CHAPTER 1: LIGHTWEIGHT

The blaring of the alarm pries open your eyelids. There is light radiating through the white canvas of the lone window curtain in your room. The clock reads eight AM. You reach over to your nightstand and turn off the noise.

You groan, the remnants of your sleep retard the strength in your muscles; your bed-sheets for a moment seem to weigh down on you, urging you to remain where you are for a little longer. You feel a moment of panic, then relief when you realize you don't have work today—you are free to do as you please. 

You stretch your arms and back, dispelling the last of your grogginess. Across from your bed, on top of your desk lies your brand new motorcycle helmet, a solid white Simpson Street Bandit. You bought the helmet with a dark polarized visor at the local riding store because of how badass it looked. Sure, it doesn't fit quite as well as your Shoei that you've owned for a few years, neither does it have any of the same features despite it costing almost as much. But when you saw it at the shop you knew you had to have it. It's the classic all-American helmet, and is the closest thing in appearance for a human rider to what the anthros wear while riding.

Every anthro rider you met all said they wished they had a more human-shaped face. Long-pointed muzzles and large ears do not an easily aerodynamic and comfortable shape make for helmets. They all say that human heads make for a blank canvas, all kinds of shapes and styles can be applied, and the helmets are easier to make structurally safe. You had to agree with those sentiments, but still you felt that a lot of the helmets made for anthros looked a million times cooler. Even the most performance oriented and elegantly shaped helmets had a bestial, threatening aura to them—whereas humans looked like astronauts.

And that was why you bought the Street Bandit, it was the closest thing you could get to having that look, with it's narrow visor, extended chin protector and skeleton/predator look. It was the cool factor that roped you in and convinced you to drop four-hundred bucks.

Just thinking about that gives you an itch.

Today you know exactly what you want to do.

You jump out of bed. Shit, shower and shave. You check the weather: 69 and sunny.

Nice.

It is springtime, but with spring comes typical Maryland bay area weather: rain, rain, rain, fucking rain. For weeks you have pined for this moment.

You grab your cellphone and plug in your earbuds. You start grooving to your guilty pleasure: retro synthwave. It's the kind of music you never mention to your friends but personally consider 'kickin' rad' and 'cool as all get-out'.

As mentioned before: a guilty pleasure.

The driving machine-like beats and contrasting electric guitars push you joyously through your morning routines as you move around your apartment, gathering your riding gear. The singer's crisp singing voice melodically belts out some rather... lackluster lyrics. You do not care, though. You love the corniness.

—Standing on my feet I'm still alive
I wish I even tried 'cause I never tried
It's better if I even try

I wish to you I was on my way
But you see me as a lightweight—

Pants, shoes, gloves, that cool balaclava that has the print of a skull on it, your solid black leather armored jacket. You are a total slut for the ATGATT: All The Gear All The Time. You have always been a cautious sort of person throughout your life—a modest man who never takes stupid risks. You have always been demure, calm, at times almost dull. 

—Why I keep on picking up the phone
Why is it always on
I'm just a lightweight in your eyes
Why is it always on—

So when you said to your friends and family of your interest in riding a motorcycle they all were—for lack of a better word—flabbergasted. It was like you had come out of the closet or were in a relationship with an anthro or something. No one saw this as a possible side of you. Your mother told you that you were going to kill yourself, like your cousin Zack who wrapped himself around a tree several years back. Your father wondered out loud how you were gonna afford all of it; the bike, the gear, the insurance, the riding course. None of your friends rode, this would be your own thing. None of your coworkers thought it was a good idea, they would tell stories of friends who had near misses or life-changing accidents. 

—Against the odds
And through the grain
You would never know me anyway

I'm just a lightweight in your eyes
I'm just a lightweight—

Standing in your bedroom you look at your reflection in the full length mirror installed inside your wardrobe. You are a normal, average looking fellow, just over six feet in height with an average build. You are in your late twenties. Everything about you screams average. Everything except for your red hair and green eyes. That is something of a rarity. At least that is what you are told by everyone. But you feel average. Boring. Uninteresting. 

That is until you put on that helmet.

—Taking my chance just to know your name
Breaking my bones just to see your face
It's better if I even try—

Then you become Anonymous. A mysterious person to all around you. All they can see is the bike and it's masked rider, the face hidden under the menacing skull-shaped shell. Possessing this air of mystery thrills you. As you stare at yourself fully kitted out you feel a growing confidence. You remember the day you rode to your parents house for the first time in your newly purchased black Honda Shadow 1100. You were giddy with excitement, the excitement of showing off your new toy, the anticipation of sharing in your new hobby. You felt then the same way you feel now:

“Wait till they get a load of me.”

—Against the odds
And through the grain
You would never know me anyway

I'm just a lightweight in your eyes
I'm just a lightweight—

It was a statement of confidence that you never carried when not on two wheels. But when you're in the gear that you have carefully selected and made sure to color-match—because after all looking good is almost as important as being safe—you want people to notice it. Being seen is paramount to safety on a bike. If the driver of the car can see you, he or she will avoid running you over. You have learned many lessons over the years since you started riding. As you grab your keys and wallet you begin to make your way to the front door and outside. 

Thankfully your apartment is on the ground floor, and directly in front of you a few feet away from you in it's parking space is your car, a blue Ford Focus ST—a fun car, no doubt about it; but next to your car, wrapped under it's cover to protect it from the elements lies the real fun thing.

While your Shadow was a good starting bike, easy and comfortable to ride after a few years as your skills progressed your enjoyment of that trusty workhorse had faded. The bike was heavy and lacked power on the top-end. While it's looks were handsome, they were unremarkable, much like yourself. The bike lacked character, and while there no real problems with it, you wanted something more. Hence why you went to the dealership a few weeks back and traded in for this beauty.

As you pulled the weatherproof cover off you were greeted with a sudden flash of color and light reflecting off of polished metal. Before you sat the apple of your eye, a brand new Honda CB1100RS. Even though the bike was assembled a few months ago to the untrained eye it looked as if it was made back in the early 80's. It is a retro-style modern that hearkened back to the heyday of the big-bore big-hearted Japanese inline-four standards. 

It had two black rimmed tires with massive rotors and radial-mounted 4-piston brakes sitting on short-raked forks. Nestled in-between it's beautifully polished and comfortably wide handlebars sat a pair of classically analog gauges, a tach and speedo. The only hint of modernity was the modern LCD instrument cluster tacked in the middle and round LED headlight out front. Nestled inside of it's tubular structure and below the gorgeous deep red tear-drop gas tank and flat heavily padded seat cushion was the centerpiece of the motorcycle: the 1100cc air-oil-cooled inline four cylinder engine. It's triple polished trim and quadruple swooping headers seemed to burst out of the machine's otherwise subdued looking frame.

The massive engine and muscular looks implied a air of brute power coupled with the classic looks. The reality was rather different. You bought the bike because while it looked amazing, and it was certainly more powerful than the Shadow you owned before, it wasn't all that crazy. It was a modest performing bike. That big gutsy engine may roar beautifully and powerfully like a lion, but it's riding characteristics are tame like a house cat. It was something of a Goldilocks bike, not really great at any one thing, but good and fun at everything. It's 78hp wasn't gonna blow the doors off anyone anytime soon, but it didn't need to, it had enough torque and power to get up and go fast enough. It had enough agility to move through some technical spots without too much difficulty, but this is not going to make any real appearances at the track, and that was fine with you.

This was a bike made for cruising, and that is what you are going to do. With the turn of a key and pressing of the ignition, the engine bellows to life. It is a sound that makes your boy parts tingle a bit. A minute or two warming up the engine and you give a few quick twists of the throttle and the engine responds with a few throaty growls.

A thrill begins to blossom in your chest with the anticipation.

—I'm just a lightweight in your eyes
Still alive
I'm just a lightweight in your eyes
Still alive

Still alive, oh—

Carefully you back out of your parking space. Pressing the shift lever with your left foot the transmission clunks into gear.

You are ready to ride.

As you begin to accelerate the engine's noise rises steadily, and every thought about the past week, all of your worries and insecurities of your normal day-to-day life begin to fade, if only for a few transitory moments.

As you carefully maneuver out of the parking lot you pass by a group of anthro kids who were walking back from the nearby 7-Eleven. They were carrying bags of candy and snacks, probably on their way to go hang out somewhere. The looks of excitement and curiosity on the face of a husky boy satisfies you. You'd like to believe in that moment a future rider may have been born.

After a few minutes on the side roads you make a stop at a light leading to Reisterstown. Your ultimate destination is south, to Baltimore. The brief pause in your ride gives you a few moments to think.

Your neighborhood in Owings Mills is indicative of most of the greater Baltimore area: thoroughly mixed and integrated. Humans and anthros congregate openly and freely in public, going to the same places and the same spots with no friction. The same couldn't be said of human and anthro couples. Most of these relationships are of the human-male and anthro-female variety. For some reason anthro females of all species tend to think of human men as, for lack of a better word, exotic. You know this from all the lurking you do on your other guilty pleasure—the finno-mongolian throat-singing image board you frequent when you're tired and horny.

You have always been fascinated and enticed by anthros, and have had your weird fantasies of giving a fluffy border collie anthro some serious ear-scratches and belly-rubs. You are a pervert. 

However you were always afraid of actually making a move on anyone, or even being honest with your feelings. There were a lot of reasons for this: one, you lack confidence. You just never knew what to say, you could never act normal around anthros that you felt an attraction to. Secondly, human and anthro pairs were still frowned upon in society. Sure, they were becoming more and more common, but these couples often feel pressures from their respective species. Radical species-purity groups still exist, and they frequently clash on your favorite degenerate image board with some extremely hateful words.

“Fuck you, skin job and go get cancer from the sun—”

“Suck my no-barb no-knot dick furboi and collapse in the summer heat because you lack sweat-glands—” 

“Humans gotta stick together, anyone who goes outside of the species needs to be culled—”

It made you nervous in the knowledge that people who thought like that walked among you.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the baleful banshee-like howl of a high powered engine rushing up from behind you to your right. A glimpse at your side view mirror reveals another rider quickly approaching. In a flash she is next to you. And you know the rider is a 'she' because her full-leather catsuit leaves nothing to the imagination. Fellow riders are rare where you live and that makes women riders like unicorns. Your eyes go wide and your jaw drops as you take in her resplendent form.

She is clearly an anthro, from the distinctive solid black shell and visor helmet—an Arai model—that protects a long muzzle and tucks in her large ears. Underneath the solid blue leather of her catsuit rested two very palmable b-cup sized breasts. Her torso was longer than the average human's and it snaked with an apparent flexibility that made your knees weak. You figured her to be a rodent of some sort due to the long naked tail poking out from a hole on her backside that she currently has wrapped around her waist. But it was her ass with cheeks that spread ever so provocatively across the seat of her sportbike, pointed up and out that made you break into a sweat. Her legs, clearly toned and perfectly proportioned to the rest of her body stretched downward for her riding boots to touch the ground on her tippy-toes.

You are transfixed by that ass. That is the ass that makes grown men weep and women gnash their teeth. All thoughts were focused on what was nestled between those glorious cheeks. You envied her bike's seat.

You were glad you had your polarized visor down so she couldn't see where your eyes were focused on when she lifted her tinted visor and spoke to you.

“Nice bike,” she said in a smooth, sultry tone.

“Uh, y-yeah, you too, uh—” you can feel the noodles spilling out of your jacket's pockets.

GETAGRIPGETAGRIPGETAGRIP GODDAMN IT ANON YOU STUPID FUCK SAY SOMETHING NOT RETARDED

You tear yourself away and look up and into her piercing blue eyes, the color of lapis lazuli. The fur on her face is mostly hidden by some sort of mask, probably something similar to the balaclava you wear under your helmet, but you do see some white.

The bike she rode was in all respects the opposite of yours; it was a Yamaha R6, solid black and blue. A high-strung high-revving 600cc inline-four that screams in a permanent state of agitation. Like every sportbike it is compact, all of it's components and frame are tucked under a tight form-fitting faring. There is no room, no compromise for comfort, only speed. She gives her throttle a quick twist, the exhaust crackles, it sounds like a chainsaw. There were some scuffs on the paint and fairings, it seems she's not afraid to ride hard enough to drop her bike.

“I've seen you ride here a couple of times. You from around here?”

“D-down the road. I go out whenever I'm able, you know, uh” And here lies Anon, man of mystery, wannabe badass, cool bike riding big dick playa now melting like butter under the gaze of a real rider.

“Where you headed to this fine morning?” Her gaze was piercing through your skull. You lift your visor to stare back into her eyes. She seemed momentarily taken aback by that action.

“Down to Baltimore, probably gonna go to the art museum and stuff...”

ANON YOU ARE SUCH A GODDAMN

She seemed to smile as far as you could tell. You weren't sure. She also nodded approvingly.

“Same here, not quite to the art museum, though. Maybe we'll see each other around.”

“Yeah, that'd be cool.” You let that slip, she now knows your horny level is close to max. This is both your dream and nightmare conflating.

The light turned green. She breaks eye contact and lowers her visor.

“You ride safe,” she said, and as suddenly as hear her she launches her bike forward at a stunning pace, popping a perfect wheelie as she barrels down the avenue.

“...wow” is all you can let out as you begin to putt forward, pants tighter than before and pasta spilling from every pocket possible.

You notice the song you have listening to is on repeat.

...just a lightweight in your eyes..."

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ar37JHZXGQA) the song who's corny lyrics I have posted. 


CHAPTER 2: DEVIANTS

You make your way south down Reisterstown road. The morning traffic is light. The sun is shining, the wind is to your back. The road has the occasional twist, a slight bend here and there that interrupts the long straightaways. The apartment complexes that littered almost every inch of Owings Mills has given way to the familiar townhouses and strip-malls of the northern Baltimore area. The road has more cracks; the trees are beginning to bloom. Life has returned from the cold dead winter.

Your destination is the Walters Art museum in Mount Vernon; on a straightforward commute it would take you at most about twenty minutes to get there.

But you are on your beloved CB1100RS, taking a straightforward commute would be wasting a good time.

So you go your “fun” route: a right on Fulton Ave, a right on Franklin Street and one last right onto Franklin Road and to the beautiful scenery of Gwynns Falls Park. Eventually you will make your way to the museum—but you have miles to ride before then. Your heart flutters with the thrill of anticipation.

This is one of your favorite roads to ride on. The bends are swooping and at times tight, providing the right combination of technical and fast. The trees—now greening with leaves—surround you on either side of the road, their branches reach over and above you providing a gentle and comforting shade. Their forms distort into a blur as you begin to pick up speed through the corners.

To the uninitiated of riding who are used to driving a car, the controls on a motorcycle would appear strange and confusing. You shift gears with your left foot through a sequential gearbox; your clutch is a lever on the left handlebar grip. Your front and rear brakes are separately operated through a lever on the right grip and a pedal at the right foot respectively. Your throttle is twisted by your right hand grip. Every limb has a task and all are working simultaneously to ensure proper control. Through practice and experience these things become second nature.

With only two wheels turning is a different affair as well: you must lean the bike with your body into the direction you want it to go and then use speed and power to right the bike straight up when exiting.

Brake, power down, lean, power out, looking ahead all the while.

As you fly through the corners and claw through the straights you feel it: the joy and the freedom of this moment. The music in your earbuds is softly playing, a background to the symphony of your bike. The exhaust crackles and spits with every deceleration, and growls in ever enveloping and ever intensifying layers with acceleration. The giddy push and pull of centrifugal forces as you lean and straighten through the apexes. It is a roller coaster you control. It is an escape.

Your little American Dream.

Your eyes must always be ahead, always anticipating and always reading the road.

The frame and structure of your bike is fairly agile, it is an easy to lean machine but nowhere near the agility of a sportbike—but there is more than enough power and speed for you to indulge your inner hooligan. You cannot lean too far to either side lest you risk scraping the exhausts or your footpegs.

You must be ever aware, absolutely ever in the moment.

But your concentration is not absolute. There is a shadow in the back of your thoughts.

Brake, easy off brake, gentle swooping lean, power out, looking ahead, thinking of her.

You think of her.

And just like that the thrill is fading, she is taking your thoughts from this experience. You are becoming distracted.

You cannot outrun the flashing images in your head of the mystery rider. You think of the contours of her body, you feel a hunger stirring in your guts. A pang of guilt and regret.

You begin to slow your roll as you exit the park, deciding to take a northern roundabout way to the museum. The thrill of the ride is starting to fade as you begin to think more and more of her shapely form.

Who was she? She seemed to imply in your short conversation that she lived nearby—at least that was your hope. You remembered her sultry tone of voice, those sky blue eyes and how she so effortlessly made you spill all of your spaghetti.

You grimace at the encroaching thoughts of your worthlessness.

Here you were, Anonymous, big dick tough guy—all you really were was simply Anon, a wannabe. Ho-hum, mediocre, plain. What chance did you honestly think you'd have with a girl like that? A real rider like her? And that was if you would ever see her again. She had jumped into your life like a lighting bolt, knocking down all your self-delusional sandcastles of masculinity and then she wheelied off as quickly as she arrived leaving you a blubbering idiot in her wake.

Like the song said: you were just a lightweight in her eyes.

And there's also the fact of your painful incompetence in the dating scene. You are awkward with the ladies, human or anthro. You don't pick up on cues; every attempt you have made to be attractive or to try and spit some game have all blown up in your face as catastrophes of vagina-drying failure. Which is funny because human men are often seen as exotic and desirable by many anthro women.

That's how bad your staggering inadequacy is.

Another pang of regret—a cutting blade of guilt plunged into your heart. The endless recriminations.

In this Age of Loneliness you were Anon, it's very king. The loneliest of all.

Stoplight. Slow, easy front and rear brake. Downshift, rev match. Stop at the line. Even with your distracting thoughts your control of the bike remains smooth. Your thoughts are jumping about erratically.

You were born upper middle class, nestled in the Human enclave of Hunt Valley. One little dot among other little dots of furlessness in a majority anthro nation. Your father is a corporate drone. Your mother an accountant. You have one older brother. Throughout your life you had been raised to be mild-mannered and meek. You were always polite. You never wanted to ruffle anyone's fur, you moved through life like a nervous fallen leaf fluttering in the wind, dodging everyone and anything.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—“ that was your mantra.

Your thoughts continue to shift, an attempt not to fall too deep into your pit of self-loathing.

You thought back to the day you saw that anthro doberman riding his Indian Scout. He had the classic cruiser get-up: heavy Schott jacket, blue jeans and engineer harness boots, riding goggles and a simple black open-faced helmet. He looked badass, and in your impressed state a fire was kindled inside of you.

That glittering classically styled all-American bike and it's noble rider looked like freedom. You wanted a taste of that freedom, parents admonishments be damned. 

This was your little rebellion, you little fun slice of life. The road had called to you and you answered.

But even then you felt an insecurity—you felt free but alone.

And in your loneliness you thought about her again.

Green light. Back into first. Slow and easy off the clutch. Throttle. Accelerate.

You wondered what species she was. From the naked tail you figured her to be a rodent of some sort. But she looked to be almost your height, six foot, far larger than any mouse anthro—

She was a rat.

Fuck.

Of all the sentient creatures in this world the rats were at the bottom of the proverbial barrel—the shortest end of the short stick. There has been a lot of stigmatizing of them throughout history and in society. 

They weren't small and diminutive and cute like their mouse brethren. 

They weren't fluffy like the squirrels. 

They look more feral in their features—they are considered ugly and unattractive in their looks by the zeitgeist. You can see any other species as a fashion model, but not the rats. The /BRED/ threads you oft frequented never discussed or showed any videos or pictures of them. It was like they were invisible but everywhere you looked you saw rats. 

To you they looked more or less like any other anthro—maybe a bit rough around the edges. If that mystery rider's body was anything to go by, however, you can easily forgive a meaner face.

But there were other peculiarities about the rats.

Rats have the most overwhelmingly skewed gender ratios with almost three females for every single male born. It made for a very strange culture of rat girls fighting tooth and nail for men and assuming the roles in a culture normally relegated to men; mechanics, construction workers, gangbangers. There was a lot of gang activity in Baltimore, the drug trade, human and anthro trafficking and the rats were right in the epicenter of it. Rat women have a reputation of being tough, violent, vulgar, dirty, criminal, etc. 

It was dangerous for a male of any species to walk into a rat ghetto. If you were looking for love in those kinds of places you were more likely to get raped by a horde of horny ratgirls.

Lonesome as you are, you weren't a big fan of getting raped so you tend to avoid sticking around the bad parts of the city for too long.

You pass through an intersection, right on to Barclay street.

Wait, Barclay street?

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You're smack dab in the middle of Greenmount, one of the worst neighborhoods in Baltimore.

You done fucked up, kiddo.

You feel an urge to grip the handlebars and blast out of here like a bat out of hell, but you calm yourself. This is sunday morning, there are no bangers out and about this early. The people who would be out are all the old ladies going to church or wherever old ladies go to at this time of day.

You look around. The asphalt of the streets is cracked and the sidewalks are crumbling. The lane markings are faded or missing. The townhouses—half of whom are boarded up and condemned—and the apartment co-ops reek of desperate, grinding poverty.

And you were wrong on the old ladies.

There are rats everywhere. Many of whom are loitering on the street corners, sitting on front door stoops, leaning and looking out of windows. They all appear to be young, all of them are women, all of them look like they are waiting for something.

All of them are looking at you.

The looks on their faces range from shock to confusion to excitement. They all seem to know something is about to happen, and you are probably going to be in the epicenter of it.

As you begin to make a plan of escape from this awkward moment you hear something in the distance, from behind, that makes your blood run cold. Engines revving, dozens of them; the familiar buzzing crackling cadence of two-strokes, the growling thumping of V-Twins, you twist your head around and see them.

Oh Jeebus.

There is a mischief of rats, at least forty from first glance riding various kinds of dirtbikes, cruisers, ATVs, sportbikes. They wear a riot of gear, gloves, sometimes next to nothing. The din of their engines increasing in volume as they get closer to you.

They are all looking at you.

You are terrified. You feel the fight or flight reflex creeping up your spine and through your muscles, but you tamp down on those urges. They will be upon you momentarily, to attempt to flee now would probably result with someone in the group colliding with you; if you stay still they may pass by you.

That's if they want to pass by.

This is the dumbest gamble you have ever taken, but you feel that these riders are here to put on a show, and you just happened to stop in the middle of their parade.

And what a parade it is. Occasionally some of the girls will jump the front tires of their rides up into a massive wheelie. Almost all of them manage to at moments point their bikes straight into the sky, rear fenders scraping into the pavement. It all seems to be happening in slow motion. For a brief, transitory moment you are awed in their deft display of recklessness and ridership; tails flicking out of their backsides, their almost naked bodies shining in the morning light, pressed against their panting, roaring machines. You are looking at a rebellious freedom, a pure irrational marauding exuberance of riding joy.

You just wished they would all at least wear some fucking helmets.

You decide to do something lest they decide to make a meal out of you—so you do the one thing to show some sort of solidarity and respect. You extend your right hand out and slightly below your waist, index and middle finger pointing in a 'peace' sign.

The motorcycle wave.

And they are upon you.

They blast past you, some waving back, some popping wheelies, some whooping, wheeling and waving all at once. Some are blowing kisses and slapping their asses at you, giving you luscious winks and lewd looks. You blush, your blood rushing to your head and groin. You feel the fear in you begin to subside as the crowd passes through you, leaving you unscathed.

That is until one rider stops beside you.

Your heart skips a beat when you set eyes upon her. Riding a battered old yellow YZ250, she is wearing only a pair of white Nike high-tops, a white lace bra and panties and a pair of assless black leather chaps. She stands close to your height, with a pair of easily squeezable breasts, a taught and physically lustful body, a shapely rear end and reddish brown fur that coats her form like a freshly mowed lawn. She gazes at you with blood-red irises set behind a long muzzle and pink nose, always twitching, whiskers flickering. Large gold hoop rings adorn her ears, a puff of sharp pink and blue dyed hair sits on top of her head.

She smiles with a predatory hunger, baring sharp white and gold-plated teeth.

“Nice bike!” she rasps at you, licking her lips and eyeing you up and down. Her compliment does little to assuage your threatened state.

“Well, well, ladies, what do we have here?” another voice from behind you, and another rider. She is on a Honda ATV of an indeterminable model and year. It seems somewhat new and from the hunting camo pattern coating the machine you think this was a rather recent acquisition for this rider—as in she probably got it for free just this morning.

She, too is in a similar state of undress; wearing a torn acid-washed pair of faded daisy-duke jeans, black pool sandals and a red tube-top covering her small perky tits, nipples clearly poking out. Her black and white spotted fur coated a rail-thin body, her lanky features continued with her long neck. Her eyes were hidden under a German-style ww2 helmet, with only her long pointed muzzle poking out, her snaggle teeth visible in a cruel smile.

You wondered how she was able to see from under that stupid looking helmet and you also wondered how much trouble you are now in.

“Looks like we got a smooth boy!” said the brown rat, reaching a clawed hand out and sliding it down your right shoulder and arm.

“Ooh, a human! How rare, so exotic,” giggled the thin one. She was also reaching out to grab you.

“Uh, thanks ladies, I think I'll be on my way—” you tried to politely respond.

“Oh no, you're not getting away that easily,” purred the brown rat. Her hand was now gripping your arm with a surprising amount of strength. “You came into our territory, with your cute bod and sweet smells. You're gonna have to pay a toll before we let you leave.”

“Yeah, you look like you're cruising for a good time, skinjob. Well we can give you all the fun you want, just be a good boy and come with us, no fighting.” There are hands grasping you from all directions, more riders have shown up. You feel teasing and poking and prodding all over your body, they are trying to drag you off your bike. The terror you felt before has progressed into horror, filling your chest and, strangely enough, tightening the fabric around your crotch.

The crowd watching from afar are cheering and laughing. You can see some of the women touching themselves.

Holy shit. You just popped a chubby.

“Ooh, ladies, I think he's getting a reaction. He knows what's he's about to get,” the brown rat began to laugh.

They might steal your bike.

OH NO, FUCK THIS! BEGONE, THOTS!

With your fear and adrenaline surging through your muscles you wrestle free of the horny horde's grasp. You twist the throttle and clanking into gear you dump the clutch.

Your motorcycle lurches forward, it's front tire lifting momentarily off the ground, engine screaming in a frenzied cadence. You hear laughter and the revving of engines behind you, the brown rat yelling “let's get him, bitches, there's fresh meat on the menu today!”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You frantically look for an escape, you turn into a side alley, your pegs scraping as your rear tire fights for traction, your body leaning downward as you look ahead in a desperate state of concentration. You must not let them capture you. In your fear of harm and death you feel your heart pounding against the confines of your ribcage, you feel more alive in this terrified state than you have since the day you were born.

The alleyway is narrow; ahead lies another parallel street—your salvation. You dare not look behind you.

And then, in an instant, the door to that salvation is shut. You see the thin black and white spotted rat pull her ATV in front of you. You can see her eyes now, they glitter with an evil light from under the shadows of her helmet brim. She is cackling in triumph.

“You're MINE, smooth boy!” she yells.

In a panic you clamp down on your brakes and your tires lock up. You are now sliding forward, desperately clawing for traction on the concrete. You eventually stop sideways and attempt to turn around, but you are knocked off of your bike before you can even look the other way. The air is bashed out of your lungs as you smash into the pavement. Your vision is blurred for a moment, your helmet is pulled forward on your head, blocking your view. You feel a weight pressing on your waist and deft, agile fingers undoing the D-rings of your helmet strap. As your helmet is pulled from your head you see the the brown rat sitting on you with a crazed look, her hot heavy breath is washing over your face with the smell of menthol cigarettes and bubble gum.

“I love... a good chase... gets the blood going,” she says in between gasps as she pulls your balaclava down. “Ooh, a redhead, looks like we hit the jackpot, ladies...”

You raise your arms in an attempt to push her off, but she grabs both of your hands and presses herself down, using her leverage to lock you in place, her muzzle mere fractions of an inch from your mouth. Before you can yell for help she shoves herself into you, her long wet tongue wriggling throughout your insides, caressing and searching every possible space, she moans lustily into you. Her mouth tastes of bitter nicotine and a strange, unidentifiable sweetness.

You are being raped.

As horrified as you are, your body is having an involuntary reaction. You can feel your hips locked onto hers; see her tail lifted, offering an opening. You can feel your prick distending, pressing against the space between her ass-cheeks, searching for a breeding hole with a desperate need. You look around you and can see several other ratgirls surrounding you, they are all taking off what little clothing they have on. In your attempt to escape you had instead trapped yourself in a side alley, out of sight and out of mind.

With a loud wet smack the brown rat broke her kiss, looking down at you with half lidded eyes.

“So here's what we're gonna do next, handsome,” she says, rubbing her hips against your groin. You grunt in response. “We're gonna fuck right here in this alley and you're gonna shoot a load of pups right into me, and then these other bitches are gonna get a turn, and then we're gonna drag you off to our little rathole and breed with you some more. And you're gonna learn once you go rat,” she said, slipping off her panties, “you're never gonna go back.”

Wait, did she say she wanted you to impregnate her?

You can hear mischievous giggling from the others. 

You are so fucked.

But from this inevitability, an impossibility emerges. 

A riding boot, like the thundering clap of a deity's judgment, slams into the face of the brown rat, sending her sprawling onto the ground in front of you. You look up to see who did the kick, who your savior was.

It was her.

Once again she is back into your life.

In her form-fitting riding leathers it was your blue-eyed, black helmeted obsession from earlier. She now stood over your prostrate from, hunched; her tail lashing wildly, ready to take on anyone else who dared enter her space. You couldn't help but sneak a peek up her legs—what you saw did little to ease your aroused state.

“Bitches, leave,” she said in a cold, commanding tone.

You could hear the scurrying of many feet, and then it was just you, the mystery rider and the brown rat, who slowly sat up, wiping blood from her split lip, staring at the other with a look of shock and anger.

“What the fuck, Aleshia? Are you that jealous I managed to get a man before you, you crazy bitch?”

So her name was Aleshia.

Aleshia took a step forward, the brown rat flinched and cowered. 

“You know the rules, Candace—no men-taking on the rides. Now begone, slut,” she said, her voice strained in a palpable anger.

So your would-be rapist is named Candace. Well that's good to know.

Candace slowly stood up, turned around and bent over, flicking her tail aside, momentarily presenting herself to you as she began to slide her panties back up. You can clearly see the pink lips of her pussy, dripping with need, and her perky, puffy anus.

Oh lawd you cannot lower your horny level. It will be a few minutes before you could stand up normally.

Candace turned and gave you one last, now muted look.

“Don't be a stranger, stud,” she said, sending a wink and blowing you a kiss before turning and walking away, her hips swinging. You shuddered.

Aleshia stood over you for a while longer, on guard. Eventually she helped you to your feet. As you dusted yourself off she handed you your helmet. You could hear the sounds of roaring engines as they faded into the distance. Your ride may be over for the day, but theirs will continue.

“Sorry about your bike,” said Aleshia, her voice had a sad tone to it.

Wait, what?

You frantically look around and your heart leaps into your throat in a panic. There was your CB1100, lying on it's side, the engine cut off.

Oh, no no NO NO.

The two of you pull the bike upright, you see a dent on the right exhaust pipe and the turn indicator on that side is busted, knocked off it's stalk. There are no other visible scuffs, however, and the handlebars are fine and after a few turns the engine roars back to life.

You feel a slight relief knowing that you now have a means to escape and get back home, but your day is ruined. You stare forlornly at your ride. It will cost time and money to fix this.

You feel a hand gently touch your shoulder and another reach into your jacket pocket. In a panic you jolt loose from the unwanted advance. You look over and see Aleshia, her blue eyes peering at you from inside the helmet with an apologetic expression.

“I'm so sorry...” she said softly.

“It's ok,” you said, adjusting your pants at the crotch area, your boner had now deflated.

“I, uh, left you my number? In your coat pocket... call me if you want to get your bike fixed. I'll do it free of charge. Uh,” she stood there, looking at the ground in front of her, softly cursing her awkwardness.

After all that happened to you, after nearly being raped by a group of motorcycle rat hooligans—you had to admit, she looked kinda cute in that moment with her tail shyly wrapped around her leg.

“I'll think about it,” you say.

She perked up a little bit, she was probably expecting you to run off the second you got on your bike, and if you were smart you would have, not taking a chance with anymore rat girls.

But...

“You should probably get out of here,” said Aleshia, “before some more hoodrats come wandering your way.”

“Yeah,” you said...

There was a silence.

Awkward.

You began to ride out of the alley. Scraped up and very much sexually assaulted, but otherwise ok. As you pulled back into the street you turned around to tell Aleshia something.

But she had vanished.

You took the quickest route home. Despite the cosmetic damage your bike ran fine. Looking at it in it's parking spot you felt a pang of sadness and emptiness as the weight of the day finally fell onto your shoulders. You were alone again. As you trudged back into your apartment you began to peel off your gear. The smell of cheap perfume and rat juices covered you in a fog. And then you remembered.

As you reached inside one of your riding jacket's pockets you felt a piece of paper. Pulling it out you saw a receipt from a Royal Farms store—it was the one down the road from your apartment, actually. On the listed items purchased you see one can of Red Bull, a pack of Marlboro Lights and seven dollars worth of 93-Octane fuel. You flip the receipt over and see a phone number written with neat penmanship. 

Wait, did she scrawl out her digits while you were being raped?

Guh.

You place the paper on your nightstand. Better to take these chances with a phone call when you're in a right state of mind. For now you need to unwind and process these events.

After all, tomorrow is a new day, and for some strange reason you don't feel quite as lonesome as you did when you woke up this morning.


CHAPTER 3: TRAIL BRAKER



It is Monday. You are trapped in the industrial park of Jessup, Maryland. You are trapped here because of your social obligation. You must work to live.

You fucking hate Mondays. And you fucking hate Jessup.

No more fun for Anon; you're back to the grind. Back to your office job. Your dull, boring, soul-crushing office job. You're an auditor. You crunch numbers for a company that claims to make 'magic real'--their mascot is giant happy mouse in red shorts.

Ok, fuck it, you work for Disney.

You never understood why this giant multinational entertainment conglomerate would get so hung up with people saying they work for them. “It would ruin the magic” said no one in reality—no one actually gives a shit about it except for the sociopaths on the corporate board.

Actually, to be more specific, you don't work -DIRECTLY- for Disney—you work for a company that does the production for several of the Disney road attractions, like the ice shows and live shows. They also do Monster Jam which is actually super badass.

El Toro Loco is the best truck, fuck Max Destruction—more like Max Deez Nutz.

Got 'em.

You sometimes have an idiot brain.

The offices that you and all the other desk-bound dunces work at sits above the warehouse where all the merchandise for these shows is stored. It's a strange design: the offices are literally inside the warehouse, but placed up and in the ceiling at a corner. There's a giant window at the break room that lets you look down and watch the stock-pickers and forklift drivers move and shift pallets of merchandise into tractor trailers at the loading bays. The people in the rat race above can look down at the rat race below. Which is what you're currently doing at this moment.

You are amazed by what you see. It literally is a rat race.

As in all of the operators and laborers on the warehouse floor are rats. Almost all of them are women, and they all work at a frantic pace. It's probably where the term 'rat-race' came from, actually. Probably why it's also called a speciesist slur.

To be honest you never really noticed the workers before. There is a segregation between the warehouse and offices. You work in different areas, you take breaks in different places, you even park in different lots. You never bothered looking down; you were too wrapped up in your own little world and you never really noticed how many rats worked below until—

—until yesterday.

Now all you can see are rats. It's like a strange door was opened after that incident, and that's all you can think about the whole day. 

You remember how outrageous they were; how much fun they were having, and how free and open they were. You remember their forwardness. Their near naked bodies sitting on snarling beasts of machinery. You remember the body and face of the one named Candace and how she pressed it against you. You were lonely and afraid of being alone until all of a sudden you were in a place and time where everyone seemed to want you in all of the worst ways. You could feel all their clawed hands on you, trying to rip away all that inconvenient clothing. You thought about the soft moist lips around her muzzle as they clamped to your mouth; the tickling of her whiskers on your cheeks. You could -feel- each other's bone structures and flesh mesh and grapple and meld in the compulsive act of mating.

You felt so terribly not alone—and the forcefulness of that moment made you confused. You were confused because of how aroused all this made you; you were literally being held down, tongue-wrestling and groped and by all accounts that should have been horrible. A part of you was repulsed, but then another part of you felt something extremely thrilling.

You wonder how many of the ratgirls you see working down there might feel that way about you. You watch them as they continue to shuffle pallets and boxes about, neatly stacking and organizing and moving items into and out of the myriad rows of steel scaffold shelving that towered over forty feet in the air. You also wonder why rats didn't seem all that popular. With how easy it apparently is to get laid by one you'd think they'd be the talk of the town among lonely people such as yourself.

Maybe it was the whole being fucked in a back alley thing?

Look wise and body wise they were like any other anthro to you, just a bit different in some features, but Candace and Aleshia were smoking hot—although you haven't seen Aleshia's face...

You hardly knew her and she saved you from a very embarrassing situation. 

“Uh, mom, dad: I'm a father now: a rat fucked me in a back alley and I came in her and got her pregnant against my will...”

Kind of the opposite of how things went for your older brother.

Great, now you're thinking of your family just after thinking about hot rat fucking.

You rub your eyes for a second to purge some rather strange images that just came up. You lean back on your chair and stare at the ceiling tiles. You begin to decode the pattern used on the two-by-two grid to keep yourself distracted.

Tile, light, tile, tile, light, next row. Light, tile, she did look really sexy, though, you had to admit—

Ah shit.

You sat back up and continued to stare at the activity outside. You thought back to Aleshia; she gave you her phone number after saving you. You suppose that means she likes you. Hell, even the black and white spotted skinny girl with the German-style riding helmet looked really cute in a kind of trashy way.

She looked quite a lot like that one girl loading an order of merch by hand into a small box truck. 

Wait a fucking minute.

IS THAT HER?

Your chest tightens with a surge of anxiety.

You don't believe it. You refuse to believe it. And yet—

No, you're not one-hundred percent certain.

Looking at this girl working was a clash of contrasts to the wild near-naked babe on the ATV: this girl is wearing her proper work attire—in this case a normal pair of blue loose fitting denims and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. She has a mop of short, blonde hair on her head and that same pattern of black spots that crawl up the left side of her furry neck.

She looked kind of cute; in a scrawny, skinny punk-girl kind of way. You wonder how many meals she missed growing up.

If only you had a German-style helmet to prop on her head would you know for certain—but the resemblance is uncanny.

And what would you do if it actually was her? Would you confront her about it? Tell the front office and get her fired?

No, you wouldn't take it that far. To take her job would be taking food out of her mouth and she looks like she needs all the food she can get.

They did fuck up your bike, though.

Thinking about the bike put an immediate cooling effect on you like a bucket of ice water dumped on your crotch. Goddamn it, your bike is fucked up. Well, not TOTALED—you still rode it to work—but there's a dent on your beautiful polished exhaust and one of the turn indicator lights is broken off it's stem. The engine and everything works fine, and some black vinyl electrical tape kept the light in place. A few scuffs and dings weren't gonna stop you from riding and to be honest these things weren't noticeable to anybody from any distance farther than three feet. Anybody but you, of course. To you these things, on your brand new bike are like giant neon-lighted signs saying “THIS IS A FUCKED BIKE PIECE OF SHIT KISS MY ASS”.

There is also the cost. Even with your 'decent' income you often end up breaking even when it is time to pay your rent and almost every important thing in your life is either on loan or rented; especially your tuition, which is always hovering ominously in the back of your mind. You try not to think about how you're going to pay off that onerous debt in any reasonable time frame. The cost of repairing the damage to your brand new bike makes you queasy with the hypotheticals. 

This bike was your little escape from your day-to-day misery. You have done all the things that your parents and teachers and friends around you have asked and expected of you and yet you felt the need for an exit. You should be happy with this career and yet you feel ripped off.

You wish there was a magic button you could press that would make this nagging issue fade away.

Oh wait, there was.

Aleshia offered to fix it. At least you think she did: you were too busy staring at her ass and tits to be totally sure.

Would you want to see her again?

You shift in your chair uneasily. You know that she is associated with the other rats that had trapped you in that dirty side alley—she called one of them by name, and they in turn responded with her own. You know that there is a risk; you know that society at large would look at this with varying levels of disgust. You shudder at the thought of what your very conservative parents would say on this. But there is a feeling stirring within you, a curiosity to see where this would take you. A fantastical thought of... of what? An adventure?

A need to feel something other than loneliness?

“Hey bud, something bothering you?” The nasally voice of Ted yanks you back into reality.

“Uh, no. Just thinking about stuff. Nothing important,” you say dismissively.

Ted is an anthro German Shepherd. You two share the same double-wide cubicle, sitting at your computers on opposite ends. He is the closest thing you have to a friend here. He is around the same age as you, and you both have shared similar interests on subjects such as videogames and other forms of entertainment. He is a nerd and loser much like yourself—his large thick-framed glasses and oftentimes slouched posture denote a lifetime spend huddled in books and in front a TV or computer screen. Like you, he is neither fat nor thin—he believes himself to be average in looks.

He is also obsessed with inter-species relationships. And guns. And anthro wolves. And vikings. He always wears a wolf and viking-themed t-shirt under his office-clothes. He loves Scandinavian metal.

You got a thorough window into his sexual pathology the one time you asked him about the shirts he wears. He told you, in a hushed tone and at length about how wolves were the original canid, that dogs were all offshoots due to the wolf-tribes in northern Europe co-mingling and mating with the human tribes at some point in prehistory. He constantly talks about wishing he could get with some fantastical awoo or some blonde-haired blue-eyed human beach babe and make her his wife. He is constantly browsing wolf and human stuff on his computer during work hours.

You wonder if he is one of those so-called furboi shitposters on the /BRED/ threads. Nah, he doesn't seem speciesist—just obsessive. He used to constantly ask you questions about what it's like having no fur and sweating and stuff. He might attend those human-cons, like the one they have at the Inner Harbor every July.

Ugh.

You find this kind of sad because wolves are almost as rare in the US as humans are; like he decided that his favorite fruit was also the hardest to get. It is probably from this shared loneliness and sexual frustration that you two have formed some sort of bond. 

He is generally pretty cool, however despite his peculiarities; you enjoy his company.

Ted crosses his arms and gives you a disbelieving look. “I know something's up; something very important to you. You've been looking troubled all day. Usually you're pretty happy when you ride in but you're acting like someone or something is seriously bothering you.”

“It's nothing, really. Just a case of the Mondays, I guess,” you give a halfhearted chuckle at your own lame officespeak joke.

Ted leans back at his chair, adjusts his glasses and shrugs his shoulders, it looks like he's decided not to press the issue further. Instead he now fumbles disinterestedly through the last pieces in his bag of party mix he bought from vending machine. He looks like he's about to make a confession of his own.

“I think I'm gonna ask Donna out on a date,” he mumbles.

“Who's that? The human secretary?”

“Yeah.”

Donna worked at the front desk. She is a very nice lady, a couple years younger than you. She stands at 5'7” with some adorable features; pale skin, raven-black hair that cascaded down her head in a flowing, layered medium-length style. She seems very reserved in her manners, very quiet and cute. She seems almost mouse-like in her shape and build, rather petite but also with a reserved kind of subtle beauty. You are surprised to hear that she is single.

“Well, good for you,” you say. And you mean it. Although you are surprised to hear that it is not some blonde bombshell he is gunning for.

“Yeah. I just think she's amazing looking. Also I hear she likes death metal—that'll be my in.”

Well, that's... interesting.

Ted looks back up to you with a worried expression, “I'm just not sure where to take her if she says yes to a date.”

“Why not go to a nice bar for a start? Like in Fells Point? Or go see a movie or something at Arundel Mills?”

“Yeah... I'm probably making too big a deal of it. Just ask her if she wants to hang out or something. I got ya. What about you, bud? Is there anyone you've been talking to? Is that why you're looking so out of sorts?” Ted looks out the same window you were staring out of. He looks directly at the area where you were eye-fucking the mystery woman; she is still there, now loading another pallet by hand.

“Waitaminute,” he says, his gears beginning to turn. Your stomach tightens up, you prepare for the blow. “You thinkin' about go after one of them rats down there?” The way he says 'rats' makes you wince a bit.

“Nah. I was just watching them work, is all.” You lie.

Ted grinned.

“I mean, if you are—I'm not gonna judge you. I just heard that they tend to be a bit... rough around the edges, I guess. I heard there's a whole biker gang of them in the city. Real tough crowd. You could go ride with them—I mean that's what riding is all about, right? Being all rebellious and shit?”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, break's over.” You get up to leave.

Ted throws his now empty snack bag into the trashcan by the door, following you closely. “That reminds me, the Slaughtersphere movie is coming out this weekend. I could go take her to see it. Something tells me she would be a fan of that kind of stuff.”

“And you're not?”

“Not really, but I wouldn't be taking her out just to see a movie.” There's Ted, always horny on main.

“I think you should start slow, just hang out with her and get to know her a bit before you try jumping into her lap.”

Ted frowned. He had mumbled something under his breath but you didn't hear it. You didn't really care, either way. You were thinking about that receipt that you left sitting on the nightstand. You were thinking of making that call after you got back from work.

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

Your name is Kristen. 

You are a 21-year old rat anthro from the Park Heights neighborhood in West Baltimore. The last twenty years of your life had been a constant struggle. A struggle for a place to stay, enough to eat for you and your three little sisters. 

You don't know who your father is. Most rats don't know their fathers; the idea of a long loving monogamous relationship is a fairy tale among your kind. Your mother is a heroin addict. She has often been in and out of prison; in and out of the methadone clinic. When your mom wasn't around your grandmother would take care of you and your sisters, and by 'taking care' she would beat you and them constantly, calling you failures and burdens and stupid and ugly.

You often dropped out of school; the teachers said you were too dumb. Your peers said you were ugly. Your mother would steal your books and sell them at pawn shops for cash. Your sisters always needed you to care for them. You often hated yourself. The cops told you they had a nice spot saved for you in the county jail, they said you were like the vermin that bore your kind's likeness, crawling in the gutters, eating trash. You felt trapped. You saw yourself sometime in the future robbing liquor stores with a 'born to lose' tattoo scrawled over your dumb, ugly, self-hating face. Did you mention that you hated yourself? You felt there was no escape. 

You felt the streets calling to you since the age of thirteen. 

There were monsters out at night. 

Through their crooked teeth much like yours they said 'come and play'. 

You felt like that was your destiny—like how the princesses in all those Disney movies were fated to find their prince; your fated prince was the corners, one pocket full of cash, the other holstering a pistol.

You remember how your little sisters would cry at night, too hungry to sleep. You couldn't take care of them, and that was because you were a failure. You were too dumb—

Too stupid.
Too Ugly.
TOO goddamn STUPID.
YOU STUPID FUCKING RODENT BITCH—SHUT THE FUCK UP
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU CUNT
I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU 

I'LL KILL EVERYO—

...

And then one fine Sunday morning you saw them. 

Dozens of them. 

Women on their motorcycles, blazing a wild swath through the city—their hearts burning bright and with a wild fury that jolted you. They were the 12'Clock Girlz. You knew of them but had never seen them until that moment. They were called that because they could ride their bikes straight back—like hands of the clock pointing to the 12. If you could get to 12, you were the shit. When you saw them you forgot about feeling trapped. As you watched them fly past you forgot about the corners, the daily horror of your shitty life; wiped clean, a glimmering promise.

They were free. 

You desperately wanted to taste that freedom.

They all passed by except for two of them: Candace and Aleshia; and those two women changed your life. 

They gave you three precious gifts that no one else had given up to that point. They gave their time for you; Candace helped you to study and earn your GED. Aleshia gave you one of her bikes, an old Rebel 250 and gave time to teach you to ride it. They gave parts of their lives for you, their time and through that time also came love—you and your sisters were sisters to them, a kinship borne not for gain but basic empathy. They let you into their group, and the group called you sister and loved you and you loved them and through this shared love you found strength. A strength that you shared with your sisters to bear your grandmother's beatings and berating; strength to fight against your manipulative mother who tried to steal the money Aleshia had given you to feed your sisters. The strength to crumble the tallest mountains of personal struggle; to thrash against the boundaries society had placed upon you—a shared strength of a community away from the streets; an escape from the chalk outlines on those corners—the phantoms of bodies.

And now you were free.

Because you have a job now.

Now you can break the cycle of being a burden. Pay back a debt that was not intended but still you feel it nonetheless. 

Speaking of a job—

You look back at the box truck you had been loading. You've had a very productive day and you felt proud about that. Three full pallets of small orders you managed to pick, label, box and ship all by yourself. It was only your second week here but you had already been moved from simple bulk-packing to now doing orders. Your boss, Mina, a tall mink-furred older rat with a fair bit of chub and piercing gray eyes coupled with a motherly attitude seemed rather impressed with your progress. She was friends with Aleshia, who helped land you this job. You were driven to not disappoint her so you intensely learned the layout of the warehouse; paid close attention on the particulars of your tasks and carefully studied the intricacies of their stock system—you weren't all that great with computers but you feel more comfortable now than you did in the morning.

You look at the time on your burner phone. It is ten minutes until the end of the day.

“Holy shit,” you hear a familiarly soft, slightly husky voice from behind. You turn and see a rather impressed looking Mina staring at your work. “You got all those orders done?”

You nod. “Y-yeah, I hope I didn't take too long. I had a long night so I was kind of tired this morn—“

“Too long? This order doesn't ship until Wednesday—you busted your ass, girl. Well, what little of it you have,” Mina guffawed and slapped you on the back and you almost fell over. “You're doing a great job! Keep this up and I'll recommend a promotion for you at the end of the quarter. You're making everyone else here on this dock look stupid.” You feel very isolated with that statement—you don't want to be a target for jealous coworkers. Mina appears to sense your sudden distress, “ah, don't worry about them. Believe me, everyone around here likes you. You're Aleshia's girl, and that goes a long way with us.”

You can't quite bring yourself to feel good about Mina's praise. You're not sure why but you always focus on the negativity people give you. It's what you respond to. You're familiar with it. You also feel a curiosity with Mina's connection to Aleshia.

“How exactly do you know her if you don't mind me asking?” Candace taught you to talk in a polite tone and manner. She calls it 'non-rat-speak'.

Mina gave a sly smile. “Believe or not I used to ride, too. I was Aleshia's handler, but then, well... I ended up having kids and I decided to settle down and try and be an adult.” Mina glanced at the clock hanging over the bay doors. “Shit, it's time to go—I'll tell you more about it later, go ahead and clean up.” Mina gives you a warm smile and trots off to her desk. You make your way to the bathroom.

You splash your face with the warm water pouring from the sink. 

You wash away the day's grime, the china-dust built up from the boxes stocked and forgotten and remembered again when you climbed through to gather your orders. You stare at your reflection in the mirror. 

You have a job now. 

You can earn money now. 

With the money you can get what you need. 

Things were looking up.

With the work comes the employee benefits—healthcare and dental. Two weeks from now they will kick in, and you can get you and your sisters your first check ups. A warm comfort washes over you.

Yeah, things are looking up. You can feed them, you can clothe them, you can file taxes now, get some money back for them. You are independent. You can take care of them, unlike your mother and grandmother. You are not them. You will be there for your sisters like Candace and Aleshia were there for you. You can get them dental, fix their little teeth.

You pull up your lips, examining your jawline. You can fix your own crooked ugly mouth.

Yeah, straighten those teeth.

Flatten that long, feral muzzle.

Lengthen that mop into flowing blonde locks.

Remove all that ugly fur, turn it into pale white skin.

Shrink your large, goofy ears.

Cut off that nasty, naked tail.

Enlarge your flat breasts.

Turn yourself into a human.

You felt cold again, you looked... inhuman.

You always found humans pretty. You loved all that smooth skin they had. They were so rare and all the models in the magazines looked like fairy-tales. In your squalor you dreamed of being a princess like in the Disney movies. You dreamed of being wanted by a human prince.

Like that human you and the girls found yesterday. When Candace ripped his helmet off he looked like a prince. Especially with all that red hair. His green eyes wide open with terror.

You began to feel equal amounts of shame and excitement.

You knew you were going to get a turn after Candace was done with him but it felt wrong. He would've been your first human but it wouldn't have been love. It was all lust and rather one-sided. Then you remember the bulge in his pants. His scent of leather and sweat and fear and a spicy tinge of male arousal. You can see in the mirror your ears turn red with a blush.

Well, you guess it wasn't COMPLETELY one-sided.

But it wasn't love, just animals mating. Would a human like him love a rat like you?

Would anybody love a rat?

No, of course not. 

And all the money in the world won't fucking change that fact.

You look back at your reflection with a rising self-loathing. You always do this. Just when you start to have happy thoughts you turn on yourself. You look for the stormcloud in the silver lining.

You wish you were anybody but you.

You leave the bathroom. You are so very tired now.

Signing out at the end of the day was a simple affair, you slid your card over the reader at the front door to the warehouse and stepped out into the day. It was late afternoon, the sky was blue, you momentarily forget your self hatred. 

You follow your coworkers as they make their way to the employee parking lot. It was a nice day, just like yesterday. You begin to think again about that poor human. You hope Candace and Aleshia aren't mad at each other anymore—that whole thing went out of control fast. Aleshia and Candace have fought each other before, but this was different—it was almost like one was trying to assert dominance over the other. Aleshia was right, though, they were there for the ride not for men—that was the rules they all agreed on. It helped keep the peace between rival gangs.

You remember the bike he rode, it was a nice bike. I looked old-school like that old learner Rebel you had, but with a certain newness and modern features that were ever so subtly apparent. You wondered how much that bike cost. I looked an awful lot like that bike over there at the office parking lot.

Wait a minute.

No, it can't possibly be.

As you approached the red motorcycle you could feel the bile rising in your throat. You began to reel in terror when you could see the broken turn indicator held on with black vinyl tape and the dent and scuff marks on the exhaust—all at the same spots you saw when it was dropped as Candace tackled it's rider.

OH FUCK. 

You quickly turned and began to run towards your car—an old beater mid-90's Ford Escort that Aleshia had loaned you. You wanted to get as far away from this place as possible. You knew it was that Sunday rider—and you know he saw your face. After what you and your fellow riders tried to do to him, a simple apology wouldn't be enough.

You jumped into your car, turned the ignition and in a flash you sped out, almost hitting several of your coworkers. You didn't care. You were on the run, you needed to talk to Aleshia, to talk to Candace; you needed their help. You were not free.

You felt so scared, so alone.

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

You are Anon, again.

You are in your bedroom. The only light comes from outside through the half-closed blinds at your window. They cast an eerily symmetrical pattern on every surface in an orange glow.

You sit at your bedside. You are still in your office-clothes. Your monkey-suit. A furless monkey in a suit. You were forced to work late again today. You are paid by salary so any extra work you do isn't overtime—it always feels like you are being ripped off.

You are holding a half-empty can of cheap beer. You had been drinking out of frustration. You were also drinking to build up courage. Courage to call that number on the back of that receipt. You were about to press the big green button on your smartphone before you locked up, panicked.

You didn't know what to say—you didn't even know if she'd answer. Hell, she'd probably be mad that you were bothering her this late.

Wait a minute: it was -her- friends that attacked you. They were the ones that started this, and all of them were the source of your weird, conflicting obsession.

Typical Anon, you were in the right and still you felt the urge to apologize.

You take another gulp from the can. The beer is starting to taste less shitty. You are starting to feel the warm tingle of intoxication deep in the pit of your stomach, slowly trickling up to your brain. Your face felt warm. The anxiousness is starting to fade.

You tell yourself to just ask about getting the bike fixed. Just start there.

You take another gulp and you press the dial button.

The phone rings once, and is then promptly answered.

“Hello?” you hear that familiar and sultry feminine voice, albeit tired. She probably had a long day at work, too. 

It's do or die time.

“It's me. From the ride yesterday.” You try to sound as calm as possible, but your heart is racing. There is a momentary silence on the other end.

“Oh... oh shit. I didn't think you were gonna call back.” She seemed genuinely surprised and less tired now.

“Yeah, I uh,” GODDAMNIT ANON, THINK MOTHERFUCKER, “I didn't expect to, either, honestly.”

She gave a light chuckle. “So, uh, I'm guessing you're calling about the bike, then?”

“Yeah.”

What the fuck are you getting yourself into, Anon? You don't even know who she is, really—only her name and that she's a rat, probably, and has blue eyes and killer body—what kind of jackpot are you getting into?

“Listen, I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry about what happened yesterday. That wasn't right; my friends shouldn't've attacked you like that. It's just... you know, a lot of them were in the season, and they weren't really thinking about the consequences—“

A little voice in the back of your head started to niggle at you. It keep saying 'take a chance'.

“—it's fine,” you cut her off. “It's ok. I'm ok, I just wanted to talk to you about getting the bike fixed. Next time I'll be sure to keep in mind where I ride at the next Sunday I happen into Baltimore.”

“Fine, alright—I got ya.” She sounded a bit more relaxed after you said that. You still have conflicting thoughts on the matter—but things were moving fast and you just wanted to get that bike fixed first and foremost.

“So,” she started off, rolling the 'o' for a little bit at the tip of her tongue, “I'm not gonna ask you for a home address to come pick up your bike—it wouldn't be right for me to assume you'd trust a stranger so easily. Especially after her friends... So how about this: if you can ride the bike, how about you head down to where I work at? Are you ok with heading down to Honda Powersports in Crofton?”

You know exactly where it is—it's where you got your CB1100 at.

“Is that where you work?”

“Yeah, I'm a mechanic there.”

Small world.

You pause for a second. You go over things in your head. You now know where she works and her name. It would be very stupid on her part if she were to pull some sort of tri—GODDAMNIT ANON, STOP CONSTANTLY THINKING SHE'S GONNA PULL SOME TRICK ON YOU.

“Yeah, I know where it's at. It's not far.”

“Great,” she sounded kind of excited. You liked to think she was sitting up all perky, her tail flickering excitedly, her breasts poking out of her nightgown; her black helmet still on—you are a fucking pervert. “What would be a good day and time for you to show up?”

“I can show up tomorrow morning if that's ok with you.” What are you doing? You have work tomorrow.

“Do you have work tomorrow or something? I don't want you to take time out of your job for this.” You're surprised that she actually cares enough to say that.

“Yeah, I'm gonna call in sick and ride over.”

“Alright,” you can hear her smiling, how it changes the tone of her voice. You have a very 'fuck this job' kind of feeling welling up inside of you at the moment. “You bring it down tomorrow and we'll take a look at it and hopefully I can get you back on the road in no time, at no cost, of course—that's my apology to you.”

“Alright, sounds good.” You feel... pretty good.

“Also,” she starts, you can sense a tone of concern creeping into her inflection, “did you talk to anybody about yesterday?”

What is she getting at? You might as well be honest.

“No. I don't intend to, either—I doubt I'd see them again and I doubt anyone cares, really. It's no big deal, I'm fine.”

You're not fine. You're confused about the whole thing, but now isn't the time to dwell on that.

“Ok, alright. I understand.” Now there is again relief in her voice. “So you'll come down tomorrow and we'll get it looked at, is that fine with you?”

“Yup.”

“Awesome. Well, uh, I'll see you tomorrow. Have a safe ride.”

“Yup, you, too”

“Yup, see you around”

“Uh, ok. Yup.” You go to disconnect. Instead you stare at the phone, waiting for her to end the call. She doesn't immediately. She lets it hang for ten seconds. You stare and wonder if she is doing the same thing you're doing. You wonder why you are doing this. Eventually you end the call.

That was odd.

You set your alarm for a bit later than usual, you intend to call out sick. You don't miss days and you got sick leave to spare. Fuck it.

You pour out the rest of your beer into the sink. You are too giddy to feel the need to drink anymore. The weather will be wonderful for a ride tomorrow. You feel like you just asked Aleshia out on a date—even though she's going to fix your bike. Maybe you can...

Maybe you can listen to that niggling voice more. Maybe you can take another chance tomorrow.

But first things first you should get a look at her face, it's getting weird thinking of her only wearing that helmet.