In the city
You bite the inside of your cheek, faintly amused that you still have the capability to do so in your reformed jaw. What now? As if to answer your unspoken question, another door slides open, again without any noticeable noise. All too convenient to lead the ‘contestant’ exactly where they need to go, you think bitterly. There is a street outside, something from a cityscape that is like a step back home. Your equine ears flick back and forth, detecting the sound of traffic, surprising you in two ways. Why can you hear traffic? You also had not noticed the ears before and their presence unsettles you. You miss your old body.
“Oh, yes, everything’s falling into place very nicely,” you mutter sarcastically. “‘What now?’ Oh, look! A door opens. Just like any other crappy game show. Not worth the fecking time!”
Your voice echoes in the empty room and you wonder where the cameras are. Is the obnoxious host watching you? In all fairness, you are bored by the conformity of the white room, so venture cautiously to the door and step out, one paw on the waistband of your jeans to protect your modesty.
It is indeed a city, although it is not one that you are familiar with. But who can be acquainted with every city in the world? You blink, caught by the sounds, sights and smells. The pavement is hot beneath your cloven hooves and you lift first one and then the other in an attempt to release the warm tension. The city sweats.
Where can you go? There is nothing but an open, bustling route forward, crowded by glassy eyed furs. The foxes, wolves, serpents, dragons, felines — too many species to count — stomp along their way, the anthro forms strange to your eyes. Cautiously, you pad into the street and stare upwards at the obscenely tall buildings, shop windows reflecting daylight so that the products may not be clearly viewed. A vixen in full make-up pauses and presses her muzzle to the glass of what you presume is a lingerie shop, judging from visible advertisements, and cups her paw, blocking out the light. She murmurs under her breath, swishes her tail and walks on, her pace hypnotic. You shake yourself, realising that your eyes were glued to her shapely rear, bouncing with every snappy stride. You are not a man anymore.
No, you can’t think like that. If you finish these ‘tasks’ or whatever that horse-faced bastard said, you’ll escape. Game shows always worked the same: the contestant did as they were asked and they went home afterwards, even if they didn’t win. You sigh and hug your arms around your chest, breasts pressing inward gently. Home. Did things still operate the same in this half-world? Lifting one hoof after the other in awkward walk, you bite back a grunt of discomfort as your breasts strain against the motion, unsupported as they are. Your jeans slip and you grab them as a nearby wolf smirks, his gaze tasting your body as if he was devouring a steak. Shooting him a dirty look, you ensure that you are well covered and turn in a circle, not knowing where to go. There are no bearings to be had. You want to go home.
You half-pause at your reflection in a shop window but move on quickly from the long legs and whiplash tail, crowned with a tuft of silvery hair. You are positively equine, a long horn rising from the centre of your forehead and parting your forelock. That is what equestrians called it: a forelock. Shuddering, you increase your pace and halt abruptly at the edge of the pavement, glancing from side to side. There is no ‘right’ direction and traffic is terrible, a screaming, honking mass of rocking metal containers, occupants glaring over steering wheels.
No, you can’t cross here. Making your way further down the street, you reel like a drunkard, unable to make your legs work in the correct manner. Your jeans drop, even though you have them bunched at the front, revealing a glimpse of your boxers and feminine rump, subject to humiliating jeers. Blushing anxiously, you drag them up for the umpteenth time, too embarrassed to even shoot a glare at the suspects. Traffic slows to a crawl as you trot to a pelican crossing, ignored by the cars and drivers, or so it seems.
An impatient canine, Jack Russell from the look of his muzzle, in one of the vehicles threw a curse to the air and spun his wheel viciously. You stare slack jawed as he mounts the pavement, slamming his paw on to the horn repeatedly, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He doesn’t stop for anything, smashing through a waste bin and denting the front bumper of his shiny vehicle – it could have been driven away from the dealer’s lot that very morning, so immaculate had it been before abuse. And he drives straight for you like a madman! Or mad fur? It’s too late to speculate and you dive out of the way, hitting the concrete hard and knocking the air from your lungs. There is grit on your tongue and tyres scream too close, far too close.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 14 April 2013