trees everywhere, even more so than in Seattle. The air was a little clearer, the sounds a little calmer. And there was this simply wonderful place called Powell's, that seemed to have every book that existed in this world. He was going to have to talk to Keith about setting up housekeeping there tonight; with a little magic, there was no reason why they couldn't... and he didn't think that Keith would need too much persuading. After all, he could always threaten to find other forms of entertainment...

Everything was looking great. Their disguise spells were working perfectly; nobody batted an eye at the fox browsing the shelves at Powell's, or at the coyote loping through the shopping district on all fours.

Of course, all of this good news meant that it was about time for something to blow up. And Kickaha had an idea of what that might be.

Keith was up to something.

About ten minutes after they'd left that old man, Keith had started smiling. He'd stopped at the next decent-sized forest they came to, and Sung for just a few minutes--a land speed record for him. When he came out of it, he'd kept on heading south, as if nothing had happened; he'd even let Kickaha do the flying. But that mental grin of his was ear-to-ear now. He'd figured something out. And he wasn't talking about it--he was waiting for Kickaha to ask, and knowing that he eventually would.

And, of course, that redoubled Kickaha's resolve ''not'' to ask; he'd been someone else's straightman just a wee bit too often lately. Oh, sure, he could just look in Keith's mind... but that would be cheating, and they both knew it. Twice over the course of the afternoon, he started to peek... then immediately caught himself, and went nonchalantly on about his business, as if nothing could be less important than Keith's little insight. And Keith's grin got just that little bit wider...

----

It was about seven o'clock--the workers had largely cleared out of downtown, and the streets were coming alive with the nighttime rush. Keith wandered the streets at random, taking in the sights; Kickaha amused himself--and distracted himself--with incidental magic. An odd trail of spilled drinks and Freudian slips marked their passage.

Just as Kickaha was getting bored, and deciding how to sell Keith on the Powell's thing, he noticed the magician working the corner across the street.

<<Mind if I take over for a sec?>>

<By all means, go right ahead.>

<<Damn, you're agreeable today,>> Kickaha muttered, as they rippled into coyote form.

Keith just grinned some more.

----

Gregor was about to pack up his card table and go home. There couldn't be more than ten dollars in his hat, and he'd put half of that there himself. His tricks were working fine, and people were stopping to watch, but not for long. Maybe this whole street-magic thing just wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

As he shuffled his cards, he noticed a new onlooker--a guy in a coyote suit, wearing a cloak. Just when the day couldn't get any more surreal. Cool suit, though. Well, it never hurt to try...

"Perhaps you could help me, sir." He slid the deck across the table, letting the cards fan themselves out face-down. "Would you be so kind as to pick a card?"

"Anything for a total stranger," the coyote said. He tapped a card with his claw, and Gregor flipped it over--the Queen of Diamonds.

"Watch that card carefully, sir; you never know where it might turn up next." As he said this, Gregor smoothly gathered the cards back up, palming the Queen in the process. Squaring the cards up--and sliding the Queen back on top of the pack--he shuffled them repeatedly, keeping the Queen on top each time. Finally, he squared the pack up once more, palming the Queen again in the process, and started dealing cards off the deck. "Now, sir, I need you to concentrate on that card--and when you feel its presence, tell me to stop."

The coyote smiled, let him deal cards for a few more seconds. "Now, I think."

"A fine choice," Gregor said, picking up what was left of the pack in both hands, and dropping the Queen back on top once more. "Now, let us see what we've arrived at." He smiled, picked up the top card, and slowly flipped it over, to reveal... the joker.

"A tragedy, really," the coyote replied sadly, drooping its muzzle. "It's the story of my life. Whenever I go in search of feminine companionship, I find nothing but laughter and jests... and the object of my affections always seems to hide at the bottom of the deck."

Gregor stared at the coyote, eyebrows raised. He slowly turned the pack of cards over in his hand... and there on the bottom was the Queen.

"And there she is," Gregor said, almost as much to himself as to the coyote.

"Say, you ''are'' good at this," the coyote replied.

An older couple had stopped to watch, along with a young man in a business suit. The couple applauded politely, and the husband put a dollar in the hat. After a moment, the young man followed suit. A group of four college students stopped to see what the fuss was about.

"I feel like I should pay you for such a wonderful trick," the coyote continued, fishing into his cloak and pulling out a bill. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything smaller than this twenty. Perhaps we could make this a contest. I can't help but notice those three cups on your table. May I assume that you are familiar with the Cups and Balls?"

"Why, yes; I believe I could manage that trick," Gregor replied, the smoothness coming back into his voice. He didn't like the idea of another magician horning in on his turf--and that's clearly what this coyote character was. But he'd just made more in two minutes than he'd made in the last two hours; he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he ''really'' wanted to know what happened to that last trick...

"Splendid. It's a favorite of mine. I would truly appreciate it if you would perform it for me--and if I can't guess which cup has the ball, these twenty dollars are yours. But if I guess correctly, I get five dollars from your hat. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." To be honest, Gregor was more than a bit taken aback by the wager--if this fellow knew the trick, then he knew that Gregor could make that ball show up anywhere he wanted. Why would he want to make a bet that he knew he would lose? He had an angle somewhere. And Gregor would gladly give five dollars to find out what that angle was.

So Gregor arranged the cups, showed the ball to the coyote, and let ''him'' put it under the center cup. Then he started shuffling the cups, keeping up a steady stream of patter. Three more people stopped to watch, then two more, forming a solid wall around the table. Every so often, he raised a cup to show the ball... and, just after the last time, he made The Move, and he felt the ball slip under the back of the cup and into his palm. A few shuffles later, as he slid another cup, he raised the back edge just a bit, and slipped the ball underneath. He snuck a quick glance at the crowd, and at the coyote in particular; there was no hint of recognition.

He quickly shuffled for a few more seconds, then shuffled, and waited for the coyote to make his choice.

The coyote smiled--''How do you make a mask that can do that?'', Gregor thought--and pointed to the leftmost cup. He was right, and he was wrong. The ball had been there, but it wasn't anymore. Smiling, Gregor lifted the cup, to show the empty air.

The coyote lowered his muzzle again. "I can never seem to follow it--it's always that last move that gets me. Where was it?"

Gregor almost felt guilty. "I have the same trouble myself--the cups just seem to blend together, don't they? It was over here, I believe."

He lifted the center cup--and nothing was there.

"Perhaps that last move was even better than I thought," Gregor said with forced cheer, and lifted the rightmost cup. Nothing there either.

"Well, I've never seen ''that'' happen before," the coyote said, clearly puzzled. "Under the circumstances, I think we'll have to call it a draw. Perhaps if we reverse roles? If you can pick the cup where I've hidden the ball, the twenty dollars is yours--if you can't, I take the five. Agreed?"

Gregor gave a nervous glance at the crowd; this wasn't the right time to make waves. And, dammit, he'd give twenty himself to see this guy work. "Agreed."

"Fine, fine. But we still seem to be missing a ball. Perhaps we can improvise something... excuse me, miss? Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your son's yo-yo for a moment? I promise to return it promptly."

The young mother chuckled, nodded. The young boy next to her wrapped up the string on the yo-yo, then handed it to the coyote, giggling. The crowd was getting thicker, Gregor couldn't even see how many people were watching.

"Yes, this will have to do." The coyote put the yo-yo on the table; it was so large that it barely fit inside the cup. He started shuffling them, clumsily. Every time he moved the cup with the yo-yo, the entire crowd could hear it sliding; every few seconds, the end of the string would even peek out from under the cup. The coyote didn't seem to notice. The crowd chuckled, but a bit uncomfortably; was he really that dense?

Finally, the coyote stopped--sliding the leftmost cup one last centimeter, and producing that telltale sound--and smiled. "Go ahead; guess."

Gregor tried to keep a straight face. "I'm not at all sure; you've clearly done this before. But I would have to say... that one." He pointed at the leftmost cup.

"Why don't you look for yourself? I'm really rather nervous."

"Certainly, kind sir." Gregor lifted the cup... and his jaw dropped, as the crowd gasped along with him. There was nothing there. He even flipped the cup over, to see if the yo-yo had somehow gotten stuck in it--knowing all the while that it wasn't; the extra weight would have been a dead giveaway. Sure enough, there was nothing there.

Disbelievingly, Gregor lifted the other two cups; there was nothing there either. The buzz of the crowd grew to a dull roar.

"Now this is just becoming bizarre," the coyote said. "We're still getting nowhere, and now I owe this poor child a yo-yo. Where could it be?"

The crowd was staring at the coyote, in rapt attention. Gregor was an afterthought.

"There must be a logical explanation for this," the coyote continued, thinking out loud. "They say that nature abhors a vacuum. So, logically, if an object were to disappear, the most likely place for it to turn up would be the nearest empty spot. Now, where would that be... I have it!" Without the slightest hesitation, he slapped his right ear--hard--with his right hand.

And the yo-yo sailed out from his left ear and landed on the table. The ball was right behind it; it bounced once, then landed neatly in one of the upturned cups.

The crowd stared in absolute silence for a moment... then erupted in applause. Kickaha presented the yo-yo to the boy, bowing; the boy laughed, turning the yo-yo over and over in his hands, as if looking for the magic. Someone threw a five-dollar bill on the table; a flurry of money followed it--ones and fives, mostly, but several tens mixed in.

"Well, that's one mystery solved," the coyote said, smiling. "But I'm afraid that our little contest still seems to be a draw."

"On the contrary," Gregor said, still not believing what he had just seen, but determined to play his part for all it was worth. "You certainly guessed where the ball was--even if it was after the fact--and I certainly never guessed correctly. In fact, you would appear to have won twice."

"Why, how kind of you to look at it that way. And it seems that there is more than enough here to go around." The coyote tucked one of the tens from the table into his cloak. "Well, I fear that I have stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. Best of luck with your career, young man." And with that, the coyote turned and walked away, to another ripple of applause from the crowd.

Gregor applauded along with them. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize. But I fear that I have had enough for tonight as well." ''And there's no way in hell that I'm following an act like that.''

The crowd nodded, applauded once more, and started to disperse.

"Maybe I should get a suit like that," Gregor muttered, as he gathered the money into his hat.

"A suit like what?", a man standing nearby asked.

"Like that coyote suit. Have you ever seen one as good-looking as that?"

The man chuckled nervously. "I don't get it."

Gregor looked up. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but several of the people who were left were staring at him with confused expressions as well.

Gregor looked in the direction where the coyote had gone not twenty seconds before. There were several dozen people there, walking in the right direction, but nobody looked out of the ordinary at all.

But just then, one of those people--a man in a black shirt and blue jeans--turned and looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. And just for that moment, Gregor could see the long ears, the muzzle still turned up in a grin.

"Don't mind me," Gregor said quietly. "Just a little private joke."

He went back to gathering up his props.

----

It was five in the morning. Powell's was dark and quiet; even the late-night stock clerks had finished for the night. Not a creature was stirring.

Well, ''one'' creature was stirring.

In the Rose Room, curled up on top of one of the massive bookcases, a fox was just finishing ''The Dilbert Principle''.

<>

The fox just nodded. <Believe it. A few years ago, I was there.>

<<And now look how far you've come.>>

<Yep. I'm sleeping on a bookshelf. How could I ever ask for more than that?>

<>



<<You know, it's not as if we ''need'' to sleep at this point.>>

<Humor me. It feels good. And it's a few hours of peace and quiet.>

<>

The fox closed the book, then curled up nose-to-tail, and closed its eyes.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

<Okay. You win.>

<<Ummm-hmmm. I win what?>>

<You've got more self-control than I thought. You never did ask.>

Kickaha didn't have to say <<Ask about what?>> They both knew.

<Remember when we were trying to figure out what sort of magic I had?>

Interesting. <<Ummm-hmmm. Any insights in that regard?>>

<Could be. Could be.>

<<And will you be sharing these insights with the rest of the class?>>

<Could be. I just need to check one thing first.>

<<The tension is electric.>>



<<Mysteries upon mysteries. Okay, I'll play your little game.>>

Kickaha thought for a moment... then the fox's eyes opened, and concentrated on the book still lying next to them. The nose twitched... and the air above the book shimmered. In a moment, a second copy of the book had appeared, on top of the original.

<<There you go.>>

<Scott Adams is gonna be pissed at you, buddy. But that'll do. Now, watch this.>

Now Keith concentrated on the books. Kickaha felt the strange magic flow--from the feel of things, quite a bit more than Kickaha had used. Kickaha waited to be impressed...

...and nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

The fox grinned.

<Perfect.>

Kickaha said nothing for a few seconds. <<All right. I'm waiting for the explanation. And you ''know'' you're dying to give it to me.>>

<It's simple. Look at the books.>

Kickaha looked at them.

<<Congratulations. They're still books.>>

<No, no. You're missing it, and you'll ''kill'' me if I tell you. Look at them. Look.>

<<Oh, for the love of...>> Kickaha took full control of the body; it shifted into coyote form as he did. He got up and paced around the books, looking at them from every angle. He shifted his forepaws to hands, and opened them up, comparing a few pages. As near as he could tell, they were absolutely unchanged, and absolutely identical. There was nothing unusual about either of them. There wasn't even any aura of magic around them.

So why the hell was Keith so damn smug?

Grumbling to himself, Kickaha flipped the books shut again, looked at the covers once more. There had to be some''wait a fucking minute...''

No aura of magic?

Concentrating harder than he ever had since he'd shown up on this godforsaken planet, Kickaha stared at the second book, the one he'd just created two minutes ago. There should be magic seeping away from it, ticking away the moments until it vanished into the ether from whence it came.

There was absolutely nothing there.

But that meant...

Kickaha sat down on his haunches with a thud, still staring at the book.

<<Keith.>>

<Yeeeesss?>

<<Am I really not seeing what I'm not seeing?>>

<That would depend on what you're not seeing, wouldn't it?>

<<Keith. There's. No. Magic. Here.>>

<Really? What an interesting observation.>

<<Keith. Are you telling me that this is fucking '''PERMANENT?'''>>

<I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I've stayed up far past my bedtime tonight. We'll continue this fascinating conversation in the morning, okay?>

<<We're already in the damn morning!>>

<Then it won't be long now, will it? Pleasant dreams.>

Kickaha started to reply--then he caught himself. He curled up just as Keith had done, and closed his eyes. But those two books were still etched in his mind--the books that he knew would still be there when he woke up.

For long minutes, his mind buzzed with all the possibilities.

Then he picked out a few possibilities he liked.

And when he finally got to sleep, his dreams were indeed pleasant.

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-29T20:50:38Z

Phaedrus: /* Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09) */ Added part 16

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here. The story contains foul language; and part 10, in particular, contains some quite adult material. This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

Sees-Too-Much sat and looked out across his fire, at the night beyond

His parents had given him a proper name, a white man's name. But he always knew that it was not his. When he had reached twenty-one, he had gone to the courthouse, asked to have it changed to Sees-Too-Much. The judge had refused, called it frivolous. They had compromised.

Back in his better days, he had even gotten a credit card, with his name printed on it... FREDDY SEES-TOO-MUCH. They had cancelled the card long ago, of course, but he still kept it. It reminded him of things. It reminded him of what it felt like to be young, to wake up full of life, to know that the day had so many possibilities.

These days, he just told stories. Sometimes he told them to the youth of the tribe; sometimes he sat on the sidewalk near the casino, and told them to the tourists coming to gamble. Nobody paid much attention, but at least the tourists gave him money sometimes. At night, there was the shelter, of course; but the company there was miserable. So unless the weather was too bad, he just slept under the stars.

He looked into the night, stroked the eagle feather he held in his right hand, and waited. It couldn't be too long now.

----

A fox padded through the darkness.

Keith had planned on heading for Portland; he had always liked the place, and it seemed far enough away to be safe. But he needed to think about things. Staying in the Olympics was out of the question, but this place--an Indian reservation, from the look of it--had appealed to him somehow; it was still close to the freeway, but just far enough away that the drone of the cars was peaceful rather than distracting. He still wasn't at all sure how the magic worked, but he knew somehow that no one would bother him, and he had been right. And for once, Kickaha hadn't said a word. Maybe he was enjoying himself; maybe he needed to think about things too. Or maybe he was just afraid that Keith would start talking to him about life again...

Keith had spent the day here, Singing for a while, wandering aimlessly. At the end of the day, his thinking hadn't really gotten him anywhere. But at least no one had tried to kill him; and as far as he was concerned, that made it a damn fine day indeed.

As he pondered whether to spend the night here or take off for Portland, he noticed the firelight in the distance. Intrigued, he slowly circled closer, staying low to the ground. He could see the silhouette of the figure behind the fire; as he got closer, he saw the old man's face, looking right back at him. He froze. This shouldn't be happening.

"Come on, then!", the old man called, waving him closer.

Keith stared at him, his fear giving way to curiosity. He started forward again, straight towards the fire, almost without thought. Before he knew what was happening, he was standing by the warmth of the fire, almost within the old man's reach.

The old man smiled. "You're late."

----

"Late for what?", the fox replied nervously, tail between its legs. Its voice was high-pitched, and with more than a bit of a yip to it, but still understandable. It blinked and took a step back, as if surprised by itself.

"Late for what?", he countered, in a pale imitation of its voice. "I've been waiting to die for the last five years, that's what! And now you finally get around to picking me up? I knew you must be busy these days, but with shitty service like that, no wonder the world's gone to hell..."

"I'm sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for somebody else..."

"Somebody else? Looked yourself in the mirror lately, Fox? Who the hell would I mistake you for? And if you're a skinwalker, then I'm Skunk."

"Ummm, no... I mean, I'm ''a'' fox, I guess, but not ''that'' Fox... not ''the'' Fox... it's sort of complicated..."

"It would have to be," he said, rolling the shaft of the feather back and forth in his hands. "Well, fox-but-not-that-Fox, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Keith Dorner, and I'm..."

"Bullshit. You're no more a Keith Dorner than I am a Frederick Peterson."

The fox's eyes widened; it looked almost pained. "Well, yes I am... like I said, it's a little complicated... have you seen the news lately?"

"I stopped paying attention to news ten years ago. Always different words, always the same old song."

"Well, you see, um..." The fox stopped, seemed to stare past him into space for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to talk to, well, a friend of mine, okay? I think he's a little more like what you have in mind; maybe he can explain things better."

"Suit yourself."

The fox nodded. Then it slowly grew, and changed...

"Oh, Coyote," he nodded. "With the kind of life I've had, I figured you'd show up. But let me guess, you say you're not ''that'' Coyote either, right?"

The coyote's whole demeanor had clearly changed as well; while the fox had been ready to bolt, the coyote clearly felt in charge of the situation. It paced back and forth through the firelight as it talked. "Not unless you're a worshipper prepared to do anything to serve him, in which case it's always nice to meet a fan."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not quite ''that'' crazy, anyway. So, do you have a name?"

"Kickaha. And I don't believe I caught yours."

"Sees-Too-Much. So, if you're not ''that'' Coyote, and you're not here to haul my ass to the other side, then what are you?"

"That, as they say, is an interesting story."

"Those are my specialty. Do tell."

"Well, it's like this. As near as I can tell, up until a few days ago, Keith... he's the fox... he did stuff with computers, and I was a fictional character. I guess he made a coyote costume for a party, and I was his charming little background story. Well, something weird happened, and everyone turned into their costumes. So he turned into me, only we were both in the same head. So we got out of there, and sort of did our own thing, and I taught him some magic, and people kept trying to kill us. And last night somebody managed it, so we went to the other side, as you put it, and Keith managed to run into boring people even ''there,'' believe it or not. And some other things happened that he made me promise not to tell him about yet, and eventually they turned him into a fox--and it's quite an improvement, I've got to tell you--and sent us both back here, and apparently we're just gonna keep on coming back every time we die from now on, so I guess we'll see how long it takes to drive each other--''What?'' If you don't like what I'm gonna say, then don't--oh. Sorry. Talking two ways at once takes some getting used to. So anyway, how was ''your'' week?"

He stared at the coyote for a few seconds. "No shit." The smile slowly crept back across his lips. Then he laughed. "That's a fine story indeed, but I'll never make a dime from it. You know, in the old times, you at least had to wait for Fox to show up to bring you back to life. Everyone's trying to save time these days, I guess."

The coyote yawned. "Whatever."

"So, what do you think of the world so far?"

"Not bad. Kinda dull, but not hopeless. Oh, speaking of which, Keith wants to talk again."

"You shouldn't say such things. This is how things are for you; you know nothing different. His whole life has turned upside-down."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Some people have all the luck..."

With that, the coyote shrank back into a fox.

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you," he told it.

"I'm not so sure myself," it said. "But I had a choice... not all that great a choice, but a choice. And it's been fun... well, apart from getting killed, anyway. I always wanted to be different."

"You certainly are that," he nodded. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well... you seem like you know something about this kind of thing."

"My grandfather told me some things," he nodded. "He said the magic had left him long ago, but he told so many stories. My father never believed a word of it; he always wanted to be modern... I always believed; I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew that he was seeing it all again in his heart... he knew it was true, and so did I. But I never thought I would see it... at least, not in this world." He stopped, looked again at the fox from head to tail. "Be careful what you wish for, eh?"

The fox just nodded. "But if this happened to you, if you had the magic, if you could live forever... what would you do?"

"What would I do?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he got up, and looked into the night sky. "What would I do?" he said again, softly. Then he looked back down to the fox. "That reminds me of a story Grandfather told me," he said, as he sat back down. "I think your friend will like it. Have you heard how Coyote put the stars in the sky?"

"I think I've read this one," the fox replied, looking down. "That's where Coyote put up the constellations, and then got bored and just threw the rest of the stars around, isn't it?"

"That's how some tell it," he nodded. "But Grandfather heard it a bit differently. Let me tell you about it. And sit down; just looking at you makes me tired."

The fox nodded, curled up near the fire, head on the ground, looking at him.

"Well, back when the world was young and things weren't settled yet, Coyote was travelling. And one night, he saw a pack of wolves, five of them. They were all looking up into the sky, like I did just now. And Coyote asked the oldest wolf, 'What do you see up there, brother?'

"'Nothing; nothing at all,' the wolf replied. So Coyote went on his way.

"On the next night, he came back to the same spot, and again he saw the wolves looking at the sky. So he asked the next-oldest wolf, 'Brother, what is up there that interests you so?' 'Oh, nothing,' the second wolf answered, so Coyote left again.

"This went on for two more nights. Finally, on the fifth night, Coyote asked the youngest wolf. And the wolf said, 'I won't tell you. You would meddle.'

"'I would never do such a thing,' said Coyote.

"So, finally, the youngest wolf told him. 'We see two animals up there, up in the sky where we cannot reach them.'

"'Well, then, let's go up and see them.'

"'How can we do that?'

"'I can do that,' said Coyote. 'I can show you how to get up there.'

"So Coyote did his magic, and he wished up a bow, and a big quiver of arrows. He shot the first arrow, and it stuck to the sky. Then he shot another one, and it stuck to the first. He kept shooting his arrows, until finally there was a big chain of them all the way back to the earth.

"'See?', said Coyote, and he started climbing the arrows. The wolves followed, and the oldest wolf took his dog with him. So they climbed and climbed, until they were all the way up in the sky. Then Coyote could see the animals the wolves had seen from down below. There were two grizzly bears up there.

"The youngest wolf started towards the bears. 'Don't do that,' called Coyote; 'they will tear you apart.' But the wolf went there anyway, and another wolf followed, and then two more. The oldest wolf and his dog stayed back. But when the wolves got close, they just sat down and looked at the bears, and the bears looked back at the wolves. Finally, the oldest wolf and his dog came over too. Only Coyote didn't go over there, because he didn't trust the bears.

"Coyote looked at them all, sitting there like that. 'That makes a nice picture,' he thought. 'If I leave them like that, then whenever people come along and look at that picture in the sky, they'll say "There's a story about that," and they'll tell a story about me.'

"So Coyote climbed back down, and he pulled the arrows out of the sky as he went, so that nobody else could get back down. Those wolves and those grizzlies are still up there today; we call them the Big Dipper now. Three of the wolves make the handle, and the one in the middle, the oldest wolf, still has his dog with him. The other two wolves make the part of the bowl that's next to the handle, and those bears; they're the other part of the bowl, the part that points to the North Star.

"Coyote liked that. 'If I put up lots more stars, they'll tell lots more stories,' he told himself. So he got a big bucket full of stars, and he made pictures with them all over the sky. But before he could finish, he dropped the bucket, and those stars spilled across the sky, and they made the Milky Way.

"And that's how Coyote put the stars in the sky."

The fox looked quietly at him for a while. "I think I see what you're saying," it said finally. "If I let somebody else tell me what I should be doing, I'm likely to wind up stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

"I just tell the stories," he replied, smiling. "If you think they mean something, that's your own business."

"Thank you," the fox said, quietly. "Is there something I...we could do for you?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. Something tells me that you'll have some wonderful stories to tell before too long. I want you to come back here, when you're ready, and tell them to me. I'm an old man, and it's been ages since I've heard something really new. And maybe I'll have some stories for you too."

"I'll do that," the fox said. "But I thought you were just waiting to die."

"I thought I was too." He smiled. "But maybe I'm not quite ready to leave after all."

The fox seemed to smile. "I'm glad to hear that." It stood up, looked around. "Well, I guess we should get going. Somebody might still be after us, and I wouldn't want to bring them here. Thank you... very much."

"Wait a minute. Before you go... I need your friend back for a moment."

"All right." The fox closed its eyes, became a coyote again.

"That was a good story," it said. "Other than the part about dropping the bucket. That wasn't necessary."

"If I told you and your friend a good story," he replied, "then you should pay me for that."

"I suppose so," the coyote said. "But I don't know what I could pay you with. I could magic up some money, I guess, but Keith probably wouldn't like that. Besides, it would go away in a little while anyway. My magic does that."

"That's all right. I know how you can pay me." He reached into his pocket, and came up with eight quarters... all he had left from the day, after he had got something to eat for dinner. He held it out to the coyote. "Just take this money and hold it for a moment."

The coyote looked at him strangely. "All right," it said finally. It held out its right forepaw, and the paw shifted, grew fingers. It took the coins, and held them in its paw for a few seconds.

"Now, breathe on it."

The coyote looked at him again. "Whatever makes you happy," it said finally. It held the coins close to its muzzle, and breathed across them. Then it held them back out to him.

"Thank you," he said, as he took the coins, put them back in his pocket. "Good luck on your journeys."

The coyote just nodded. Then it turned into a raven, and vanished into the sky.

Sees-Too-Much nodded. Then he carefully put out his fire, and walked away. He walked to the road, the road that led to the casino, the place that had promised so much and given so little. It would still be open, he knew. When they had opened the place, they had promised that it would close at dark. But now they kept it open later and later. Nighttime was when the money came, they said.

So he walked into the casino, walked straight up to one of the roulette tables. One man in a suit was playing. The dealer spun the wheel, sent the ball on its way. The man in the suit put a ten-dollar chip on the black.

Sees-Too-Much held out his eight quarters, stacked them neatly on the red 21.

"Money plays," the dealer muttered. "No more bets."

The ball went round and round, finally clattering to a halt above the "21".

"A winner," the dealer called. He took the other man's chip, pushed a small pile of seven ten-dollar chips to Sees-Too-Far.

"Let it ride," he said calmly, pushing them back onto red 21.

As the man in the suit reached to put another chip on the black, he looked Sees-Too-Far in the eyes for a moment. He faltered, nearly dropping the chip. Then he put it on the red instead, and added three more.

"No more bets," the dealer called, a little more loudly than before, and spun the wheel. The floor boss walked by, stopped to watch. The ball circled the wheel, almost settled on the double zero; then it seemed to lift itself back out, bounced three times along the edge of the wheel, then fell firmly into red 21.

"A big winner here," the boss shouted. People at other tables turned to watch. The dealer gave four more chips to the man in the suit. Then he nervously counted out two more tens, five hundreds, and two of the gold thousand-dollar chips. "Congratulations," he said with forced cheer, putting them in front of Sees-Too-Far.

He looked the dealer in the eyes. He smiled, a snake's smile. His words were quiet, but they seemed to cut through the noise of the place.

"Let it ride."

The dealer looked to the floor boss, sweat starting to roll down his cheek. The floor boss studied Sees-Too-Far. "I'm sorry, sir," he said finally. "That's above the limit for this table. If you'd step over to the main table, we could take that bet there."

He nodded, gathered up his pile, and followed the floor boss to the other table. The dealer there stepped aside, and the floor boss stood behind the wheel, watched the old man pile his chips on the red 21, the quarters still on top. "No more bets," he called quickly, but not before three others had slapped their bets down on the red.

The floor boss spun the golden wheel, threw down the ball; they seemed to spin for hours. Dozens of people watched the ball spiral towards the wheel's edge. Sees-Too-Far never looked; his eyes were fixed on the floor boss, and his smile never wavered. The floor boss refused to return the old man's gaze; he looked only at the wheel, at the ball.

And so he saw it lose speed, dive to the edge of the wheel, land in red 21 without so much as a rattle.

The crowd erupted with cheers, pounded the old man's back.

The floor boss just stared at the wheel, feeling the old man's smile. "The roulette tables are closed," he said finally, as he turned and walked towards the cashier's cage.

Sees-Too-Far thought about trying his luck at blackjack or the dice, for he knew that he could not lose tonight. He could own this place, he thought. But he decided against it. It was not good to overuse the power of the gods. So he followed the floor boss to the cashier's cage, took a hundred dollars in cash, and a check for $93,210. And he slipped the quarters quietly back into his pocket. He would never use them again, but he would keep them. They would make a great story.

He would sleep in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, then to the courthouse. He didn't feel like compromising anymore.

{{author note|"Coyote Places the Stars" is a classic Coyote story, told by a number of tribes, with variations. The version I've given here is a mixture of some of them I've heard. If you liked it, I encourage you to read ''Giving Birth To Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter: Coyote Builds North America'', by Barry Lopez; it contains dozens of great Coyote stories, including a slightly different "Coyote Places the Stars", as well as a good bibliography.}}

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==

User:Phaedrus/A Trickster's Tail

2009-08-29T20:42:03Z

Phaedrus: Added Fox category

[[Category:Phaedrus]][[Category:Story]][[Category:Animal]][[Category:Anthropomorphic]][[Category:Coyote]][[Category:Fox]][[Category:Fantasy]][[Category:Adult]]
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trickster's Tail, A}}

{{TF tag|type=Animal|degree=Anthro|species=Coyote}}
{{title|name=A Trickster's Tail|author=Phaedrus}}

Copyright 1996-1998 Phaedrus

{{XXX}}
{{author note|This story series is unfinished, and at this point it looks unlikely that it will ever be finished. Still, there's some good stuff in here. The story contains foul language; and part 10, in particular, contains some quite adult material. This story was originally in the [[No More Fakes]] universe, but it never really intersected with the other stories, and diverged rather sharply at the end.}}

==Part 1 (Oct. 31; written 1996/12/17)==

Keith was so nervous, he was afraid he might need to pee. Which would be more than a bit inconvenient right now.

He was not the sort of person that you would expect to see walking down the street in a coyote suit. But then again, that was probably why he was doing it.

----

Keith had first heard about the Raucous Chicken Club party back in mid-September; and as soon as he heard about it, he knew it was something that he needed to see--badly enough to extend his stay for two weeks. Not that that was a big deal; he hadn't accepted any new offers yet. (There were plenty of offers; Microsoft and IBM were in a full hiring swing; and no small number of his fellow contractors had felt the call of a guaranteed paycheck, thinning out the field somewhat--but he had been there, done that, thank you very much. Besides, he wasn't exactly hurting for funds; 30000 shares of Microsoft doesn't make you Bill Gates, but it does make your travel plans a lot more flexible.)

Ever since drama class in high school, he had always had an interest in costuming. He was glad he hadn't made a career of it, but he still remembered enough to win most of the costume contests at the holiday office parties he wound up at--and the ones he lost were usually because the boss had showed up in costume. Still, from what he had heard, the Raucous Chicken was two or three orders of magnitude above the average party; some truly unique creations showed up there.

Since this was a special occasion, and since he had plenty of time to kill, he decided to try a full-body animal costume, something he hadn't done since college. A wolf? A lion? No, those would be done to death. Something really exotic, like a dragon? No, he'd never be able to pull it off. Something in between; close enough to the standard dogs and cats that he'd have some hope of putting the head together right, but something that hadn't been done more than a couple of million times before. A coyote-morph? Yes, that might be worth going with as a starting point. He had always liked the Coyote myths; maybe he could do something with that.

But he couldn't go in a coyote costume and nothing else; not only would that be boring, but it would make it that much harder to deal with hiding the seams. He needed something to dress up the concept with, literally and figuratively. He thought about putting some Native American garb together and going as ''the'' Coyote, but that seemed awfully dangerous--someone might think he was being disrespectful of other cultures, and he certainly couldn't risk that these days. A fantasy theme? A coyote mage? Promising. Very promising. A tricksterish character, definitely; uses magic for practical jokes, manages to get himself in trouble a lot, and somehow always manages to get back out of it. Since he's an animal morph, he's probably in tune with nature and all that; so maybe he gets his power from natural areas, and can't recharge in a city. Gets around a lot, and has a lot of experience, but not enough of an attention span to put a lot of effort into any one subject; so he can do a lot of different things, but spells cast on anything other than himself tend to wear off after a few hours, or maybe a few days if he's really pushing it--and of course, they don't always do just what he wants. Probably good at sneaking around and hiding, since that's the only way he'd survive more than three months. Good. Good enough for a start, anyway...

So he went out and rented a good sewing machine. Getting the other supplies he needed was going to be a problem--the other partygoers had obviously hit the stores long before him--but a Gold MasterCard can solve a surprising array of problems, once you find the right person to read the numbers to. And Keith knew just the man for the job--an old college theater-major friend, who had gone to Hollywood to pursue The Dream of a show-biz career, and actually managed to pull it off. Three days, some long phone calls and a few frantic email exchanges later, the four boxes from Sony Pictures Studios showed up. Opening them up was like Christmas morning, especially the big roll of wonderful fake fur in just the right shade of golden brown. There was a note attached to the stack of diagrams and photos: "I always knew you were just a lonesome ol' coyote at heart, man. Just remember, if anyone at that party asks where you got this stuff, you never heard of me. And send me a snapshot; this I gotta see. --Jack"

The rest was relatively straightforward; there were mistakes and false starts, and some terrible moments with the muzzle and the ears, but the suit was ready with just over a week to spare. It certainly wouldn't win any awards at the Raucous Chicken, but Keith was pretty sure that it wouldn't embarrass him either. The claws on hands and feet were shorter than a werewolf's, functional rather than frightening. The tail was a bit over two feet long, long enough to be convincing but without the risk of getting it stepped on. He was particularly proud of the head; the pointy ears and the long muzzle were perfect, though they made him sound like he was talking from inside a long train tunnel. For the mage's outfit, he whipped up a green hooded cloak, with trim and assorted mystic sigils in a slightly darker green; it would cover him pretty thoroughly if he so chose, but he planned on wearing it loosely and with the hood down, to show off the suit. (He decided to pass on anatomical correctness--he had never done it before, and he wasn't quite sure what the room was ready for.) With four days to go, everything was ready; he started wearing it around his apartment, getting used to the feel and the heat. He found himself liking it more and more. If this Raucous Chicken thing doesn't work out, he mused, I'll be the hit of the office-party circuit for years...

Now for a name and a bit more of a background story. After some digging around at the library, he decided that "Kickaha" had a nice ring to it. Now, what was he doing on Earth? Some self-created magical accident, obviously, had thrown his life-force across the cosmos and into the body of some human, which he had reshaped into something more "suitable." When his magical power was high, he was in control, and the human personality was pretty much along for the ride; when his power was low, it was the other way around. Hmm. That might be a bit wordy for a costume party, but at least it wasn't cliched. What was he doing at a costume party? Well, having fun, obviously; what else would Kickaha be doing? Keith grinned at that; if anyone pressed him at the party for a detail he'd left out, he could make it up as he went along with a clear conscience--after all, Kickaha certainly wouldn't feel the need to tell the truth about himself...

----

And so it came to pass that a slightly sweaty human in a golden-colored fursuit pulled his rental car into a lot two blocks from the Raucous Chicken, silently cursing the traffic that had held him up. He adjusted his cloak, donned his Kickaha head, gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, gulped once, and headed for the club, shifting from his usual walk into the confident saunter he'd been practicing.

When he got inside, his nervousness eased a little. Yes, there were some truly impressive costumes here--there was an impressive minotaur, and that donkey over in the corner was extraordinary--but there were also some much more amateurish efforts; when he saw the guy with the sheet over his head, he knew that he wasn't going to get laughed out of the room. He didn't know anyone here, but on the bright side, that meant that he couldn't embarrass himself too much in a full-body costume. So he quickly found himself relaxing, and slipping more fully into the Kickaha persona he had practiced. He compared notes with a barbarian and a knight in shining armor, to see if they were "from the same plane"; when the barbarian jokingly asked him why the mighty Kickaha seemed to have a speech impediment, he replied, "My telepathy is on the fritz again." I should have thought of that earlier, he thought; I could have put a speaker at the top of the head or something. Oh, well; live and learn.

A fellow in a somewhat clumsily-done French poodle costume blundered into him from behind. "Have you no respect for your elders, dog?", Keith said jokingly. "Perhaps this will teach you!" With that, he started an elaborate windup for a spell, streaming nonsense syllables; the poodle cowered in terror and tried to scramble away on all fours, but Keith was hot on the trail. Just after he finished his incantation and thrust both his arms at the fleeing poodle, he suddenly felt queasy. He held his head for a moment to clear it, then looked up.

A large French poodle stood shakily where the man had been. It looked at him, and yipped plaintively.

Around the rest of the room, shouts and screams rang out. The minotaur bellowed, clearly no longer in costume. Something exploded across the room. People started running.

<<Oops,>> Kickaha thought. <<Talk about overdoing it...>>

He quickly looked around the room again, trying to figure out whether there was some way to bring things back to some semblance of what they were. <<Not a chance,>> he realized. <<Anyway, this should all wear off pretty soon. Which means that I should probably be going; someone's bound to not be too pleased about this, and this party is a total loss anyway...>>

As he joined the crowd running for the exit, he looked down to see if he had been caught in the backlash. <<Oh, shit,>> he thought, as he noticed the smooth expanse of fur across his crotch; <<That was one of my favorite parts...>>

Outside, he closed his eyes, feeling for someplace quiet and out-of-the-way. A patch of land about a half-mile north called to him; a wooded area, maybe a park. It would have to do, at least until he could catch his bearings. He closed his cloak, pulled his hood over his head, muttered a few words, and started walking. Even though his clawed feet and twitching tail were still clearly visible, nobody noticed him. People had a tendency not to notice Kickaha when he walked that way.

As Kickaha arrived at the park, a man in shabby clothes staggered up. <<Damn drugs,>> Kickaha mused; <<you can't fog the mind of someone who's already fogged beyond recognition.>> "Spare change?" mumbled the man, lurching and grabbing Kickaha's cloak. Kickaha chuckled. "Well, since you asked, I suppose I can spare one more tonight..." The bum's form blurred and shifted; then a large mutt staggered away. It didn't seem to object to the change; it may not have even noticed.

Kickaha, meanwhile, suddenly felt queasy again. <<Then again, maybe I can't,>> he muttered, as he dropped to one knee...

Keith slowly blinked his eyes, staring down at his nose on the tip of his muzzle.

"Holy shit."

==Part 2 (Oct. 31/Nov. 1; written 1996/12/19)==

Keith stared numbly down at himself. He didn't have to piece together what had happened. He could remember everything; the party, the shock of the aftermath, the strange feeling of the park drawing him in, the irresistible call of the perfect setup line...

The bum! Dreading what he knew he was going to see, Keith slowly looked back up at the dog, lurching off towards the other side of the park. What the hell was he going to do about that? He could remember the feel of the power flowing through him, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of how the thing was done...

Then it hit him, and he almost gasped in relief; Kickaha's spells were temporary. Hopefully, this one would wear off by the end of the night...

At the realization of what he had just thought, his knees went weak, and he gently toppled over backwards onto the grass; the jab of pain from his tail as he landed on it erased any hopes he had that this was all sort of elaborate hallucination.

Kickaha. Somehow, something had happened to make everything in the party real. That meant that, not only was he stuck in the body of a coyote, but that there was a practical joker named Kickaha stuck in his head--and wielding very real magic.

This was all coming too quickly. <Let's come to grips with one impossibility at a time, shall we?,> he told himself firmly.

He started with the basics: his body. As he looked himself over, he found depressingly few surprises, and the surprises were indeed depressing. He was covered from head to foot with golden-brown fur; the only color variations were at the tip of the tail and the end of the muzzle, which he had bleached white. The tail was very real; an experimental twitch confirmed that it was movable. The structure of his limbs was unchanged; his fingers and feet were longer, as they had been on the costume, with short claws. Leathery pads covered the soles of his feet. He couldn't see most of the head, but it felt like the costume's. He was no clearly no longer anatomically correct; not only was his, er, equipment gone, but he could no longer properly be called an asshole either. <Damn,> he thought; <am I not supposed to eat or drink anymore? Does magic take care of this, or am I going to burst in a day or so? Wait a minute; I just turned someone into a dog--why can't I fix this? Hell, why can't I just turn myself back?> But again, that feeling of helplessness came over him; if he could do it, he had no idea how. He tried concentrating, and even nonsense chanting as he had done at the party, but there were no results.

The more he thought about it, the more he was surprised as much by where the changes stopped as by the fact that they had happened at all; it was as if someone had taken his costume and turned it directly into flesh, with no creativity whatsoever. <Don't go there,> he thought to himself, and shuddered; <next thing you know you'll be trying to rip your skin off. Change-of-subject time...>

<Magic. Either it's real, or it's "sufficiently-advanced technology"--and in that case, it's advanced enough that I may as well think of it as magic. I think; therefore I am. I think I am a coyote; therefore, there is magic. And I just turned someone into a dog; therefore, I can use magic. Or at least Kickaha could use magic. Which leads to...''

<Kickaha. Okay; if I can accept being a coyote, I can accept having a mage stuck in my head. But what's Kickaha like? Dammit, why didn't I put some details in that background story when I had a chance? He likes jokes, but does he think that dropping a freeway on somebody is a real knee-slapper? Should I just get the heck out of here and hope he can't come back if I never go near a park again?>

He turned it over in his head for several cold minutes. He could go home, and spend the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect coyote stuck in a city, assuming he didn't die of kidney failure first. Or he could stay here, and risk spending the rest of his life as an anatomically-incorrect ''psychotic'' coyote turning people into newts for recreation. Not a comforting set of choices.

Dammit, if he could just ask a few questions...

Then it hit him. When Kickaha's power was high, Kickaha was in control; the story said so. When it was low, Keith was in control. But what happened in the middle? He had never said. Was there a point where they were both in control? Could he risk finding out?

When he thought about it, there wasn't much of a choice.

He had no idea ''how'' Kickaha got his power; if it involved some sort of ritual, he was screwed. Hopefully, just spending some time here would do the trick. But Keith knew one thing for sure; he wasn't going to let the change happen while he was asleep. He might never get control again.

Sighing, he got up, and walked over to a tree. He gathered his cloak around him; he didn't really need it to guard against the cold, but Kickaha seemed to have used it to avoid being seen--it was worth a shot. He sat down, pulled up his hood, and stared off at the city lights in the distance, and the stars above.

His thoughts were not comforting.

==Part 3 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/21)==

The sun slowly rose in the east. Keith sat under the tree, staring groggily out at the park. He had never really been into parks, but he had to admit that this one was pretty; simple, but pretty. And relaxing. It might look better in pink.

He blinked. Where the hell did ''that'' come from?

He was still Keith--mentally, anyway. There was no question. Physically, nothing had changed. But he felt...different. Now that he concentrated a bit, he could feel a warmth in him. Was this what magic felt like? How to find out? Well, if Kickaha was a nature mage, then nature magic ought to be easiest, right?

He looked down, picked out a small patch of grass on the ground. He tried to picture it a bit larger, a bit more fully grown. He stared at it. Nothing happened.

He heard footsteps. Looking up, he was relieved and horrified all at once; the bum from last night was back. On two legs. And, judging from his walk, apparently sober--or as close as he was ever going to get. But what did he remember? He looked around the park, and Keith shivered as the bum looked right at him--then past him as if he wasn't there. Shrugging, the bum turned and walked away. <Why didn't he see me?>, thought Keith, then remembered that the cloak was still wrapped around him--and how people didn't seem to spot Kickaha when he was like that. So there ''was'' something magic about it.

The thought of magic reminded Keith what he was up to; he thought a bit more about the party last night. He focused on the grass again. Carefully, he waved an arm, then pointed a claw at the grass. As he completed the motion, he could feel a bit of warmth shoot down his arm and through his outstretched finger.

The patch of grass seemed to shudder. Then, slowly, it started to grow. Ten seconds later, it finally stopped, after reaching about double its previous height. Keith could only stare at it.

<So it does work,> he thought numbly. <Well, if that works, can I change myself back?>

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he was now. Then he pictured himself changing into his real self; 6'3" (a bit shorter than he was now, he thought), white and furless, brown hair, blue eyes, good complexion. He chanted a few nonsense syllables, waved his arms, and pointed them at his chest.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing happened.

<Shit. Maybe I don't have the power, or maybe there's just rules to this that I don't know about. Well, there's only one way to find out, and I guess it's now or never...>

Carefully, he tried to mentally picture Kickaha, somewhere in his mind, with himself in there separately, still in control. When he thought he had that, he cautiously pictured a link in between them. He closed his eyes, gulped once, pointed a claw at his head, and flicked it.

<<And the crowd goes wild,>> came a clear voice from inside his head.

<Kickaha, I presume?>, he tentatively thought back, trying to settle his nerves.

<<You were expecting maybe Uri Geller?>> The "voice" was mocking, but in a friendly sort of way, like a coworker trading Monday-morning barbs on the way in the office. Back when Keith had an office.

<I've got some questions for you.>

<<So I gathered. Mind if I sneak one in first?>>

<Go ahead.>

<<What's the big deal here? I mean, sure, I goofed, but it's happened before. I thought we had an understanding about that. Everybody's fine by now. Why the righteous indignation all of a sudden?>>

<Huh? How can we have an understanding when you didn't even exist before last night?>

<<You're sitting there in a coyote's body watching grass grow, and you think I didn't exist until last night? Boy, I must be one helluva fast learner...>>

<Look, it doesn't make any sense to me either. All I know is, one minute I'm at a costume party having a good time in my coyote outfit, and the next minute all hell breaks loose.>

<<That's the best kind of party, isn't it? But that's not the way it happened. We were at the party having a good time with the mundanes, I... goof, and the next thing you know everybody turns into their costume. Good thing we didn't go as a goat or something. So all we wound up short of is a few key pieces of equipment, and apparently your brain as well. And speaking of key pieces of equipment, mind if I fix things up a bit?>>

<No changing the subject. Does that story make sense to you?>

<<As much sense as anything ever makes.>>

<Look, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that's not the way it happened. I came to the party in a coyote costume. You're a... character I invented. The next thing I know, everybody's changed, and you're there, just the way the story said.>

<<Oh, of course. That makes so much more sense. Something just arbitrarily transformed a whole party and brought your charming little story to life. However could I have missed that?>>

<But what about the costume we--I was wearing. You remember that, right?>

<<Well, ''duh.''>>

<So what does a wizard need with a costume?>

<<If I didn't think you were crazy I'd be insulted. You can't go to a costume party without a costume. It's cheating.>>

Keith tried to bury his head in his hands, and nearly succeeded in poking his right eye out with a claw. <If you're the one responsible for all these changes, and your magic wears off in a few hours, then how come I'm still a coyote?>

<<Aha! If I just showed up last night, then how do you know when my magic wears off?>>

<It was in the story.>

<<Oh. Of course. The stooooory. How conveeeeenient. Well, of course it doesn't wear off. How many times do I need to explain it to you?>>

<Once would be nice.>

<<No respect. Typical. Okay, I'll explain it; maybe it'll jar some sense back into that muddled head of yours. Magic is chaos. When you cast a spell on something, you're concentrating chaos in one place. It doesn't like that. Eventually it sulks and goes away. But it doesn't go away from someone with the Gift; if it did, they couldn't work magic in the first place. Are you remembering ''any'' of this now?>>

Keith wanted to groan. This was getting too weird; and the more they "talked," the weirder it got. <Remember when I told you it was fine to sneak in a question before mine?>

<<Of course.>>



<<Testy, aren't we?>>

<You have no idea. Anyway->

<<Shit.>>

<Huh?>

<<Look.>>

A car was driving by outside the park. It was being driven by a goblin. A very authentic goblin.

<<He was at the party, right?>> Kickaha actually sounded almost distraught.



<<But my stuff would have worn off by now; I wasn't trying that hard. That means... that I ''didn't'' do it.>>

<That's what I've been trying to tell you.>

<<And you really ''were'' just there in a coyote costume.>>

<Absolutely.>

<<Do you realize what this means? This means... that none of this is my fault!>> Kickaha's tone abruptly went back to its normal cheer. <<Well. I'm glad that's settled. Now, what was the question?>>

Keith was nearly in shock. <That's all this means to you?>

<<Oh, of course not. I'm sorry. It means we haven't been properly introduced. Kickaha at your service. A Master of the Art of no small repute, now sadly cast adrift through the multiverse without so much as a body to my name. And you are?>>

<Thoroughly confused.>

<<Nice to meet you, Mr. Confused, even under such awkward circumstances. But I thought your name was Keith something-or-other?>>

Keith found himself chuckling despite himself. <I guess this is why I'm a contractor and not a manager. I've never been good at running interviews. Yes, it's Keith. Keith Dorner. Master of Science, of reasonable repute, I guess. Money in the bank, condo on Mercer Island. Now a coyote sitting in a park hearing voices in my head and hoping a certain bum doesn't decide to come back and kick my ass.>

This drew a mental belly-laugh, a disturbing thing to have in your head when you're not used to it. <<So at least the big things I'm remembering are right; it's just the details that got fucked somewhere. And there ''is'' a sense of humor in there. There's hope yet. Don't worry, though. Sure, he remembers everything that happened last night, very clearly. And the night before that, he remembers the magic beavers that came out to play with him. A fascinating mind, really.>>

<How do you know?>

<<Because I'm a Master of the Art. Shall we go through the introductions again?>>

<Once was fine, thanks. Can I ask the questions now?>

<<Gee, you've got a one-track mind.>

<Obviously not, or we wouldn't be having this conversation.>

<<And a man who knows a straight line when he hears it! Oh, it would warm my heart to hear that if I only had one. What's the question?>>

<What do you want?>

<>



<<Well, I want to help all life forms throughout the cosmos achieve a higher state of consciousness and a universal brotherhood. But that's not gonna happen, so I'll settle for having a good time before I die. How about you?>>

Keith was a bit stunned, both at the answer and the question. <Well, I like what I'm doing, even if I don't always like the projects. I guess I just want to get enough money in the bank that I can afford to do it just for fun and not for work. And I like helping people out; I'd like to be able to do that more.>

<<Maybe my memories are whacked here again, but don't you already have more money than one human being should be allowed to have?>>

<Well, I've got about five million, but just about all of it is on paper. I could live on it, sure, as long as the market doesn't crash, but it's not enough to do anything really ''important'' with...>

Keith got the distinct impression of Kickaha shaking his head. <<Still a ways to go here, I see. Look. Let's cut right to the chase. You're worried about loosing the horrible force that is me on the world, right?>>

<Well, yeah.>

<<And you know that all I'd have to do is be careful with my magic, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.>>

<And all I'd have to do is stay in a city somewhere, and there wouldn't be a thing ''you'' could do about it.>

<<More or less. Any wagers on which of us would be more miserable?>>

Keith tried to picture himself, stuck in this body, scared to go near a park. Then he tried to picture someone like Kickaha, carefully measuring every bit of magic he used. 

<<I'd resent that if it weren't true. Now, can I have the body for a second? I need to show you something.>>

<What?>

<<Something that will answer your questions.>>

<'''What?'''>

<<That would be telling.>>

Keith sighed. <Go ahead.>

<>

Keith suddenly felt dizzy for a moment. When his mind cleared, he found himself still looking out through his eyes and ears, but he knew that he was no longer in control.

Kickaha got up, stretched. This was going to be fun. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and started the Song, reaching out to the trees, to the grass, to the world. There were a few seconds of hesitation, of questioning, as there always was when the Song was first sung. Then he felt the contact, the rush of acceptance. He could feel the wind rippling through the grass, the sun's early rays reaching the trees. He could feel the power flow, slowly at first, then in a rush. In a few more seconds, he could feel himself complete, the delicious warmth of his whole body flushed with power. He Sang his thanks, and the world returned his Song. Then he opened his eyes.

<What... was... ''that?''>

<<That's what magic feels like. My kind of magic, anyway. Not bad, huh?>>

Keith tried to shake his head; it took him a couple of seconds to remember that he couldn't. <Wow,> he managed silently. A pause. <So you're charged up all the way?>

<<You could put it that way, yes.>>

<Then why am I still here?>

<<Because that spell you did is still there; we just swapped ends. I like it; I should have thought of it before--but then again, I guess I didn't get a chance to think of it before. So, are you ready to see something?>>

<That wasn't it?>

<<That wasn't the half of it.>>

<Go for it.>

<<Don't mind if I do.>>

Kickaha gathered his power, pictured the Change. The gestures helped, but they weren't necessary, not when you were doing something easy. And this was easy. He felt his fur ripple and condense into black feathers, felt his muzzle shift into a beak, felt his cloak vanish to wherever the heck it went when he did this. The world seemed to expand as he shrank; the ground rushed up at his eyes. With the change complete, he hopped off the ground, beat his wings, and rose into the sky.

<<This is a raven. I've always liked them.>>

Keith was at a loss for words; he could only watch as the cars and buildings of the town passed beneath them, feel the wind rush past. He had never liked flying; he knew people who loved it, but to him it was just two or three hours locked up in a little seat in a little box. But this...

Kickaha calmly pictured the link, made a little adjustment.

<<Your turn.>>

Keith felt a brief stab of pure terror as he went into a dive. Then he flapped his wings, tentatively at first, then with confidence as he felt them catch the air; he rose back into the sky. He folded his wings for a moment, dove again, then pulled up into a majestic climb. He leveled off, tried a few turns, did a barrel roll; giddy, he tried for a loop, lost his speed halfway through the climb, stalled, dove again, then pulled out, swooping just over a roof. God, it was glorious. He climbed again, until the city was spread out under him; he could see every detail. He could see...

...a parking lot.

The parking lot of Belchard CyberSystems, Inc.

And in that parking lot, a red BMW 328is coupe, parked in the "Reserved" space.

The property of one Joseph Belchard, Jr.

One of the hazards of contract work is not getting paid. Sometimes it's because there's a genuine problem; sometimes the client goes bankrupt on you. Sometimes the client just figures that, if the contract is small enough, it will cost you more to fight it in court than it would to eat the loss; so they manufacture a problem. And they're right; it does cost more to fight it than to eat it. But you have to fight it anyway. Because if you eat it, and word gets out, someone else will try it. And then someone else.

That's why Keith kept George Gallardo, Esq., on retainer. And Dorner v. Belchard, Jr., d.b.a. Belchard Cybersystems, Inc., was on track, and scheduled for trial on September 12, 1997.

Keith thought of something. It was absolutely nonproductive. It was juvenile. It was infantile. It would accomplish nothing.

And it had to be done.

<<Oh, good. Let me help.>>

Suddenly, Keith was no longer in control.

Kickaha wheeled merrily away. He swooped down low, over the city. And he Called.

From below, a pigeon flew up towards them. Then another. Then a bluebird. They climbed, following the raven.

Kickaha swooped to and fro, over the buildings, the streets, the trees. Again and again, he Called. And from everywhere, birds came, flying up to meet the flock.

Kickaha surveyed the situation. At least fifty; close to a hundred. The lot was only a couple of blocks away.

<<This should do.>>

Keith found himself in control again. He knew his mission. He flew straight for the target, his army in ragged formation behind him.

At the proper moment, he folded his wings, and dove. He lined up his shot carefully, making a few minor adjustments. Behind him, he could hear the whoosh of wings. The car rushed up at him; he aimed for the center of the hood. At the last moment, he stretched his wings and arced, releasing his missile as he rose back into the sky.

From the ground, the sound was like a wave coming in from the sky; the impossible cloud of birds shooting down, reaching the target, then suddenly exploding, birds banking away in every possible direction. And the steady ''splutsplutsplut'' of each shot hitting home.

Kickaha took control again, sent his thanks to the birds as they dispersed. Reaching the park took only a minute or so; it was occupied, so he flew on, towards a forest a few miles away. Swooping in for a landing, he Changed just as he reached the ground; he landed on clawed feet, back in the coyote form, cloak rippling behind him.

<<So, what do you think?>>

Keith was too lost in his thoughts to answer for a few seconds. <Amazing,> he managed finally. 

<<It helps, yes,>> Kickaha agreed, smiling. <<But that's not what you were thinking while you were doing it, was it?>>

<No,> Keith thought, seeing where this was going, knowing that he was beaten, and not caring in the slightest.

<<And what were you thinking?>>

Keith tried to shake his head, found that he could. <God, that was fun.>

<<So, do you still think we're so different, you and I?>>



<>

==Part 4 (Nov. 1; written 1996/12/23)==

<How do you walk on these things?>

<<Quickly. It comes in handy.>>

<Don't remind me. You really expect me to look like this?>

<<Oh, come on. You'll love it when you get used to it. And besides, we made a deal. When we're out in public, you can use yours. Anyway, we look great where I come from. Stylish, even.>>

<We are ''not'' where you come from.>

<<And whose fault is that, Mister Needs-A-Life-Story-For-A-Simple-Costume-Party?>>

Keith was at a loss for a comeback on that one, so he just sighed, and went back to the present problem: learning to walk. At least there was nobody else in the forest to witness his embarrassment.

The next time Keith agreed to let someone "fix up" his body, he was going to be more specific. What he had in mind was being his old self, or at least human. Instead, he was, well...

He had to admit that the fur--''his'' fur, he told himself firmly, at least for the time being--was much nicer now. Instead of the flat golden-brown of the costume, it tapered off to a lighter tan at the chest and the tail, with white patches at the hands and feet, as well as at the face and the tip of the tail. The fur was finer, with a white undercoat underneath; it was also quite a bit cooler, which was a relief--he could get used to a lot of things, but he wasn't sure that panting was one of them. He had no problem inspecting his back, because his spine now bent in ways he found vaguely disconcerting; but he supposed that could come in handy.

He could deal with his arms and hands. The shoulders felt different somehow, and the fingers were shorter, and the pads on the soles of his hands and fingers were still a bit off-putting; but at least everything seemed to bend the way it was supposed to. The head was okay too, he guessed. He still couldn't quite get used to having that long muzzle in his field of vision, but having smell and hearing this good had a lot to recommend it. His vocal chords could produce a good rendition of his old voice, though Kickaha also demonstrated a distressingly realistic set of howls. The eyes had disconcerted him when he first saw them in the pond; they were green with flecks of gold, with no trace of humanity in them--mirth, yes, but not really ''human'' mirth. But oh, Grandma, what good eyes he had. ( <<Who are you going to believe, me or some book?>> <The book.> <<Smart man. There's a certain line at which realism stops being fun...>>) And he had to hand it to Kickaha; he imagined that very few people could have made a muzzle that could still manage a grin.

And he was actually starting to think that the tail was kind of neat. It still seemed a bit long to him--almost brushing the ground--but once he'd gotten used to the idea of using it for balance, he could see where it would come in handy.

And he could use all the help with balance he could get.

He was still a long way from convincing himself that his new legs were an improvement. He stood on the tips of his feet--well, "paws" would be a better description now, he supposed. What used to be his ankles had moved to what used to be halfway up his lower legs; his knees had moved up as well, leaving him in what felt like a permanent squat... though at least he had successfully reached the point where he ''could'' squat, and even walk a bit, rather than just fall down repeatedly. Kickaha's repeated assurances of the virtues of this arrangement had so far failed to win a convert.

And then there was, well... The good news was that he was now, again, anatomically correct. The bad news was that he was now anatomically correct for a coyote... a rather large coyote. (<What am I going to do with '''''this'''''???> <<If you can't think of anything, I'd be happy to make suggestions.>> <That's what I was afraid of... What happened to the line where realism stopped being fun?> <<We all draw our lines differently...>>) That had been perilously close to a dealbreaker; but at least the fur and the sheath managed to hide things from casual inspection.

<Well, at least I'm not menacing,> Keith mused. <Not exactly ugly, either; kinda cute, actually, in a primal-homely-kinda way... I just can't shake the feeling that I'd be as good on four legs as on two in this.>

<<Oh, damn. And I was hoping to save that for a surprise.>>

<Great. Any other surprises I should be aware of?>

<<Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?>>

<Sorry I asked... Wait a minute. Shit. What time is it?>

<<Oh, midafternoonish.>>

<Shit. They'll have towed my car hours ago!>

<<You know, a car isn't exactly on your list of must-haves at this point.>>

<Yeah, but if that gets on my credit record, it'll...>

<<You know, credit isn't exactly on your list of must-haves either.>>

Keith wanted to scream, but he was afraid he'd wind up howling instead. <Look... Kickaha. Today has been really... incredible. I can honestly say that I'm glad this happened; I'm not sure how, but I can. But I have a life, too, and I'd really like not to completely mess it up just yet... okay? All we have to do is get the car and the hotel straightened out and catch my flight back home, and then you can magic us right back here and watch all the 'fun' if you want to. Okay?>

Keith was expecting a <<You know, airplanes aren't exactly...>> Instead, he was somewhat surprised to get an almost apologetic: <<Hey, no problem. This is gonna take a little getting used to, for both of us. Besides, I've showed you my place; it's about time you showed me mine. And do they really give you all the drinks you want in these airplane things?>>

<Only in first class.>

<<Well, what other class would the two of us be going in?>>



<<Some things are constant, no matter what the world.>>

----

A few minutes later, they were flying over the city. More specifically, Keith was flying; he was remembering the good points of this arrangement.

<<Hold it,>> Kickaha said, but Keith was already on the way down.

In an alley below, a rabbitmorph was down in a heap.

Keith looked around quickly; nobody nearby. He swooped down, mentally handing off to Kickaha as they neared the ground. The raven rippled, expanded, became a coyote as it hit the ground. The rabbit didn't move.

Kickaha surveyed the damage; a few blows to the back and legs, one to the back of the head, all with blunt objects. A broken leg; a minor skull fracture. Figured. Not even enough guts to attack a rabbit from the front. Some things are constant, no matter what the world. Not fatal, but needing treatment, treatment he couldn't give. Not permanently, anyway.

He took a few extra seconds to scan the rabbit's mind. As he had figured, the attack had been from behind--and the rabbit's flight reflexes had kicked in as soon as it started--but he had still gotten a clear look at his attackers as he ran. Four of them; big, with short haircuts and thick wooden sticks. Laughter as the blows came down. Some things are constant.

Kickaha concentrated, shaped the magic, and slowly applied it.

A few seconds passed; then the rabbit stirred, groaned, tried to stand. He looked up from hands and knees, saw the coyote standing over him, and squealed...

<<Paul, it's all right,>> Kickaha thought softly.

The rabbit blinked, at the shock of the voice in his head, and the fact that the voice knew his name. He finally gathered the nerve to speak, in a high thin voice. "What happened? Who are you? There were..."

<<A friend. Don't worry about that right now. You need to get to a... hospital. To a hospital. Right away.>>

"But I feel... okay. How do I feel okay?"

<<Trust me. You need to get to a hospital. Tell them you need observation overnight. They'll figure out what's wrong. But it's very important that you go.>>

"Uh... all right. Thank you, Mister..."

<<You're welcome. And when they ask you about this part, you're a little vague about the details, okay?>>

"Uhhh... Okay. Thank you..."

Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rabbit walked away. The coyote watched him go, waited for him to round a corner, then leaped, rippled back into a raven, and climbed into the sky.

<<Still want to catch that flight?>>



<<Perfect. That'll give us some time. I take it that we're agreed? Something must be done?>>

<Yes. What do you have in mind?>

<<While you were practicing, I was going through your history a bit. You know, there's some fascinating parallels between your mythology and ours.>>

<Somehow, that's not surprising. Anything interest you in particular?>

Kickaha told him.

<Interesting. Poetic justice, I must admit. Isn't it a little too violent, though? Even for this?>

<<Ohhh, we can fix that.>>

<Hmmm. You're right. I must admit, I like it. What gave you the idea?>

<<Well, it's perfect, isn't it? Besides, it's early in the alphabet. As good a place to start as any, right?>>



<<Nag, nag, nag. Still think we're so different, you and I?>>

Keith didn't answer. He was busy flying. And thinking.

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure watched the raven fly away, through a very impressive-looking pair of binoculars. He spoke clearly into his recorder, taking careful notes...

----

Getting checked out of the hotel was no problem; the desk clerk wasn't in the mood for small talk, and for once Keith was glad about that. He was just glad to be on his own legs again, though for some reason they were itching a bit. A generous tip to the doorman got him a quick cab to the airport. He calmly changed his reservation to the later flight--using some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class, and stoically ignoring Kickaha's chuckles in the background. Checking in his bags, he finally approached the rental counter; this was going to be the tricky part. He mentally rehearsed his lines, waited until nobody was in line, then walked up and slapped his membership card down in front of 'Kelly'.

"I'm here about my car," he said, in a quietly menacing voice.

"Certainly, Mister... Dorner," Kelly replied, with a forced-Christmas-cheer kind of smile. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; then her face fell into a oh-you-HAVE-been-naughty look. "According to this, Mr. Dorner, the car was towed in late this morning..."

"Yes, it was," Keith interrupted, in a no-longer-quietly menacing voice. "I was working LATE last night, trying to get MY BUSINESS done, so I could get OUT of this two-bit town. The next thing I know, there's POLICE everywhere, and NOBODY knows what's going on, and they won't even let ME get to MY CAR! And THEN, when I call YOU this morning to find out what WE are going to do about that, you put ME on HOLD for FIVE MINUTES! Now, am I going to see a MANAGER here, or am I going to take THIS CARD and make FRENCH FRIES out of it?"

"Yes, sir; just a moment, sir," Kelly replied, and ducked for the back. Keith heard the faint voices, and the sound of keys tapping; he could imagine the manager scrolling through his record, seeing the number of rentals listed there. <Five, four, three...>

'Lisa - Floor Manager' came out, zeroed in on Keith; she was clearly in Full Contrition Mode. "Mr. Dorner, I've just heard what's happened, and I want you to know that we're truly sorry about all this. There was an... incident... downtown last night, and we're still trying to figure out how to get things straightened out today. But let me assure you that I will personally see to it that all of this is taken care of, and of course we'll handle those towing charges. Now I know how upsetting all this must be to you, Mr. Dorner, and we'd like to make up for the inconvenience you must have suffered; would a week's free rental next time be all right?"

Keith grumbled, quickly allowed himself to be 'talked into it,' settled the bill, and walked away, finally allowing himself a smirk.

<<Where did ''that'' come from?>>, Kickaha said, a mixture of amusement and amazement in his 'voice'. <<Are you keeping other personalities in here that you haven't told me about?>>

<One of the perks of frequent flying is the occasional right to be an asshole.>

<<Speaking of assholes, we have a few hours, right?>>

<Right. A-hunting we will go?>

<<The park first, I think; a quick recharge wouldn't hurt.>>

<You should have thought of that before we left,> Keith thought, in his best fatherly voice.

<<But I didn't ''neeeeeed'' to go theeennn...>>

<One more word like that, and I'm turning this body right around...>

----

Bags streamed down the conveyor belts in the airport's service corridors. A uniformed guard checked his list once again, grabbed a few bags as they passed, and loaded them onto a cart, which was wheeled off to a door marked "AIRPORT SECURITY"...

----

Night was falling over the city, and with all the confusion still in the air, few people had made plans for the evening; the streets emptied out rapidly... except for the people with nowhere to go. Which was just the way Spike and his friends liked it.

"Let's go play some hardball, right, guys?", Spike laughed.

"We're gonna hit one outta the park tonight!"

"Who, us, Officer? We were just out playing..."

"Gonna cite us for cruelty to animals, Officer Friendly?"

"Cool it, guys."

"Okay, Spike."

The park was the first place to check, Spike thought. These freaks always seem to stop at the park. Then maybe down by the shelter...

But the park was clear. Damn.

"Hey, gimme a minute, guys, okay? I need to pee."

"Sure thing, Spike."

Spike went behind the racquetball wall, leaned his Louisville Slugger up against it, and started unbuttoning.

From a rooftop two blocks away, a coyote watched. He pointed, aimed, gestured a bit.

<<Just a little farther, a little farther... yes, right there... yes. Now.>>

The magic flowed.

Spike suddenly leaned against the tree. Dammit, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight... had he?

Then he felt the pressure. He looked down just in time for his pants to start to split.

The change was so fast, he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before it was complete. His legs grew, twisted; his feet and hands rippled, condensed into hooves. A stab of agony hit him, as the antlers sprouted from his head; he never noticed his shirt disappear, or the remains of his pants. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a low moan.

He staggered out from behind the wall...

"There's one!"

"Get it!"

Spike looked up, saw them coming. He thrust his arms out in front of him, shook his antlered head wildly, moaned again; then he saw that it was hopeless, and turned to run on unfamiliar legs. That was hopeless too.

He could hear them closing in.

Then he felt the blow, in the small of his back.

Then another, in the leg.

He went down.

<<And now.>>

Spike looked hopelessly up, saw the leering faces above him, surrounding him. Another blow hit, then another... a bit weaker.

Then the bat slipped from one of their hands.

Another screamed. Then the scream turned into a howl...

As Spike looked on, he saw their faces lengthen, saw the fur sprout, saw them fall to their hands... to their front paws. He heard the howls of fear.

Then the three hounds, still barely recognizable as human, turned and ran--haltingly at first, then gaining speed and rhythm.

After a minute or so, Spike uncertainly got up, and headed in the same direction.

Kickaha brought his finger to his muzzle, blew over it.

<So, what happens when they get to the hospital?>

<<That won't wear off for a couple of days. In the meantime, they'll have spilled; they don't have the brains to keep their story straight as humans, much less this way. So hopefully the police will take care of things. And if not... well, now that they're convinced that it's contagious, I don't think they'll find their little game nearly so entertaining.>>



<<Sometimes, you don't have to change people's minds; sometimes you just have to reinforce what they already suspect, and they'll go right on thinking that on their own.>>

<How conveeeeeenient.>

<<Quite. Well, shall we catch this airplane of yours?>>

<Don't you need a recharge first?>

<<We've barely known each other a day, and already you ''care'' about me. It's so... touching... I may weep.>>

<Care, schmare. I just don't want to turn into a coyote at 26000 feet.>

<<That's your own brand of caring.>>

----

From a window several blocks away, a figure in a black suit watched the grainy red images through his viewfinder. The camera shutter clicked, clicked again.

He tongued the push-to-send on his headset.

"We have a situation here."

----

Flight 804 to Seattle-Tacoma sped through the night. Kickaha found it all fascinating. Keith was glad it was a nonstop... the itching was killing him.

<Kickaha, what the hell's wrong?>

<>

<Well, what do we do about it? I don't know if I can take this all the way to Seattle.>

<>

<Shit. What's the alternative?>

<<Well, we could try a partial change and see if that relaxes the pressure.>>

<Shitshitshit. Wait a minute.>

Keith went to the first-class bathroom. He felt the fur sprout under his jeans, and almost gasped in relief as the itching subsided. He went back to his seat; was it his imagination, or was the lady in 3A staring at him?

<>

<I've earned the right to be paranoid.>

<<In that case, can we be paranoid with some more of those peanuts?>>

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith had never been so glad to be in his condo. He quickly took off his clothes, then collapsed into coyote form with an almost audible pop.

<<You've gotta be kidding me. This isn't a home; this isn't even a house. This is a ''box''. There's not even a potted plant in this place!>>

<Can we just save the decor tips for a minute? What's happening here?>

<>

<What you mean, you don't know?>

<<Which word do I need to explain? You think I enjoy hearing you gripe about it? Mr. Dorrrner can't get what he wants, so nobody else can have a good time, huh? Can't we just get a good night's sleep, and we can work this out in the morning?>>

<Kickaha, I ought to... I don't know. You know what? A night's sleep is a ''fine'' idea.>

<<I'm glad I thought of it.>>

For some reason, the mattress wasn't particularly comfortable for Keith's new form. Kickaha apparently managed to get to sleep right away anyway. Keith took a bit longer.

----

(November 2; 10:00 am)

Kickaha had assured Keith that he was working on the problem. He hadn't needed to leave to recharge; apparently the nearby greenbelt was close enough for some spillover. Meanwhile, Keith was grimly practicing on his new legs, and had at least reached the point where he could walk with some semblance of dignity.

There was a knock at the door.

<<Oh, ''this'' should be interesting,>> Kickaha said.

"Mister Dorner? We need to have a word with you..."

==Part 5 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/12)==

"Who is it?"

"We're with the government, Mister Dorner... Could you come out for a second?"

<Ohhhhhh, shit.> "Just a minute, okay? I'm not dressed."

"Fine, Mister Dorner. Could you hurry, please?"

"Uh, okay."

"Thank you, Mister Dorner."

<Quick. We've gotta change back.>

<<Why?>>

<Because we've gotta talk to him, and I just don't feel like doing it this way!>

<<Bad plan. Very bad plan.>>

<Huh? Listen, Kickaha. I was hoping the government wouldn't get in on this, but it looks like they are, and my life is toast if I start running away from every-->

<<You're not listening. ''Bad plan.''>>

<Why??>

<<Watch this.>>

There was a brief moment of disorientation; then Keith found himself looking down at the hallway outside. Two men in expensive-looking black suits bracketed his front door. One of them fidgeted, reaching inside his jacket and stroking the handle of his gun. Keith's viewpoint rushed in at the other one...

: ''...too many ears here; got to keep things quiet. Get him outside; then tranq him and work from there. Maybe he'll play. If not, he's got no appointments, not many contacts; no problem burying things afterwards if it comes to that...''

Keith abruptly found himself back in his own skull.

<Bad plan,> he thought numbly.

<<Told ya.>>

<Well, let's get the hell out of here!>

<<Then they follow us. Besides, they only sent three guys after us. Personally, I'm insulted.>>

<Three?>

<<There's one watching the window. Now that I think about it, I like your first idea better. They want to talk to you? Fine. They can talk to you.>>

<But they'll kill me! Uh, I mean, us...>

<<So? Let 'em have their fun.>>

<Uh, Kickaha, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm not laughing.>

<<You're right. It ''is'' my idea of a joke. And I think you'll like the punchline. All we need is... ah, yes. Here we go.>>

Kickaha reached out his hand; with a *pop*, a rat appeared within it. It looked up at him inquisitively. Kickaha stroked its head with a finger. <<Sorry, little one. But better you than me.>>

He put the rat on the floor, stepped back, concentrated, focused, gestured. Keith suddenly felt like his brain was itching. The rat twitched, rippled, expanded, reshaped; in a matter of a few seconds, Keith stood there, looking down at the rat on the floor with the same inquisitive stare. The rat scurried into a corner, under the couch. Keith stood for a few seconds, then shook his head as if to clear it, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mister Dorner." An ID card was flashed. "We understand you flew back into town last night; is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Mister Dorner, we need to ask you a few questions. I think you know what this is about, and I'm sure you'll understand that this might not be the best place. Could you come with us, please?"

"Ummmm, sure. This won't take long, will it?"

"Not long at all, Mister Dorner. Thank you very much."

The door shut; Keith and the two men in suits walked off down the hall. Outside, they were joined by a third; they ushered Keith into the back seat of a waiting car, and smoothly drove him away.

A minute later, the rat emerged from under the couch, and resumed its familiar coyote form.

<<That went well, I think.>>

<Ummmm. quick question. What just happened?>

<<Well, they captured us, of course. They'll take us somewhere and question us; we won't tell them anything important, or do any magic for them--it's not in our heads. Eventually, they'll get tired and let us go for now, or they'll kill us and dump us in an alley somewhere, or they'll just leave us locked up somewhere until we turn back into a rat in a few days. In any event, it oughta confuse the heck out of 'em. In the meantime, of course, we should probably think about being somewhere else.>>



<<Is there any other way?>>



==Part 6 (Nov. 2; written 1997/01/18)==

Kickaha flew, gliding over Lake Washington. It was remarkably clear, for being so close to a city this size. Dotted with boats and crisscrossed by a couple of long bridges, it nevertheless seemed largely undisturbed. Along the shore, there were houses and buildings of all sorts, but large areas of green too. <<This really isn't such a bad place, as cities go. You know, with a little bit of work, I think your place could even be decent.>>

Keith didn't answer.

<<Sure you don't want to take over? There's some great thermals to try.>>

Still no answer.

Kickaha sighed. He did a couple of quick circles, contemplating things, gaining a bit of altitude. Then he rolled over, folded his wings, and dove. Two seconds passed, then three. He gained speed, the air rushing by faster and faster. The water started to rush up at them. Still he gained speed.

<Ummm...>

The water was too close now, past any hope of pulling out. Fifty feet.

Thirty.

<Hold it!>

Ten.

<GAA-->

Kickaha never twitched, but suddenly they were stopped, six inches from the water. He fluffed his wings, and dropped to the surface with a gentle splash.

<<Oh, good. I was beginning to think you'd moved out.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Now, are we going to talk, or do I try bouncing off that bridge over there? I think I can time it so we hit between the cars, but you know how things go...>>

Several more seconds passed, and for a moment Kickaha thought that he was actually going to get to go through with it.

<How do you do it?>

Kickaha was a bit rattled; not by the question, but by the tone. It wasn't angry. He was used to angry; he could deal with angry. It was quiet--almost a plea. It made him uncomfortable.

<<Well, I flap the wings, and then I sort of repeat,>> he countered, hoping to break the tension.

Keith didn't bite. 

<<Hmm. That's perilously close to a philosophical question; I should refuse on religious grounds.>> A pause; nothing from Keith. Dammit. He's serious about this. <<Well, I imagine I could get pretty pissed about it if that would help...>>

<No. It's just that... I wish I could do it. I mean, I'm never going to be able to get work like this. Somebody's trying to kill me, if they don't think I'm already dead. I can't go home, I can't get at any of my stuff, even if the government doesn't decide I'm dead and take it all. I mean... I'm going to lose everything, aren't I?>

<<Oh, come on. There's ways around that. We'll figure something out. A little magic can make up for a lot of shit.>>

<But that's just it. Kickaha, I don't know quite how to put this, but... what happens if everything gets messed up, and then something comes along and reverses what happened at the party? Then...>

<<Then you're screwed, and I guess I hope I'm not just something you dreamed up in your hotel room.>>

<Exactly. I mean... how can it not worry you, knowing that you could just... disappear like that?>

<<Well, gee. You managed to go to sleep every night before I showed up; how did that not worry you, knowing that you could just drop dead in the middle of the night?>>

<Oh, come on. The odds aren't the same.>

<<So? The odds of your getting hit by a bus when we got out of that cab at the airport were pretty damn small; why did you look?>>

<Because I'd be stupid not to!>

<<No comment.>> Nothing. ''Gods.'' <<But exactly. It's something you can control, so you'd be stupid not to. When you go to sleep at night, you don't think anything will happen, and if it does there's not a damn thing you can do, so you don't worry. Well, if something happens like you said, I don't think I'm just gonna go poof; and if I do there's not a damn thing I can do. So why should I worry?>>

<And that's it? You know that worrying doesn't do any good, so you just don't?> A pause. 

<<Years of practice.>> Another pause. ''Shit.'' <<Look. You get things, you lose them. Magic just makes it happen faster. You get lots of stuff, you lose it next Tuesday. Worrying about the stuff that's already gone isn't going to make it come back. You may as well just try to make the most you can out of what's in front of you, right?>>

<Yeah, I guess so.>

''Please, if there's anybody listening, let this not be another question coming up. This is waaaaay too much bonding for one day.''

<You know, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be taking life advice from a fictional character.>

''Thank you.'' <<Yeah, well, it is a sign of impending mental collapse.>>

<Impending?>

<<Can't I try to be nice? Look, can we go now? We're getting waterlogged here.>>

<You know, I never got around to learning to swim.>

<<First time for everything.>>

The bird bobbed down, disappeared; a moment later, a seal poked its head up, breathed, then dove for the bottom.

==Part 7 (Nov. 2; written 1997/02/06)==

The sun was setting in the west, behind the downtown Seattle skyscrapers. A few boats still sailed across the lake, but most seemed to be heading for the docks. To the south, cars streamed across the floating I-90 bridge; to the north, they crept across 520, drivers slowing to gawk at a jet-skier in a Santa suit buzzing alongside the westbound lanes and waving.

Out of sight in the weeds near the edge of the lake, a seal floated lazily on its back, watching the seagulls circle the sky.

<So, what do we do now?>

<<Hopefully, we eat.>>



<<I've found that a full stomach does wonders for long-term thinking.>>

<Why did I expect that answer?>

<<Because you're getting the idea.>>

<If you mean that I'm starting to think like you, can I shoot myself now?>

<<Well, you'll need a gun and some opposable thumbs.>>

<Technicalities. So, what do seals eat anyway?>

<<Who cares? Where's a good restaurant?>>

<Ummm, is going out in public really a good idea right now? I'd rather not have our friends show up again.>

<<Don't worry. I have a rule; I never let anyone kill me more than once a week. It gets boring after that, and frankly, it's just plain rude. I've got a few tricks I haven't used yet. From now on, nobody recognizes us.>>

<Cool. How does that work?>

<<I'll explain it over dinner, which we're having in the next fifteen minutes or somebody's getting hurt.>>

<Oooookay. How are we paying? And giving people money that's going to disappear in a few hours is not an option.>

<>

<Now let's see; which pocket did I leave my credit card in? Besides, I imagine our friends may notice if the prisoner starts making withdrawals...>

<<Not to worry. It'll be real money, it'll come from you, and nobody will notice.>>

<How does ''that'' work?>

<<That's the beauty of magic. I don't have to give a rat's ass how it works. It just does.>>



<<Yes, you can. At dinner. Now.>>

----

A few minutes later, Keith stood in the Outback parking lot, looked down at himself, fingered his cloak nervously, and took a deep breath.

<Is this really going to work?>

<<Sure. It's not what we see that counts; it's what they see. Besides, would you rather spend the whole night itching?>>

<But what if there's another magic-user in here? Aren't they going to notice?>

<<Of course not. What do you think I am, an incompetent? Don't answer that.>>

Keith sighed. <Well, if it doesn't work, at least I'll get a chance to practice running on these legs...>

He opened the door, stepped in as confidently as he could manage, and waited for the explosion.

Nobody batted an eyelash.

<<Told ya so.>>

"G'day! Just yourself tonight?"

<If only it were so...> "Yeah, just me."

"Right this way, sir."

<<And will you be sitting in furry or non-furry?>>

<Waiter, can I have a table away from myself?... Wait a minute. You know, I just realized something. For once I get to eat in this place without worrying about fat and cholesterol...>

<<Finally. Something we can agree on.>>

----

But the agreement stopped almost as soon as Keith sat down.

As always, there were two kids who just wouldn't stop yelling at each other, and one set of parents who just wouldn't do anything about it. In this case, they happened to be at the next table. Keith tuned them out. So did Kickaha... for about two minutes.

<<Oh, enough already.>>

As the younger of the two kids picked at his salad, his fork suddenly twisted in his hand; a tomato slice caught Dad right between the eyes. "THAT'S IT! Get in the car!", Dad shouted, and moments later they were gone, Mom stopping just long ehough to pay the bill and beg forgiveness to anyone in range.

<KICKAHA!>

<<What?? At least they'll be leaving in a second... if they can't shut up in public, then they shouldn't be in public!>>

<That goes for you too! The kid deserved a lot of things, but he didn't deserve what he's probably getting for that! Couldn't you have just calmed them down or something?>

<>

<Can we do it without turning anybody else into a newt?>

<<Yes, daddy.>>

----

About an hour and two innocent plates of appetizers later, Keith was digging into the biggest steak on the menu (rare), and for the first time since the party, he was starting to feel relaxed. Maybe this was all going to work out after all. Or maybe it was just that big mug of Foster's.

<So, how long do you think it's gonna take for all this to blow over?>

<<Hell, I dunno. It's your world.>>

<Yeah, but I'm not used to getting chased around. I get the feeling that this is business as usual for you.>

<>

<Oh, yeah. Imminent death is always heaps of fun.>

<<Hey, ''imminent'' death is great. It lets you know you're alive. It's the actual ''death'' part that's a pain. And that's not gonna happen.>>

<And what makes you so sure of that?>

<<Because death is ''boring''. And I'm no good at boring stuff. Of course, we may have to do something about you...>>

<Hey! Are you saying I'm boring?>

<<No. Just kinda...mundane.>>

<If I'm mundane, what was I doing at a costume party getting turned into you?>

<<That shows you've got potential. That's where I come in.>>

<Kickaha... I am not your little reclamation project. I was doing more than all right before you came along, and I was pretty damn happy with myself. This is my body, no matter what it looks like, and I'm not going to change just because you want me to!>

<<And you're saying that you don't want to?>>

A long pause. <Of course I do. If I didn't think the whole idea was kinda cool, I wouldn't have been at a costume party pretending to be you. But I don't want to ''be'' you. There's gotta be something in the middle here. If I'm going to work on not being 'mundane', you've gotta work on thinking before you pull damnfool tricks like that last one...>

<<Look. I'm just not good at being responsible. Can't that be your job?>>



<<Pay? You've already gotten my good looks and my sense of style; what more do you want?>>

The mental silence was deafening.

<<Welllll... You're smart enough, and you've already done a little magic. How about if I show you the fine points?>>

<Why do I need to know magic with you around?>

<<You don't need to know how to fly with me around either; but it was a lot more fun to do it yourself, wasn't it? Besides, if I go poof, then it'd be nice to still be able to go swimming once in a while, wouldn't it?>>

<Kickaha, I... I need to think about that one.>

<<Fine. Eat. The steak's getting cold.>>

----

After finishing off the steak, two slabs of cheesecake, and two more mugs of Foster's, Keith was finally ready for the check. He groaned silently when he saw the Visa card Kickaha had magicked up--the name on the card was Paul Bearer, for crying out loud--but the waitress didn't blink, and apparently, neither did the computer.

A leisurely and slightly erratic flight over the lake later, Keith checked into the downtown Hilton; this time the name on the card was Peter Pan, and again the clerk didn't notice in the slightest. The suite included a very nice television, and a well-stocked "honor bar". Kickaha seemed fascinated by the whole concept of TV; and after a few more drinks from the bar, Keith was seeing a deep inner meaning in the Dukes of Hazzard that he had never appreciated before. During his third attempt to explain to Kickaha how Roscoe P. Coltrane represented the danger of physical power without a corresponding moral imperative, the two of them finally drifted off to sleep.

==Part 8 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/11)==

"Housekeeping..."

Keith groggily rolled over, blinked, called out "Give me a minute, okay?" Then he realized that he hadn't done any of those things.

"I'll be back in about an hour, okay?"

"Thanks; you're a doll," Kickaha called. He rubbed his eyes. Something was wrong with his hearing. He put a paw to his right ear; it came away dark, sticky. He tasted it.

Chocolate.

He blinked, looked down at the pillow. He saw the green wrapper, the brown stain.

<<Oh. ''That's'' what that was.>> He shrugged, and licked his paw clean. Then he started on the pillow.

<Eeeeewwwwwwww. Kickaha, that's gross...>

<<It's pretty good, actually. Does the maid have any more?>>



<<What? I think you're hallucinating.>> As if on cue, the stain on the pillow disappeared... and the hairs on the sheets along with it.

<Ummmm-hmmm. Speaking of hallucinating, didn't we have rather a lot to drink last night?>

<>

<So how is it that I can still think?>

<<Hangovers aren't very fun, are they?>>

<Can't argue with that. You know, we should probably be careful about drinking that much. Things might happen.>

<<Things always happen. Some of them are just funnier when you're drunk.>>

<Maybe so. But as the voice of reason in this relationship, I just have to point that out.>

<<So you're taking the job?>>

<Kickaha, it still has to be a two-way street. You have to try to be a little responsible too.>

<<Oh, I promise to try. Really. I just want you to know up front that it never works.>>

<Well, then, if I want out of this in one piece, I don't have a lot of choice, do I?>

<<Great, Trust me; once you resign yourself to your fate, things get a lot more fun. So, are you ready for your first lesson?>>

<Let's go to the bathroom first, okay? I still have this nagging feeling that all this is a dream, and I'm going to come to my senses in the shower and laugh at all this.>

<<So I either get to crush your last hope or kill myself. Cool.>>

----

The Olympic Peninsula, on the western coast of Washington, is home to some of the most beautiful forests in the nation. By car or boat, it can be a day trip from Seattle. By air, things get substantially faster.

And so it was just before noon when Keith stood, in the middle of nowhere, with the pouring rain dripping off his snout, breathing in the incredible scents and wondering what on Earth had possessed him not to go out here before.

When asked why a park wouldn't do, Kickaha had said that introducing someone to magic was a major event... difficult to hide, even for him. So a quiet area seemed prudent. Keith was no longer in a mood to argue.

<So, this is where you teach me how to Sing?>

<<Nope. This is the one part I can't teach you. This is the part the world just teaches you. Or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I guess we come up with a new plan. But it should. I mean, it took me, so its standards can't exactly be very high...>>

<What are you getting at?>

<<You'll find out in about thirty seconds. But first, do you have any reservations about this?>>

<Well, yes!>

<<Very smart man. Just pay attention. And remember, I'm vouching for you here. Don't make me look bad.>>

Keith was so flustered he couldn't even come up with a comeback for that.

And then Kickaha Sang.

The beginning, the greeting, was largely the same as always. He reached out to the world; and, after a few moments, he felt the contact, the questioning. He closed his eyes as the rush of sensation hit him, the exhiliration of acceptance. He briefly joined the Song, not rushing, not trying, just being.

Then, as the warmth of the power started to flow into him, he smoothly altered his Song a bit, smoothly transitioning into the Introduction. He couldn't recall ever using it before--certainly not in this situation. The rhythm of the Song seemed to falter, and there was a deep sense of questioning. Kickaha made his reassurances, but to no reply. Even in the peace of the Song, Kickaha began to worry; perhaps this world had decided not to take newcomers at all. Then, finally, he felt acceptance. The Song resumed its rhythm, and its tempo seemed to slow in waiting.

And Kickaha pushed Keith into the Song.

----

Keith had caught none of the nuances of what was happening; he only felt Kickaha begin whatever it was he did, saw his eyes shut, felt the warmth start, then stop.

Suddenly, the world reached up and swallowed him.

He felt the rain beat down on the grass...

saw a flicker of prey from the ground below...

heard the rustling of the eagle's feathers as he scrambled for cover...

the warmth of the sun on his leaves...

the rumble of a car from the road overhead as he tunneled...

the shriek of a rival male from the tree...

the smell of blood trickling from the kill...

the pain of a tick burrowing under his skin...

the water flowing through his gills...

He saw the world through a thousand sets of eyes, heard and felt and smelt it from a thousand directions. It was all too much. He tried to block it out, tried to close his eyes and ears and noses, but he could not. He could feel himself slipping away. Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?

Who are you?

It took him what seemed like forever to realize that he was being asked a question.

Who are you?

He tried to remember, tried to picture himself; he could not. He was a blur of eyes and wings and wood and fur. Nothing seemed right.

Who are you?

He felt hopelessness, loss, anger, desperation. And finally, a flash of understanding.

He was trying to answer the wrong question; the answer wasn't a picture, wasn't a form.

Who are you?

I am me.

Welcome.

Then, everything went black.

----

And suddenly, his eyes were open, and he was seeing the world through his own two--two!--eyes, gasping for breath. He toppled over backwards, felt the ground at his back, clenched at it with his claws to satisfy himself that it was there, that it was where it should be, that it was only in one place.

<<You're all right. You're all right. You made it. It's over. You passed.>> Kickaha sounded almost panicked. <<You're all right. I'm sorry. What happened? I couldn't tell. What scared you? I didn't think it was supposed to be scary. Mine was pretty fun. Oops... I mean...>>

<Kickaha... I'm fine. Really. I think.>

<<Then, um, can we get up now?>>

Keith picked himself up. He had gotten pretty well used to his new legs before, but suddenly they felt... normal. He didn't need to try running; he knew he could.

<Um, Kickaha... if you don't mind, I really think I'd like to be in a city for a few hours right now.>

<<Sounds like a plan. Wanna fly?>>

<Why don't you do it, okay? I'm still feeling... a little weird. And I don't think I need the practice anymore.>

==Part 9 (Nov. 3; written 1997/02/15)==

Kickaha flew across Puget Sound, black wings slicing through the rain. He didn't even try to talk to Keith; after that thing with the Song this morning, Keith was deep into thinking about something. If he butted in now, Keith would bite his head off. Or worse yet, he'd want to talk about it...

----

Keith looked on, watching the clouds, the water, the occasional beam of sun. It was all so beautiful. It was all so... right.

And that was what bothered him.

He thought back to Halloween night, to the panic of realizing that he was trapped in a form that wasn't his own. He could remember that clearly, just as he could remember the terror of being alone in a dark room as a child. But he couldn't ''recreate'' either one in his mind; one fear seemed just as detached, just as irrational as the other. He could think of any number of reasons why that shouldn't be; he just didn't ''feel'' them.

And then, beyond the lack of fear, there was this sudden feeling of utter competence--normalcy. On the way across the Sound this morning, he had felt like a pretty good flyer; but now, he ''knew'' he was--just as he had known that he could run as a coyotemorph, just as he knew that, if Kickaha decided to dive and go the rest of the way as a fish or a dolphin, he could handle those too.

On a certain level, he was happy with all this; as long as he was in this situation, and as long as there was no sign that it was going to end soon, it didn't make a lot of sense to waste time being afraid of it, and not having to learn to walk another fifty times was certainly a plus. If someone had offered him those things, he would have given a lot for them. But the implications of having them just show up unannounced... If something about him--about the way he thought--could change that quickly, what else could change? What else might already ''have'' changed, without him realizing it? And if he could suddenly learn so much, so quickly, what might he have forgotten equally quickly? He couldn't think of anything he couldn't remember, but then again, what did that prove? Was he even still human?

He had to think about that one for a while.

Finally, he decided not to think about it so much.

Whatever it was that he had just contacted, it certainly wasn't hostile; if it was, he'd be dead. And if it wanted to change him without worrying about his opinions, why wouldn't it have just made him not realize he'd been changed? Besides, when it came down to it, he'd already changed, and he was probably going to keep changing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; so he may as well stop worrying about it and hope things work out for the best.

Hmm.

Maybe Kickaha had all this right after all.

And then they were over Seattle.

<Does that spell you used to pay last night work for something a little more expensive?>

<<No reason why not.>>

<Good. I think I need to do a little shopping.>

<<Cool. Can I go shopping later?>>

<Sure--this shouldn't take long. I just need to grab a couple of things, and then spend an hour or so at the hotel; we can get back out before the stores close.>

<<No problem. Unless I miss my guess, the places I'm after are open all night.>>

<Kickaha, that's not even a thinly veiled threat. Do I look like someone who needs more trauma today?>

<<As a matter of fact, yes.>>

<Figures.>

----

Keith had never really liked Computer City; the selection was good, but the help always seemed like they didn't really care what was going on. Now that was exactly what he was after. He picked out a high-end Pentium laptop, then loaded up on software--Developer Studio, Procomm, a good selection of games "for Kickaha"... It made quite an impressive pile at the counter, and Keith blinked hard when he saw the total--the last time he'd spent $5K at one time was when he'd paid the down payment on his condo. This time the Visa card was gold and in the name of Howard Hughes--again, no reaction, from the clerk or the register.

Outside, Kickaha started pushing the boxes into a small pocket in his cloak; even the smallest box had no business fitting in there, but they didn't seem to object.

<Kickaha, how is it that nobody seems to care what's on that card you use?>

<<Great spell, isn't it? You've gotta learn it. You can walk up to a total stranger, lick 'em in the face and call 'em Mommy, and they wouldn't think twice about it--probably wouldn't even remember it afterwards. I mean, it's the sort of thing that happens a million times a day; nothing worth remembering, right?>>

<Not bad. But isn't someone going to notice it when they're adding up the charge slips at the end of the day?>

<<Oh, it turns into boring stuff in a few minutes. After you get thrown out of places a few dozen times, you start thinking about stuff like that.>>

<So you're an expert at getting thrown out of places, then?>

<<A lifetime of experience.>>

<Not surprising. Can we go back to the hotel and play with my toys for a little bit while I ponder my fate?>

<<Ponder whatever you want, as long as you're done by tonight. My turn then...>>

<You know, something tells me that I'm never going to worry about having nothing to do in the evening from now on.>

<<Anything I can do to help...>>

----

Keith had never been so glad to see "Hello, world..." in his life.

As soon as he'd gotten back to the Hilton, he'd set up the laptop, fired up Developer Studio, and started programming. To his immense relief, if something was missing in his head, this didn't seem to be it; the code flowed out of his fingers (after a few minutes of claw-induced typos), and in no time he had those magic two words bouncing around the screen. He looked through some of the sample code provided, and found that it made as much sense as Microsoft code had ever made to him. If he could ever find someone to hire him, it looked like he could still work.

Kickaha found this fascinating, for about five minutes. Then the TV suddenly turned itself on, and started slowly flipping through channels. Eventually, it came to the Cartoon Network, and settled to a stop.

<<Now ''this'' is entertainment.>>

Keith had hooked up the modem; with some degree of professional embarrassment, he fired up the AOL trial disk that came with the machine.

<Hey, Kickaha, can you fire up that Visa card of yours?>

<<It's in the cloak,>> Kickaha said distractedly, clearly enthralled.

<How are you watching that, anyway? I'm not even looking at the screen.>

<<Magic. Go 'way.>>

Keith shrugged, reached in the small pocket in the cloak, found the card. "STEVE CASE," it said. He grimaced, but dutifully typed in the info anyway; in no time, he had an account. He headed immediately to Usenet; he was expecting the Raucous Chicken incident to be the talk of the town. And, to a certain extent, it was--but not nearly as much as he expected. He scanned somewhat wistfully through the headers of misc.jobs.offered, wondering if being a coyote qualified under the Americans With Disabilities Act. With a grin, he looked in alt.fan.furry, knowing what he'd find; sure enough, several groups were furiously constructing costumes and organizing pilgrimages. Keith resisted the urge to post "Be careful what you wish for..."

On the TV, a Road Runner cartoon came on. Two minutes passed. <<Hey; what kind of crap is this?>> The channels started clicking again.

Keith grinned, logging off. <Why, Kickaha, whatever happened to entertainment?>

<<It's blatant speciesism. Everybody thinks the dumb birds are cute.>>

The TV clicked to the news. The owners of the Mariners were threatening to sell again; the forecast was for rain through Thursday. Typical.

<Shit; is it five already? Sorry; I sort of lose track of time when I'm on the computer sometimes.>

<<So I see. Well, are you done pondering?>>

<Yep; as near as I can tell, I'm still me.>

<<Really? How sad. Well, let's go work on that...>>

<Gee, thanks for your support.>

<<Anytime.>>

----

Kickaha's first stop was at KFC, for an eight-piece Extra-Crispy bucket, to go. He stashed it in his cloak, shifted to raven, and flew to Woodland Park, a few minutes to the north. There, he landed in the top of a big tree, shifted back, and mercilessly attacked, finishing off the chicken in ten minutes flat.

<Still working off that latent roadrunner hostility?>

<<Phbbbbbt.>>

It was getting dark, and the rain was picking up; the few picnickers left in the park headed home. Kickaha waited for the place to clear out, then climbed down.

<<You're not going to freak on me when I do this, are you?>>



Kickaha nodded, and Sang, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence. He hadn't used much power; it didn't take long--a minute at most. As he finished and Sang his thanks, he hoped the Olympics would forgive him for forgetting earlier.

<See? No problem.>

<<Sure about that?>>

<Why should there be a problem?>

<<I'm glad you feel that way. Your turn.>>

<Ummmm. My turn.>

<<Yep. Cool, huh?>>

<Ummmm. Shouldn't I find out how to do this first?>

<>

And then Keith realized that he did know how.

<Oh.>

<<That ''was'' what you were supposed to be learning, you know.>>

<Kickaha, is there anything else in my head that as its owner I should be made aware of?>

<<If there were, and if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. You always want to spoil the surprises...>>

Keith just sighed, closed his eyes, tried to clear his thoughts, and Sang.

----

Instead of letting the world crash in on him, Keith tried to reach out, expand himself to meet it. He felt the park wash over him, the beat of the rain on the pine needles, the gentle squabblings of the birds picking through the picnickers' leavings. There was no panic, no sense of loss; just... belonging.

He drifted for a while, absorbing it all, dimly feeling the power washing through him. After some time, he realized that he was full, that it was time to go. He focused, found his body, pacing around a tree. He Sang his thanks, without hesitation; then he contracted, rushed in...

----

<<SHIT! Are you okay?>>

Keith blinked. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

<Yeah, as far as I know. What's the problem?>

<<That was ''weird.''>>

<Ummm, isn't that supposed to be my line?>

<<Keith, you were... gone. For, like, half an hour. I would have gone in after you, if I had the damnedest idea '''how''' to.>>

<Was that half an hour? It didn't feel like that long at all.>

<<That's not the point. That's not the way it's supposed... Wait a minute. How did you do that?>>

<Kickaha, if you don't say something coherent in the next ten seconds...>

<<You got magic, didn't you? How did you do that?... Shit. You got a ''lot''...>>

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<What?>>

<Kickaha, I want you to stop. I want you to think about things for about five seconds. Then I want you to tell me exactly what you're talking about. And if you don't, I'm going to whack my head repeatedly against this tree until you do.>

<<Okay.>> A pause. <<Your Singing is different from mine. I expected that. But yours is... really different. And... I didn't think that having two people with magic in the same body was going to work this way. I thought we were both working out of the same pool. After I finished Singing, I thought we were both already full; I didn't think that you were going to be able to get any magic from the Song... I just wanted you to Sing to get used to it. But you got... a lot of it. Not, like, mindshatteringly a lot... but a lot. More than me. I think. It's hard to compare; it feels like it's... not quite the same type. And I would really, really like to know if you think you can do it again.>>

<Oh. Well... I think so. I mean, not right now... but I don't see why not.>

<<Do you feel weird? Is there something you suddenly need to do? Do you feel any sudden urges to sacrifice anything?>>

<Umm... no. I don't think so.>

<<Keith, have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person on this planet and a helluva nice guy?>>

<Shit. Now you've got ''me'' worried.>

<<No. No worrying allowed. This is great. This is important, I can feel it. This is the beginning of a truly beautiful relationship. Tomorrow, we start teaching you some serious stuff. But tonight, we party like crazed weasels!>>

Kickaha shifted to raven, in such a hurry to get off the ground that he was flapping his wings while they were still arms. He darted towards downtown like a black arrow.

Keith, still a bit stunned by the evening's turn of events, silently hoped that Kickaha meant that last line figuratively.

==Part 10 (ADULT; Nov. 3 & Nov. 4; writtten 1997/05/23)==

The night club was full of college students, and thirtysomethings trying to feel like college students.

It was dark. It was crowded. The music was loud. The smells were intense. The dance floor was packed. There were over two dozen varieties of beer.

Kickaha was in his element.

He danced indiscriminately; he had no idea what he was doing, but that was part of the fun. What he lacked in talent he made up for in exuberance. He danced with every woman he could reach who wasn't nailed down, and a few men who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Some of them talked. Some of them bought him drinks. Who was he to be unsociable?

For some reason, Keith was taking exception to this. He pointed out the problems last night. Kickaha taught him a quick spell to dampen the alcohol level in the bloodstream. This let Keith keep him at the "comfortable with life" stage of drunkenness, which made Keith happy. And it gave Keith something to do other than nag, which made Kickaha happy.

And, when Kickaha was in the mood for a little more fun, the place put the "rich" in "target-rich environment". People were doing stupid things left and right. Nobody was paying much attention. And, of course, if people did happen to see something weird, "magic" wasn't likely to be the first explanation to come to mind--unless they were really drunk, in which case who cared?

Over in the corner, a balding manager in a three-piece suit was trying a bit too hard to "get to know" his new secretary, buying her drink after drink, while he sipped at his own. Odd how she didn't seem to be getting tipsy at all, while he seemed to be having a hard time getting the glass upto his mouth...

At another table, some twentysomethings were playing poker; the quality of play had gone down steadily as the night wore on, and now all but two were cleaned out. The remaining two looked at their cards, blinked, bet heavily, raised, reraised; finally, they both smiled broadly, showed their hands--each had a seven-high straight. A tie. They dealt again, blinked again, bet even more heavily, until all their money was in the pot; again they showed their hands--this time both had a royal flush, one in diamonds, one in hearts. They stared at the hands for a while, then agreed to call it a night...

A UW student in a "FUCK OBSCENITY" T-shirt was clearly convinced that he was God's Gift To Dance, and that entitled him to whatever portion of the floor that he might dignify with his presence. Shortly after elbowing Kickaha in the back for encroaching on his territory, he went into one of his patented spins, heard a long, loud ripping sound from the direction of his pants, and suddenly felt a draft...

The night seemed to spin on and on. Finally, the crowd started to thin out. Just past midnight, Kickaha sauntered out, walking back towards the Hilton. He looked up, howled noiselessly at the starless sky. Life was damn good.

Just a block away from the Hilton. If Keith could have, he would have breathed a sigh of relief.

<Well, I've gotta admit it; that went well. And it was damn fun to watch.>

<<Why, thank you. I do try.>>

<So, ready to call it a night?>

<<Not quite yet. Good things have happened today; it seems like we ought to help somebody. Even up the karmic balance a little bit, you know.>>

<Why, Kickaha, that's... sweet. But who's going to need help at this time of night?>

<<Funny you should ask. I have just the person in mind.>>

Then Keith noticed where Kickaha was looking. Standing under an umbrella near the entrance to the Hilton, a blonde in a tight red dress and high heels stood idly, facing away from them, watching the street. She didn't exactly look sleazy, but she clearly wasn't waiting for a cab.

<> said Kickaha, as he picked up his pace a bit.

Keith's heart sank. <What sort of "help" are we talking about here?>

<<Oh, the best kind.>>

<Kickaha, please tell me you're not talking about what I know you're talking about.>

<<Hey. I didn't go telling you how to spend your time.>>



<<Oh, sure. Ringing up a few grand on a magic credit card is perfectly legal. Besides, how can you pass up a damsel in distress?>>

<What sort of 'distress'?>

<<You'll find out.>>

Keith knew when he was beat. <Isn't she going to notice our, er, anatomical differences?>, he said halfheartedly.

<<Magic is a wonderful thing, isn't it?>>

<Oh, words can't describe it.>

<<You'd be amazed at how many people say that.>>

<No, I don't think I would.>

As they approached, she turned around. She wasn't beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. "Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Oh, just getting a feel for the town."

"Like what you see so far?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's real nice. I'm Candy. How'd you like me to show you a few more things tonight?"

"Sounds reeeal interesting."

<As in, "May you live in interesting times"?>

<<Shaddup.>>

Keith wasn't sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. He decided to be fascinated. For now.

He had never used a prostitute before; he'd certainly thought about it enough times, but he'd never actually gone through with it. He had often imagined what it would be like. This wasn't it.

The preliminaries had been dispensed with very quickly. Kickaha seemed to approach sex in the same way that he approached dance. It was athletic; it showed very little sense of timing; it sometimes involved bumping into things. You certainly wouldn't teach anyone to do it that way. But it was a heck of a thing to watch. And everyone involved seemed to be enjoying it.

Keith wasn't quite enjoying it yet. Okay, he was a humanoid coyote; he had that part down cold. And he could even accept that he was a humanoid coyote having sex. Appearance aside, he had to admit that it had some pretty compelling advantages; his weapon seemed to have unlimited ammunition, for one thing. But there was still something a little bit weird about just watching himself have sex. Candy wasn't very active either; she seemed to have given up on trying to keep up with what Kickaha was doing, and had just settled in for the ride. But she was still obviously having a good time. She leaned into Kickaha, as he licked her ear...

...which was getting longer.

If Keith had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have bounced about two feet off the bed in surprise. As it was, he did nothing of the sort; Kickaha kept things going smoothly (or what passed for smoothly with Kickaha), and he chose that moment to close his eyes. But Keith could still feel the fur starting to sprout from the middle of her chest.

<'''KICKAHA!'''>

<<Yeeeeeesssss?>>

<'''WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???'''>

<<I'm helping. Just like I said.>>

<'''HOW???'''>

<<Keith, I'm really kinda busy right now. How about if you take a look around for yourself and get back to me in a bit?>>

<'''KIC--'''>

And then Keith was in Candy's head.

Yes, she was definitely having a good time. There was a warmth all over; her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even, her perceptions muted, detached. Kickaha and the real world hardly seemed to register; it was like floating in space. When he tried, he could feel Kickaha pumping into him--into her, his fur pressing on her chest, his legs bracketing hers, his nose behind her ear. He could feel her push back into him, almost by instinct. He could also feel the beginnings of her own fur emerging, working its way across her chest. Another patch ran along her spine, down the back of her legs, starting to spread out over her back. Her mouth had pushed out a half-inch or so, and her nose was flattening a bit, moving closer to the mouth. The stub of a tail had emerged from the base of her spine, and it slowly pushed out another inch or so, pressed up against her back. The change felt nothing like what he was used to; there was no sudden rush--just slow, even ripples.

When he tried, he could feel all this. But he knew Candy wasn't trying. And he could understand why not.

Then Keith changed his focus, looking towards her mind, her memories. And as he found himself drawn in, he too lost track of reality.

Her name was Tabitha Wilkins.

Her family was poor. Her father often worked two part-time jobs, when he worked at all; her mother did odd jobs when she could. They rarely fought, but they rarely loved either; their marriage was largely taken on as an obligation, "for the child's sake." But "the child" was largely left to fend for herself.

At school, she was a good student; she was never exactly popular, but she always had friends, and she spent most of her time with them. She had always had an interest in the law; so she was thrilled when she was accepted as a pre-law major at the University of Washington, with a partial scholarship.

But once she got to Seattle, she quickly found herself swamped. She had never had to work very hard at her studies in high school; but here, nothing came easy--she was getting average grades, and she knew that "only average" wouldn't get her into law school. And her scholarship didn't cover all the bills; she had to take night jobs to make ends meet. She often got back to her dorm after midnight, studied till 3, then woke up at 6. Coffee helped at first, but it lost its punch quickly. She found herself falling behind; she was certain that she wasn't going to make it.

Then, at one late-night study session, someone offered her some cocaine, saying that it would give her an energy boost. Out of desperation, she tried it. And it worked. While the high lasted, nothing could stop her; she could understand anything, remember anything. She snorted some in the restroom just before a crucial midterm, and aced it. She thought she finally had her answer.

And she had. For about a month.

But then it all came crashing down again. The high wore off too fast, and left her feeling more and more drained. And her financial situation, bad before, was desperate now; she maxed out her credit cards, borrowed money from friends, pawned her stereo, finally sold her books. It wasn't enough. But she couldn't stop.

She drifted away from her friends. She stopped going to classes, tried to find work--any work. But she couldn't hold a job. Finally, someone offered her a way to work at night, to make some quick money--and get a quick fix--while meeting interesting people.

She took it. She had nothing left to lose.

Everything became a blur.

Keith was back in his own skull. He wanted to shiver. It was one thing to hear about people making one wrong decision and derailing their lives as a result. ''Living'' it was something else again. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Keith had clearly been away for a while. The change had progressed; Tabitha--he couldn't bring himself to think of her as Candy now--was almost as much a coyote as he was now. She was on her chest now, her head turned to one side, her muzzle--just reaching its full length--pressed gently against the mattress. Her tail draped off to the other side, its tip just curling over the edge of the bed. The bedcovers were in a lump at their feet, which was a good thing; it was getting awfully warm in here. And Kickaha showed no signs of slowing down; neither did the transformation.

And didn't his legs used to be a little longer?

Just then, Keith felt his fingers start to shorten. A tingle ran down his spine and into his pelvis, and he felt his legs twist forward a bit.

<Kickaha?>

<<Is that you, Keith? You sound so different when you're not '''SCREAMING...'''>>

Keith paused, took a deep mental breath. <How far do you have in mind to go here?>, he finally said, as calmly as he could manage.

<>



<<You know, if we have to explain everything we do to each other, we'll both go bugfuck nuts.>>

<So, no change then.>

<<Tou-damn-che! There's hope for you yet. Yes, there's a point to this. I suppose you'd like to know what it is.>>

<Urgently.>

<<Good. And I'll be happy to tell you. In juuust a few minutes. Right now, there's something I gotta do. And I need to concentrate. So it's reeeeally important that you take over right now. 'kay?>>

<Wait a sec! This is-->

<<Great. Knew I could count on ya.>>

And then Keith was in control. In a manner of speaking.

The changes in both of them seemed to be accelerating; their legs weren't much longer than their arms, and the whole bed seemed to be growing slowly larger.

His vocal chords still didn't seem changed, though.

"Is it just me, or has life gotten too complicated?", he muttered softly.

Tabitha had no reply.

"I knew you'd agree."

Keith didn't think he could stand up. His fingers were nearly gone. And his member had swelled to the point where he didn't think he could withdraw completely in any case. That was good, he supposed. That limited his options. That meant that he didn't have to think as much. And he really didn't want to think very much right now. He just tried to settle into a steady rhythm.

Kickaha's attention was elsewhere.

He had a very clear picture of his target, and he knew that he'd be around somewhere. He extended his awareness, taking in the streets below.

It didn't take long. Sure enough, there he was, circling the block.

He wished they'd gotten a room nearer the ground. At this range, under these conditions, there wasn't much he could do; just little things, nudges. But maybe that would be enough.

He reached out a bit farther. Yes, there was what he needed. And it was always nice to actually get some ''use'' out of one of them. Yes, this could be fun after all.

The red Camaro passed the front door of the Hilton. Still no one there.

Hank slapped the dashboard. Shit. The bitch had never been this late. She brought in good money, but if he had to have this little conversation with her one more time... He clenched the wheel, picturing her neck.

Blue lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Shit. Just what he needed. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window a bit, tried to pull himself together.

"Good evening, sir. Could I see your driver's license and registration, please?"

"Sure thing, officer." He fished them out of the glove compartment, a practiced move. "What's up?"

"Mister...Calhoun, I noticed that you've been around this block four times. There's an anti-cruising ordinance in effect after eight PM. What brings you out here so late?"

"Oh, nothing really, officer. I'm just... waiting for a friend."

"I see. Is your friend at the Hilton, then?"

"Yeah, she's just in town for a few days."

"It's after one in the morning, sir; isn't that a little late to be picking someone up?"

"Well... we were just going to talk for a little while, you know, maybe find a drink somewhere."

"I see. Well, maybe she'll show up in a moment here and we can straighten things out. In the meantime, just sit tight for a moment, okay? I'll make sure you don't have any outstanding warrants, and we can get you on your way here."

"No problem, officer."

As the cop went to his car, Hank drummed his fingers over the wheel, slapping the dash once in frustration. Another damn ticket. The bitch was gonna ''pay'' for this.

Then he noticed that the cop was coming back. So was his partner. Their hands were on their holsters. And another set of blue lights was coming in the distance.

"Mister Calhoun, I need you to open the door and step out of the car. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it now."

Hank climbed out slowly, hands in the air. "What's the problem, officer?", he said, forcing a laugh.

There was no laughter in return. "Sir, we'll get to that in a second. Step around to the front of the car. Lean down on the hood. Put your hands on the hood. Spread your legs. A little farther, please."

Hank complied. Firm hands pulled his arms behind his back, locked the handcuffs on. Another voice read him his rights.

"What the hell is wrong here? I don't have a warrant out for me, right?"

"Sir, that's not the problem. Let me show you the problem." Someone hauled him around to the passenger side; a flashlight lit up the floorboards. "The problem is that large bag of white powder that fell out of your glove compartment. Would you like to tell us something about that, Mister Calhoun?"

"That's impossible! I never keep that there!" He stopped. What the hell was he saying? "I mean... I never saw that before! Get me my lawyer ''now...''"

"We'll arrange that soon enough, Mister Calhoun. Right this way, please. That's it. Just get right in back here. Watch your head..."

Ah, yes. Kickaha did love it when things all came together.

<<Sorry 'bout that. I'm afraid that Tabitha here is just going to have to find a new employer. Seems that hers just ran into some legal complications.>>

<That's nice to hear. Could you take over here? You seem to be getting a lot more out of this than I am.>

<<Oh, that's okay, you can stop now. All done.>>



The changes had certainly completed. Two coyotes were stacked on the bed, Keith still firmly embedded in Tabitha, who looked to have fallen asleep underneath him. There was fur everywhere, among other things. Keith didn't feel at all uncomfortable physically; but the whole situation just seemed like a big social "don't".

Keith knew--in the same way that he knew everything else about his body now--that the swelling would take another hour or so to subside. He was also pretty certain of what Kickaha's reaction to his mentioning that would be-- <<Who's in a hurry?>> And, when it came down to it, he wasn't sure he had an answer.

<Since we're not going anywhere for a while, how about letting me in on what the hell is going on?>

<<Oh, I suppose. Well, if you do a change the right way, it's really great at getting bad stuff out of your system. And it makes withdrawal a lot easier to deal with. Sort of resets things.>>

<Is this the only way you know of to do that?>

<<No. Just the best way. And the most fun.>>

<Won't that just wear off when the change does?>

<<She's already burned up what was in her system; that won't come back. She's still gonna want it in a few days, though; you're right about that.>>

<Is there anything we can do about that?>

<<Not a whole lot. I mean, if you were her, would you want us coming around every few days?>>



<<My point exactly.>>

<So, she's still got no job, no support, no money. She's just going to wind up going back to the same old crowd, isn't she?>

<<Could be. I'm a mage, not a miracle worker. Got any bright ideas?>>

Keith thought for a few seconds. <Yeah. Maybe I do.>

<>

<Just the PC.>

<<Got it.>>

There was a puff of smoke, and the laptop was sitting on the bed in front of them. Keith felt his forelegs grow a bit, his paws expand into clawed hands. He sighed a bit; this wasn't quite what he had in mind. But he prided himself on his ability to work through distractions. He fired up AOL's Web browser; the modem wasn't connected to anything, but that didn't seem to matter. He tapped in an address, and set to work...

Tabitha opened her eyes, looked around. The last thing she remembered, she was working; now she was sitting on a park bench, and the sun was high in the sky. Damn. She'd never blacked out before. What happened?

Wait a minute. If she'd blacked out, then why didn't she feel like hell? Geez, she felt...

Normal.

"Not a bad feeling, huh?"

She whirled around. A man was sitting next to her, an ordinary-looking man, in a jacket and tie. Where had he been a second ago?

"Who are you?" she said weakly.

"We met last night, Tabitha. I don't know how it was for you, but it was very educational for me."

This was too weird. She stood up, backed a few steps away.

"Tabitha."

The voice was still calm. But something in it made her stop, turn around.

"Tabitha, I need you to answer two questions for me, and I need you to think carefully before you answer them. And once you've answered, you can walk away if you want. Is this the way you want your life to go?"

She thought about what she had been through. It didn't take long. "Hell, no!"

"If I give you a second chance, a chance to do what you want to do, are you ready to work as hard as you ever have before to make it happen?"

"Yes. Yes."

"That's what I needed to hear." He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and held it out to her. "Take it."

Trembling a bit, she took it, looked at it. "AST Travel Agency" was neatly printed in one corner; "TABITHA WILKINS" was handwritten across the front. She opened it; inside was a ticket, some sheets of computer printout, and a quarter-inch stack of $50 travelers' checks. Disbelievingly, she pulled one out. It was already signed. In her handwriting.

"You're booked on Alaska flight 403 to San Jose. It leaves at 5:40. You have a room booked at the Airport Inn down there for a week. The first thing you will do is call Anna Connell, at the law office of Connell, Gregors and Tucker, and confirm your interview. The number's in there. Be honest with her; tell her that you're looking for a new start. She will hire you as a clerk, and help you find a place, and treatment if you need it. It's her way of building good karma. You should learn a lot from her. And once you've done good work for her for about a year, she'll help you get back into a good school. Her recommendation carries a lot of weight, and not just with law schools. Don't waste it."

Tabitha numbly looked at him. "Why are you so sure I'll do all that?"

"Because if you don't, if you mess this up, then you're going to know for the rest of your life that somebody gave you a shot, as good a shot as you ever hoped for, and you blew it. And I don't think that you'll let that happen. Am I wrong about that?"

She shook her head, still in disbelief. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Because sometimes good things just happen. And sometimes they just need a little push."

"I can't pay this back."

"Yes, you can. Someday, when you've got your life together, find somebody else who needs help, and return the favor."

She stood still for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think."

"Then don't think. Do something. You've got about three hours to get to your place, pack what you need, and get to the airport. Good luck, Tabitha. You sure as hell deserve some."

Tabitha stared at the envelope again. This couldn't be happening. "But who..."

She looked up, and her voice left her in mid-sentence. The bench was empty. She was alone.

She pinched herself. She was awake. She held the envelope in her hands, even tore the flap a bit. It was real.

She sat down heavily on the bench. She sat there for a few long minutes, staring at the envelope, staring at nothing at all.

Then she got up, quickly, and walked to the cab.

==Part 11 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/02)==

<So, do you think she's okay?>

<<Considering she probably hasn't even made it to the airport yet, I'd have to say yes. Of course, it's been five whole minutes since you asked that last; anything can happen in that kind of time...>>

<Phbbbbbbtht. Can't a guy do a little good-natured worrying around here?>

<<You worry enough for ten of us. Now could you concentrate?>>

<I've been concentrating.>

<<Well, do it some more.>>

<Oh, sure. "Concentrate," says the strange voice in my head.>

<<You're in a lousy position to be calling other people "strange," you know...>>

Keith had never been a fan of taking Mondays off. For some reason, no matter where he was, or how much fun he was supposed to be having, he always felt like he'd rather be at work. Things always went wrong for him on Mondays when he wasn't on a project.

This one was going worse than usual.

They'd retreated to a patch of forest on the east side of the lake. There was one advantage to it being midafternoon on a Monday; at least fewer people were out and about. Keith and Kickaha had the place to themselves. Not that it was doing Keith any good.

As promised, Kickaha was trying to teach Keith the finer arts of magic. And "trying" was about as far as they were getting. If the magic was simple, and if it only involved their body, then Keith could generally pull it off after some effort; when he tried shapeshifting a hand to a paw, it was no problem at all. But anything outside of that--even the trivial trick of making grass grow, which he had pulled off on the night of his transformation--seemed to be beyond him now. He could feel the power in him, but he just couldn't focus it; it was like it evaporated as soon as it left his body... if magic was something that could evaporate. He'd even tried tapping into Kickaha's magic again. No luck; he couldn't do it.

<<Well, this is a bummer and a half,>> Kickaha finally said.

<This is nuts,> Keith fumed. <Last week, I didn't even think magic existed. Now it does, and it's not working, and it's pissing the hell out of me!>

<<The whole thing is kinda weird,>> Kickaha agreed. <<And I say that as an expert.>>

<You said that you didn't think my magic was the same type. Maybe the rules aren't quite the same either?>

<<Yeah, I guess that could be it. I sure as hell hope not, though. 'Cuz if it is, I sure don't know what to do about it. Look, maybe we're banging our head against the wall for nothing here. Maybe it just takes time. Or maybe if you Sing again something'll shake loose; it was sure weird enough the last time...>>

<Not right now, okay? I'm tired, and I'm frustrated, and I'm ticked. I just don't think that's the right frame of mind.>

<<Gee, that's usually when I enjoy it the most. But suit yourself. Mind if I go ahead, though?>>

<Fine. I'll watch your back.>

<<My back is fine. Watch for other people's backs.>>

<Kickaha...>

<<Juuust leaving.>>

Kickaha only took a minute or two. Keith felt the incoming rush of power, and it was bittersweet--so close, so far away. He briefly thought about changing his mind and Singing too, then decided against it. There'd be time later. Time seemed to be one thing he wasn't short of.

----

They drifted back downtown, checking out of the Hilton; after the "events" of last night, it seemed prudent to change. Besides, with those magic pockets in Kickaha's cloak, they didn't exactly need a place to stash their stuff--a fact that Kickaha demonstrated by loading them up with all the toiletries from the bathroom, only stopping when Keith drew the line at the towels.

Rush hour was coming closer, and the traffic on First Street was just starting to get interesting. Kickaha stood on a corner, tapping his claws against a building, idly watching the traffic work its way through the light. Well, not exactly "idly." People who ran the light or blocked the intersection mysteriously found themselves dropping their lattes on their immaculate floor mats; pedestrians who crossed against the red were splashed by a puddle that never quite seemed to empty. A cop working the corner didn't quite know what to make of his unexpected bounty--nobody seemed to notice him until it was too late. Keith found himself cheering up; he may still have wished that he was in that commute instead of watching it, but that didn't make it any less fun to watch.

Then a bolt of cold fire hit him in the chest.

For a moment, the world seemed to dissolve; Keith saw nothing but blue, heard nothing but a roaring in his ears. Then the fog cleared, and he stood stunned, looking down at the sidewalk, waiting for the pain that he was sure would be coming. Waiting for Kickaha to do something.

Someone screamed.

<<No power... run...>> The voice in his head was muted, distant.

Keith ran, not sure which way to go.

The second bolt hit him in the back.

Keith howled in pain as his skeleton lurched, convulsed into another shape. As he crashed face-first to the sidewalk, he dimly felt the weight of the cloak disappear from off his back, coalescing into a ring around his neck, choking him. He picked himself up, on all fours this time, whimpering in pain, running again.

Something poked into his hindquarters, throwing him off stride. He tried to recover, and managed a few more loping strides, but his hind legs weren't working right; he couldn't feel them anymore. A wave of numbness ran up his right side; it reached his forepaw, and he collapsed to the sidewalk again, panting, too weak to whine. Something lifted him off the ground, just as the nothingness reached his head, and everything went dark.

==Part 12 (Nov. 4; written 1997/06/06)==

A plain-looking black van rolled south on I-5, leaving the downtown skyscrapers behind. The driver was dressed in sunglasses and a black suit; he flicked the radio buttons, finding a traffic report. "I-5 north and south through the city still movin' along just fine. There's a blocking disabled on eastbound 520 at the western highrise; I-90 is definitely your bridge of choice tonight. If you're heading downtown this evening, steer way clear of First and Pike; there's a horrible backup there--no word yet on what the hold-up is, but police are on the way. And we just got word of a car-semi collision southbound on the Valley Freeway; at this rate, looks like it's gonna be a rocky commute tonight..."

In the passenger seat, an almost-identical man picked a few stray brownish hairs off his suit. A small tranquilizer gun sat in his lap; a revolver was holstered at his hip.

The side walls of the van were loaded with cabinets of various sizes, their contents hidden from view. At the very back, a small bench was mounted to the left, a large cage to the right.

On the bench sat a man, who looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy novel. Every inch of him screamed "wizard". His eyes had just the right amount of fire; his silvery beard was just the right length; his boots had just the right curl at the toes. His blue robes crawled with magical symbols. He stared levelly at the cage.

And in the cage, a coyote lay motionless in a corner. A thick black collar, with no sign of a buckle, was tight around its neck; a muzzle was strapped to its head.

It finally stirred.

"About damn time," the wizard muttered.

Keith slowly raised his head, looked around, towards the front of the van.

"Over here, you dumb mutt!"

An unseen force gripped Keith's muzzle, wrenched it around towards the wizard. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. He felt cold, despite the fur; he knew that there was no trace of power in him.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. The link was dead.

The wizard looked right into its eyes, leaned over until his head nearly touched the side of the cage.

"So, we finally meet, Kickaha. Or should I say, Mister Dorner? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maelstrom. Not that it matters to you, since you're never going to be in a position to call me anything at all."

''This certainly isn't how I expected to die,'' Keith thought.

"You know, this is really all your fault," Maelstrom continued. "If you'd had the common sense to just go along the first time, we could have met under better circumstances. We might even have been partners. As it is, you made me look bad. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the person you're interrogating turn out to be a rat? With your superior watching? Do you have the ''slightest '''clue''''' how many explanations that takes?"

He smiled coldly, leaned back casually. "But frankly, I'm glad now that it turned out this way. I actually thought that catching you would be a challenge. But frankly, you were a joke. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's working with losers."

He stood up, stepped forward, and leaned down on the roof of the cage, head and hands pressed against the bars, smile never wavering. Keith was still frozen in place; he could no longer see Maelstrom's face, and he was not at all unhappy about that. But he felt an unseen icy hand stroke the fur on his cheek, work its way down his side, a mockery of tenderness.

"So right now, Mister Kickaha, you are going to see my employer. He's very anxious to talk to you. And I suggest you pray very hard that he decides to kill you himself. Because if he turns you over to me, I have some ideas of my own that I've ''really'' been looking forward to trying."

The unseen hand stroked Keith's tail.

Maelstrom smiled, still leaning on the cage. He could watch this all day...

----

A few hundred feet ahead, a garbage bag swirled in the breeze, just above the right center lane.

A Ford Escort swerved to avoid it, cutting in front of an old pickup in the left center lane. The driver jammed on the brakes for a moment, honking and swearing in German. In the bed of the pickup, a heavy oxygen cylinder lurched forward. A rusty chain snapped. As the pickup accelerated again, the cylinder toppled over, rolling backwards, building momentum. It slammed into the tailgate, popped it open, and rolled those last two feet off the edge, bouncing off the pavement and into the left lane, just in time to disappear under a passing black van...

The van vaulted into the air, spinning sideways, front axle swinging wildly, fuel spraying from the undercarriage. It landed on its roof, skidded upside-down for a few dozen feet, then caught on something, flipped end-over-end, and slammed down on the remains of its wheels with a horrendous crash. Facing backwards now, it scraped its way down the pavement, leaving a trail of parts and fire, then finally ground to a halt against the median.

----

Keith shook his head, groggy from being slammed against the cage. He was his old Kickaha-self again, crouched in the cage, collar gone, cloak wrapped around his chest. He could feel the power in him again; how could that be?

He twisted around, looked towards the front of the van. Smoke and fire filled the windshield. The two men in suits were slumped in their seats. Between them, someone lay dead on the floor, neck bent at an impossible angle. He was dressed in blue jeans, Keds, and a gaudy blue robe that was clearly bought at a costume shop somewhere

He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

Keith turned his head away.

<<Would you terribly mind if we didn't roast in here?>>

Keith found himself condensing, shifting into raven form. The door of the cage popped open, followed shortly by the rear doors of the van. Keith found himself flying out, circling, gaining altitude, finally heading north.

<<A damn illusionist. I should've known. It was all so perfect.>>

<It was just a kid,> Keith mumbled, still disbelieving.

<<That's the breaks... Sorry. Bad choice of words.>>

Below and behind them, the van exploded in a plume of fire.

<<You know, it's like I said before. Getting killed twice in one week is just too damn much. I think it's about time for a long change of scenery.>>

Keith was silent for a few seconds. <Not yet,> he said finally.

<<Huh?? Ummm, Keith, need I remind you that...>>

<There's one thing I need to do.>

It was Kickaha's turn to pause.

<<You know, I'm not usually in a position to say this. But this isn't very smart.>>

There was no answer.

<<I'm not going to be able to get a moment's peace if I say no, am I?>>

<Nope.>

<<That's what I thought.>> Another pause. <<What the hell.>>

The raven turned, headed west.

==Part 13 (Nov. 4 & Nov. 5; written 1997/06/13)==

Night had fallen over the Olympic peninsula. Clouds blocked the waning moon; barely a glimmer of starlight fell on the forest. All was peaceful, with only the occasional bird call breaking the silence.

High in the branches, a hawk perched.

Kickaha preened his feathers. <<This is as good a spot as any, I guess. If someone wants to find us here, they're gonna have a bear of a time. And if they do, well, it's a helluva pretty place to die.>>

<Good, I guess. I don't know how long this is going to take. If something happens... improvise.>

<>

Keith didn't answer. He Sang.

----

The world rushed in to meet him once again. Keith felt his worldview expand, lost the sense of his body. He felt the life of the forest washing over him, as it had when he had first come here; so much richer, deeper than the park. He felt the belonging around him.

But he could not lose himself in it. He could not feel it in himself.

The forest seemed to withdraw a bit. He felt a questioning note.

Keith was lost for a moment. He wanted so badly to explain, but surely there was no way he could.

But he had to try.

''Why is all this happening?''

There was no response.

Helpless, angry, Keith felt the thoughts flowing out of him even before he knew what they were. ''Everything I've worked and planned for is gone. You gave me this gift. A child died over it. But I could do more before I had it. What is it for? What am I supposed to do now? Why... is all this happening?''

Still nothing. Just the Song.

Keith floated for what seemed like minutes. He wanted to cry. This was hopeless. How had he ever expected this to work? This wasn't a person to discuss things with, to...

''What do you want?'' The voice in his head was calm, strong, oddly familiar. There was no anger to it; just a strong sense of purpose.

''I just want... people to leave me alone.''

And then, everything changed.

----

The alarm clock rang.

Keith yawned, pulled himself out of bed, slapped the clock into silence. ''Thank God it's Thursday,'' he mused, as he headed for the shower. With any luck, ''if I find that damn sorting bug today, I can finish things up tomorrow... then maybe I can actually see what Chicago looks like before the flight home on Monday. I wonder if it's too late to find some Bulls tickets somewhere?''

As he waited for the water to warm up, he went to the desk, found a pen and paper, and scribbled out a note to Housekeeping, asking them to bring someone in to fix that rattle in the air conditioner...

----

''Is this right?''

Keith suddenly found himself in the Song again. It had been a memory. He remembered that day; it was less than a year ago. He'd found the bug, gotten the tickets for Saturday's game--a yawner win for the Bulls, as usual. It seemed... distant, now.

Was that what he was being offered? Could he actually have his old life back?

Did he want it back?

He thought about it. Then a realization hit him. ''Oh, God, no, I couldn't. Kickaha...''

Peace washed over him. ''Would be fine.''

Keith didn't ask how that could be. Somehow, he knew it would be.

He could lose all the insanity of the last few days. He could have everything back. He could just be normal again.

He thought about it.

''No.''

''What do you want?''

''I want to learn magic.''

''I was thinking more in the long term.''

Now Keith knew why the words he was hearing sounded familiar. They were his own.

He thought about Kickaha's answer to that question. It was tempting. It even felt close to right... far closer than his own answer seemed now. But he knew that the answer was still somewhere in between.

''I want to stay with Kickaha. I think we can learn from each other. If I were just like him, I don't think I'd regret it. But I don't want to be a load on his back. And... I really want to help people. I want to change things. And not just with money. I'm tired of worrying about people taking things from me...''

''Then that's what we'll do.''

Keith wanted to smile; that was his "handshake line", when he'd finally settled the details of a contract with a new client. He Sang his thanks, drifted back towards his body...

----

He looked out at the forest floor, staring at the acorn he was holding in his forepaws.

He was a squirrel.

Wait a minute. Wasn't he a hawk before?

<Kickaha?>

No answer.

Keith dropped the nut, whirled around in panic, looking for a hawk. Shit! How had he wound up in the wrong body?

<<Gotcha...>>

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. <Kickaha, if we weren't in the same body I would...> He stopped, trying to think of something suitably violent. Then he broke up laughing, a strange thing coming from a squirrel.

<> Kickaha countered, laughing too. <<That was a little quicker than last time. Did you get anything settled?>>



<<Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before we wear out our welcome.>>

Keith nodded, handed off to Kickaha. The squirrel shifted to a raven, flew up through the treetops, heading south.



<<Man, I'm glad I don't. That sounds like way too much-->>

They never felt the bullet smash through their head.

----

From a few hundred yards away, the hunter lowered his rifle. Despite the dark, he had no problem watching the aura of life leave the raven, watching the body fall to the forest floor.

That was that.

He knelt down, opened the case at his feet. Carefully, methodically, he disassembled the three pieces of his rifle, packing them away in their proper places. He walked a few paces, picked up the shell casing, put it in his pocket.

Then he closed the case, concentrated for a moment, and disappeared.

==Part 14 (written 1997/06/22)==
Then Keith found himself in another place.

The sun was high in the sky. He was standing on a sidewalk, next to an ordinary-looking two-lane street, the center line freshly painted. Nearby was a parking lot, and just beyond that, what looked to be a small office building, nicely landscaped. He couldn't see a name on the building, but everything about it screamed '''government'''.

He'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

Only this time, the street was empty. So was the parking lot. There were no other buildings in sight, no intersections, no traffic lights. Only the street, stretching all the way to the horizon in both directions. Everywhere else was a featureless plane of green.

<Kickaha?>

There was no answer. And somehow, Keith knew Kickaha wasn't kidding this time. He was alone.

His chest felt cold. His magic was gone.

''So. This is it.''

He had never really given much thought to what being dead would be like. But this wasn't what he had in mind at all.

Numbly, Keith looked down at himself. He was human again, dressed in a blue knit shirt, slacks, leather shoes.

''Great,'' he thought absurdly. ''I'm dead, and I'm still dressed for work.''

He thought about it for a few seconds.

''Well, it's not as if there's a lot of alternatives...''

He walked across the parking lot, towards the door at the corner of the building. The windows were tinted, blocking his view. But as he got closer, he could read the sign next to the door: DEPARTMENT OF CLASSIFICATIONS. And below that, OPEN.

He reached the door, and stood there for a few seconds, gathering his resolve...

He barely had time to see someone run around the corner of the building, someone wearing a familiar-looking cloak. He didn't have time to avoid that someone. They went down in a heap.

Keith looked up into the face of his assailant, just a few inches from his own.

"Kicka..."

He stopped in mid-word. He might be human again, but he still knew more than the average human about animals now. And even the average human would have known that he was staring into the eyes of a fox, not a coyote.

"Oh, hi," it said, panting. "You'll need this."

It licked him on the nose.

Keith felt a gentle *snap*, like a static shock. He was at a loss for a response.

Then the fox hurriedly disentangled itself from him, got up on four legs, and ran off, gaining speed until it became a blur, vanishing around the other corner of the building.

As Keith picked himself up, he was nearly run down again by three more men rounding the building, racing past him. They were running too fast for Keith to see them clearly before they disappeared behind the building as well, but he got an impression of blue uniforms, badges.

Disbelievingly, Keith picked himself up, dusted himself off.

''Curiouser and curiouser...''

Then he noticed something... a trickle of warmth in his chest. Magic? Where did that come from? Could he use it? He thought about a spell, then hurriedly decided against it. If he had it... well, he'd need it.

He opened the door, looked in. And, for the first time since he arrived, he felt true fear. For he had seen these chairs, those podiums before--only five or six times, but that was more than enough. He probably would have run, if he thought there was anywhere to run to.

''My God... It's the DMV...''

The chairs in the waiting room were empty; so were the testing stations along the wall. On the other side of the room, there was the same old counter, the same old five windows with the same old bulletproof glass. Four of them were closed. From behind the fifth, a balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up from his computer, smiled at him. "Good day, sir."

"Ummmmm... hello."

"Could I ask you to please take a number as you come in? It's for staffing analysis, you see."

"Oh. Okay." The red TAKE A NUMBER reel was just inside the door; numbly, Keith grabbed the ticket from the reel, pulled it out. '''423,''' it said; and in smaller letters, VALID TODAY ONLY--PLEASE WATCH DISPLAYS.

The clerk pressed a key. A bell rang, and '''423''' lit up above his window.

"Thank you, sir. Step right over, please. Is this your first visit?"

Keith walked over, timidly. He noticed the nameplate on the desk: JAY. "Ummmm, yes. As far as I know, anyway."

"That's fine, sir. Let me just pull up your records... Could I have your name and your last known birth date?"

"Ummm, Keith Antonio Dorner. June 9, 1966."

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a moment..." He started typing rapidly.

"Sure. Ummmm, if you don't mind my asking... I would have thought the afterlife would be a little, well, busier."

"Most people say that, sir," the clerk nodded, typing all the while. "You see, things are pretty well automated these days. It used to be that we manually processed all the incoming souls. Now, of course, that would be impractical. Policies have been established to cover the vast majority of cases; the souls get routed to their proper destinations automatically. Now, we only handle the souls for which the policies do not yield a clear resolution for some reason. It's usually just a minor records discrepancy; we get it straightened out in no time."

"Oh. I see." Keith closed his eyes, trying to deal with this. The clerk continued to type, much to Keith's amazement; why was it that, even in the afterlife, government clerks and ticket agents always had to retype ''War and Peace'' from memory just to look something up? Keith still didn't know; but it gave him something not quite so disturbing to think about...

"Ah, here we go..."

Keith opened his eyes, only to find that the world had just gotten larger. He stood up on tiptoe, trying to reach the level of the counter, but he couldn't quite make it.

"Um, excuse me?"

The typing stopped. "Oh, terribly sorry, sir; I must have made a slight error on the height..."

A few more keystrokes sounded, and suddenly Keith was back to normal again.

"Is six feet three point two inches correct, sir?", the clerk said, sounding contrite.

Keith swallowed hard. "Um. I think so. This feels right, anyway."

"Thank you, sir. Now, let's see what the problem is... Well. This is a bit unusual. Sir, according to this, you are by nature an agnostic, with Judeo-Christian leanings... but, for a period of time preceding your death, your body was cohabited by an extraplanar soul, with a conflicting belief structure. Is that correct?"

Keith almost laughed despite himself. ''I'll take Things A DMV Clerk Would Never Say for $1000, Alex...'' "Well... yes, I guess that sums it up, more or less."

"I see. We don't get a lot of that these days."

"I would imagine not."

"Well, that explains things. You see, souls are normally processed according to the standards of their belief structure--in this case, a modified Judeo-Christian--and routed to an appropriate afterlife. However, in cases of bodily cohabitation, there are issues of fairness--one's judgment could easily be influenced based on actions performed while under the influence of the conflicting ethos."

"I see." Keith paused. He was sure that the implications of all this hadn't fully sunk in yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to. "So... what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that a decision needs to be made. We can exclude the portion of your life in which the cohabitation occurred, and evaluate and assign you based on your original belief system as of the point of cohabitation. Or, since the cohabitation occurred at the end of your lifespan, you can be evaluated and assigned based on the ethos of the cohabiting soul--a modified Native American, in this case. Your case has been submitted to the Oversight Committee for resolution; based on the current backlog and the priority of the case, a hearing will be held in approximately... fifteen days. However, there is also the option of self-adjudication."

"Self-adjudication?", Keith repeated numbly.

"Yes, sir. Basically, if you were to formally select one of those options, your decision would receive automatic approval. Self-adjudication is offered in certain classes of cases, as a way to reduce the Committee's backlog."

"Wait a minute... are you saying that I get to choose my afterlife?"

"Not precisely. You can select the ethos you wish to be applied. The actual evaluation and assignment to an afterlife still takes place automatically, according to the policies established for that ethos."

"But... but..." Keith could feel his brain overloading, shutting down. Desperately, he latched onto a minor detail, something he could handle. "How can this committee have a backlog, when I'm the only one here?"

"Each field office only handles cases from a particular plane. Each Oversight Committee deals with cases from a number of field offices."

Even in his rattled state, Keith noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in this response; he knew an Official Line when he heard it, and this was definitely one. For some reason, this gave him some hope. ''All right, so I'm dead. But this is a bureaucracy, the same as any other. And if there's one thing I can handle, it's a bureaucracy.''

"If you don't mind my asking, Jay, what do you do between customers?"

"Not much, actually," the clerk replied. "The paperwork essentially takes care of itself these days, and the case load is rather low. I was formerly able to access your plane's computer networks, but then a new policy was passed forbidding non-work-related materials on the system..."

"That's a real shame."

"Well, I can see the point," Jay answered, in a tone that strongly suggested that he couldn't. "It was never precisely wonderful, anyway; there was a temporal distortion in the firewall that they never repaired. It was somewhat hard to follow discussions when the replies usually arrived one to two years before the original messages."

"Yowch. And I thought a few days was bad. How long is your shift here, anyway?"

"I'm approaching the halfway point. Eighteen years down, twenty-two to go, as they say."

"A forty-year shift???"

"Well, yes. When I died, my evaluation was marginal, so I was given the option of a purgatorial assignment. If my performance reviews are positive, my permanent afterlife assignment should be much more favorable."

"Wow. Being here for eighteen years... even with a slow case load, you must really have seen it all by now."

"I have seen some interesting cases come through, yes. Normally, I would love to tell you about some of them, but... well, confidentiality requirements apply, and..."

"The purgatory thing. I understand. Say no more."

The clerk simply nodded, clearly relieved.

"I see. Jay... you've got more experience with these kinds of things than I could ever hope to. What would you do if you were me?"

"I do apologize, Mister Dorner, but... well..." He gestured to a sheet of paper taped to the desk. On it was printed: EMPLOYEES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE. "Disobeying posted rules or regulations..."

"Policy violation."

"Exactly. I can answer questions of a factual nature."

"Okay; just stop me if I cross the line. Has Kickaha already been... er, assigned?"

"I'm sorry, but the confidentiality requirements..."

"Oh, come on. If I'm supposed to be deciding whether to be evaluated like he was... will be... whatever, I'm at least entitled to find out ''something,'' aren't I?"

"An intriguing question. There may be an exception for cases of cohabitation. I would have to go in back to check the Procedural Guidelines; they're not online yet."

"Could you do that, please? I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly. I'll be back in a moment."

The clerk put the CLOSED sign up on his window, disappeared down a corridor in the back.

Keith put his head in his hands. ''This is nuts. I could ask questions until this committee meets, and I still wouldn't know what to do. If I could just ask one or two questions without 'disobeying posted rules or regulations...' ''

He stopped. Posted rules or regulations...

He had an idea. It made no sense. But then again, suddenly being three feet shorter hadn't made sense either. And anyway, look where logic had gotten him...

He looked through the glass, concentrating on the paper, focusing on the letters. He closed his eyes, picturing one minor change. ''Please, let this work.'' He poked a finger at the glass, and felt that tiny trickle of warmth leave him.

He opened his eyes. EMPLOYEES ARE NOW ALLOWED TO RENDER SPIRITUAL ADVICE.

He smiled nervously, and waited...

A few minutes later, the clerk returned. "Good news, Mister Dorner. There is a limited confidentiality waiver available in cases of bodily cohabitation."

"That's wonderful. I still just wish I could ask you for a little advice."

"I apologize, Mister Dorner, but we have gone through this. The policy clearly states..."

He looked down at the sign, and paused for a few seconds.

"Mister Dorner, I am fully aware that this sign has been altered, and I am fully aware of the policy. Are you responsible for this?"

Keith looked at the floor, shuffled his feet. "I'm really sorry. I had to try."

"Mister Dorner, are you aware of the potential penalties for tampering with official documents?"

"No, I'm not. But I can imagine."

The clerk paused for a few seconds. "Mister Dorner, I have been here for eighteen years, and I have seen a great many things, as I said. It would not be a violation of confidentiality to say that I have seen any number of people attempt to obstruct policy, in any number of ways. But in that time, you are the first person to ever cheat in order to attempt to obtain my advice." He paused again. "I must admit that I am flattered." Then, in a sterner voice, "Nevertheless, I must insist that you not attempt any similar tactics in the future, or I would be forced to refer you to the Disciplinary Board."

"I promise. I don't think I could anyway."

"I see. Well, I shall just have to print up another notice then. It's not as if there's a shortage of paper."

Keith had no idea what to say. He just stood and waited.

"Mister Dorner, I am not allowed to render spiritual advice. However, I am most certainly allowed to present certain facts relevant to your case, within the limits of confidentiality, of course. And such a presentation of facts would not fall within the meaning of 'advice', even if the totality of the facts presented would tend to lead a listener toward a particular conclusion."

"Oh. I see... Jay, I would be extremely grateful if you were to do that."

"I suspected you would. Mister Dorner, I assume that you are aware of the range of afterlife possibilities presented by your own religious upbringing, correct?"

"Yes, I guess I am."

"I am not allowed to divulge the specific afterlife to which Kick...your cohabiting soul has been or will be assigned. However, I am allowed to describe the range of possibilities of assignment under his ethos, and the factors entering into the evaluation process, in order to allow you to make a meaningful comparison with your own."

"But he's 'cohabiting' too; he could have chosen my ethos, couldn't he?"

"Yes. If he wished to be assigned to a permanent Judeo-Christian afterlife on the basis of his actions, he would be free to do so."

''And monkeys would be free to fly out my ass.'' "Sorry I asked. Please go on."

"As I was saying. His ethos is rather unusual, in that there is only one possible evaluation, and one possible assignment."

"Only one? What kind of crazy scheme is that?"

"It is somewhat appropriate that you chose the word 'crazy' to describe it, Mister Dorner. His ethos is based around the Native American system of the Pacific Northwest region, specifically the Coyote archetype. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Keith. And then something clicked in his brain, and his jaw fell open.

"And one of the fundamental tenets of that archetype is that Coyote routinely overreaches his capabilities, or simply falls victim to fate. And as a consequence of this..."

"He dies," said Keith numbly.

"Repeatedly. Yet, inevitably, he is restored to life, in the same corporeal form, with full memory of his past experiences, though generally without learning the appropriate lessons from them."

"So if I choose to be judged as Kickaha would..."

"Your assignment would be automatic. You would be restored to your former body, with full memory of your past experiences. And, since your cohabiting soul would be assigned in the same way, your cohabitation would continue, as you would both once again be reassigned to the same corporeal form."

"And, when we died again..."

"In that case, since you would have cohabited for your entire most recent life span, and since you would now both be under the same ethos, there would not even be a decision required; you would automatically be evaluated and reassigned in the same way, and the process would repeat."

"So that would go on... forever?"

"Barring a major policy change, yes."

Keith stared at the wall. "That's a hell of a decision to make."

"Would you like to hear another relevant fact, Mister Dorner?"

"Yes. I would very much like to."

"Thank you. Under the circumstances, it would be within my authority to leave your file flagged for special handling. That would mean that you would return to this field office at the conclusion of each life span. If you wished to continue under your current ethos, then it would simply be a rubber stamp, as it were. On the other hand, it would also be within your rights to file a request for return to your former ethos."

"And who would have to approve that request?"

"The Oversight Committee. And, based on my experience, it would be extremely unlikely for such a request to be rejected. The Committee tends to react very favorably to requests to make things more... conventional."

"I see. Won't the Committee see the results of this case?"

"Yes, they will."

"Well, if the Committee... appreciates the conventional so much, then if I choose to take Kickaha's ethos, won't they just overturn my decision?"

"That raises an interesting point. In theory, all these sorts of decisions must be approved by the Committee. In practice, under the Committee's own self-adjudication policy, your decision has the force of their approval, eliminating the requirement for them to consider the matter. Therefore, if they wished to reverse your decision, they could not simply do so on their own, since they have technically already decided. They would have to appeal their own decision to a higher level."

Keith started to smile. "And that, of course, would require the Oversight Committee to admit to their superiors that they didn't consider actual oversight of the case to be worth their time in the first place."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address," the clerk replied. But the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "Of course, if they considered the outcome of the case to be undesirable, they could change the self-adjudication policy, and evaluate such cases personally in the future. But that would only affect your case if it were made retroactive, since your future evaluations would not require a decision. And retroactive policy changes would require approval at a higher level..."

"Which they wouldn't do, for the same reason."

"That would be inappropriate for me to address. For the same reason."

"You know, I think the facts presented are leading me towards a particular conclusion."

"I suspected they might. And, if I might say so, based on the...initiative you displayed here, the ethos in question does not strike me as particularly inappropriate."

"That's pretty close to giving spiritual advice, isn't it?"

"You have a point. But I suspect that my superiors will not be raising any aspect of this case for further review."

"That would be inappropriate for ''me'' to address."

"Probably so. I take it, then, that you have decided to adopt your cohabiting soul's ethos?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And thank you."

"Very good, Mister Dorner. I'll just print out the self-adjudication forms for your approval... and there are two other points that you should be made aware of."

"Namely?"

"First, bear in mind that if you do decide to return to your own ethos, your final afterlife assignment will be based on all your actions, including those made while cohabiting. So, if you wish to keep your options open, you may wish to avoid reckless excesses of behavior."

"Thanks. I'll certainly bear that in mind. And second?"

"There is one other policy involved. Humans are not allowed to reincarnate with memories intact; it creates too many societal disturbances. You could theoretically apply for a waiver, but that would require approval at a very high level... given the low priority of the case, it would probably take at least two millennia to even come up for consideration. So, since the policies governing this case would reassign you to such an ethos, a conversion to a nonhuman genotype is automatically approved."

"You're saying... I have to pick a new ''species?''" The thought didn't disturb him nearly as much as he thought it would; but it still came as something of a shock.

"Yes, sir. The policy is very firm on that, I'm afraid. I've loaded up the appropriate choices on Station 3; you can visually make your selection there. The default choice is the current form of your cohabiting soul, but that is not required; any form appropriate to the belief system is acceptable. The choices available to you have been constrained accordingly."

"All right..." Keith walked over to the console; Kickaha, minus the cloak, was on the screen. He thought about it, tapped a few buttons, rotating the image this way and that. It might make things simpler, matching Kickaha for once. And it ''was'' kind of cute, in that primal-homely kind of way...

But it wouldn't hurt to at least explore the possibilities first. He looked over the controls available, and pressed GENOTYPE SELECT. He looked over the list of choices, tried a few, surveyed the changes on the screen. Bear? Too imposing. Crow? Naaah; too small, and having hands on the ends of your wings like that looked way too awkward. Deer? No way; he'd put somebody's eye out with those antlers...

Then he touched Fox, Red.

He stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, jaw hanging loose. He didn't need a computer to know what this body looked like from all angles. He had seen it before... just a few minutes ago.

He looked away in disbelief, staring at the front windows for a moment. ''This is like something out of a bad movie...''

Then something clicked in his head.

He started laughing, softly at first, then building momentum. He lost his balance, toppled backwards, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, arms spread wide, laughing like he would never stop.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

But he didn't think he was. A pun like that was just too horrible to happen by chance.

And he couldn't wait to see how ''this'' was going to work out.

"This is the one, Jay," he finally gasped. "I think I'm going to like this..."

==Part 15 (Nov. 5; written 1997/07/08)==

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain pounded down on the forest; a stiff wind blew through the treetops. To the east, just a hint of a reddish glow on the horizon marked the rising sun.

Three squirrels darted from under a thorny bush.

A moment later, the bush shuddered.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW!"

A pause. Then the bush began shaking again as... something slowly worked its way out from under it. Red fur mixed with black feathers in ragged patches all over its body. Its front limbs were weirdly elongated; the hind legs short, ending in clawed talons. Its head was... well, mostly gone.

Eventually, it made its way into the open. Then it rippled, expanded; limbs reshaping, feathers vanishing, head reassembling itself from thin air, something green spreading across its back...

In seconds, the change was complete, and a large fox stood on all fours, most of its body draped by a familiar cloak. It rose to two legs, felt its head with both hands as if to make sure it was all there, turned, and looked at the bush.

<Oh. ''That's'' what was in the way.>

<<Major style deduction. The Russian judge gives a nine two. Kiss the medals goodbye.>>

<How was I supposed to know? It's a little hard to take in your surroundings when your damn face... is...>

Keith's voice trailed off, as reality slowly sank in.

<Kickaha... we just died, didn't we?>

<<Yup. Weird, wasn't it?>>

<That... doesn't even begin to describe it.> The words spilled out of him--the strange world, the office, Jay, the Oversight Committee, the strange fox whose body he was now wearing... His own mental "voice" sounded different to him. That unnerved him. Through it all, Kickaha listened silently, never offering a comment... which unnerved him even more.

<<So. You ran into a fox that you think was you showing up to help you?>>

<Yup.>

<<Uh-huh. I'd definitely call that weird, all right.>>

<So... what happened to you?>

<<You don't want to know.>>

<''WHAT?'' We're probably the only two people on this planet that can have this discussion, and ''you're telling me that I don't want to know?''>

<<Look. You don't understand. ''You were there. You told me. You don't want to know.''>>

<Oh. Uhhhhhh.... Oh.>

<<It was really cool, though.>>

<I'm sure it was.>

<<Especially the part where we-->>

<''I don't want to know,'' okay?>

<<Geez. Touchy.>>

<Sorry.>

<<No problem.>> A chuckle. <<You mellow with age.>>

<Not if you keep this up, I don't.>

<<Point taken. So, you're a fox now. Good choice. I mean, not as good as the obviously superior alternative, but good.>>

<Thanks, I think.> He looked himself over, twice shifting briefly into Kickaha's coyote form to compare. As far as body shape went, he wasn't really any different; the effort to change between the two forms was barely noticeable. But the difference was in the details. His fur was shorter, finer, more even; a deep red across his back, lighter across his chest. His muzzle was an inch or two longer, a bit narrower; his ears were longer, more pointed. The fur at his paws was nearly black, a sharp contrast to Kickaha's. His tail was bushier, and longer--long enough to drag on the ground if he let it. The fur at its tip was a dazzling white--it made Kickaha's seem dingy by comparison. Overall, he seemed a bit sleeker, more refined. And somewhat more modestly endowed.

<<Not bad,>> Kickaha observed. <>

<Why, thank you ever so much,> Keith countered, laying on the sarcasm. 

<>

<Some of us try.> He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about this, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the alternatives either. <Kickaha, did you know this would happen?>

<<Not a clue. I'm a great fan of loopholes, though... and as loopholes go, I think we've got a world record here.>>

<No argument here. So... what do we do for the rest of eternity?>

<<How about the interview circuit? I mean, between our... physical eccentricities, and our harrowing tale of life beyond the grave, we could milk the talk shows for ''years.'' And think of the merchandising...>>

<Not a chance. If anything would get that committee to actually get off their ass and do something about us, that would be it. Besides, I've always hated talk shows.>

<<Yeah, but wouldn't you love to turn Geraldo into a...>>

<Don't tempt me. Forget it.>

<<Fine. Be that way. Well, what's your bright idea?>>

<Well, somebody did kill us just now... horrible vengeance is always an option.>

<<Naah. First, there's the slight technical problem that we don't have the foggiest clue who did it. And besides, when it comes right down to it, where's the harm? I mean, we're still here. And frankly, the change can only be considered an improvement. I mean, at least you're ''close'' to the right species now.>>

<You're just jealous because my tail is nicer than yours.>

<<Nicer for what? Dusting?>>

<Ouuuuch. Well, let's see. I guess this leaves us wandering around blindly and waiting for the next crisis to come up.>

<<Yep. Neat, huh?>>

Keith paused for a few seconds. <It could be a lot worse.>

He shifted to raven, and headed south once again.

==Part 16 (Nov. 5 & Nov. 6; written 1997/08/09)==

==Part 17 (Nov. 6; written 1998/01/28)==