James Holden - "The Caterpillar's Intervention"

Attir the fox poses for a passport photo. His fur dusts his leather collar and his face has a cocky lift. They say don't smile in a passport photo, but if a fox can smirk, Attir is smirking. He lunches from a water fountain, and in the garbage can next to it he throws every other piece of ID away. His driver's license, his health insurance card, his SIN, even his Scope Video Membership card with the little sniper crosshairs on it. Hasn't rented anything in a couple years at least. Attir takes the train to Central, terminal 3, and heads through security. Head down, unnoticed. Aboard the flight it's tomato juice and his hoodie up. He lands to the sun still shining, or shining again depending, a waft of hot air, and the sound of guitars.

Attir the fox slams his fist against the large metal door. The password is I don't give a fuck and let me the fuck inside. He sits down at a rickety table across from a figure with a dog's beard and a missing eye, just a little sucked-in hole where the eye used to be. Outside the street is hot, the sun is hot, everything is yellow dust. "Little warm for that leather jacket," the one-eyed figure clacks his claws on the table. Attir sits as if tied to a board, his whole being is hungry, "It breathes." "Hm, that's good," says the one-eyed figure, his dog-bearded chin lifting, "Not everything breathes these days." Attir flinches. He reacts without thinking, "Seems that asshole on your face still has to shit out another eye." The dark-furred minions close in, but the one-eyed figure calls them off with a raised hand. "No no," he says, "I'm not upset. He can say whatever he wants. He doesn't even exist." An open paw, Attir tosses the passport. The figure hands it to a dark-furred minion at a computer, who seems more rat than dog, who furiously begins typing. Bank accounts, birth records, transcripts, addresses, it all comes up. "Ah, the great Attir. The fox. I shall enjoy being you." As Attir is hauled away he watches a tiny printer print the driver's license, the health insurance card, the SIN, all with a one-eyed Attir. Even the Scope Video Membership card, and these bastards wouldn't return anything. Well, it seems they might return one thing, at least.

Attir falls into the cell and they instantly embrace. The smell of her fur is unmistakable, the sound of her cry, though dry in a chapped throat, is still the same. They are blindfolded and driven through countless turns and hills, and dropped somewhere in the thick yellow dust, left to their own devices. They have nothing but each other, foxes mate for life, and Attir, no longer Attir, still has that lift, that arrogance, that smirk.

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