| look down into the big, moony eyes of my fursuit head. They're 
glossy with sealed paint, and if | run my fingers just beneath them on 
the cheeks, | can feel the endless webs of wires pulsing with 
electricity. I'm already wearing the rest of him; a bodysuit spotted 
blue with white, heavy combat-boot hooves, and a pair of resin hoof 
paws fitted with padding and weights for hand-to-hand combat. 


His name is Cloudtail. They wanted us to have characters we were 
already attached to. If you told me last year that the most freedom 
I'd have at the Foundation was what character | could have them 
make into a military-grade fursuit, I'd call you nuts. I'd say, /s it 
crack? Is that what you smoke? You smoke crack? And it's dumb to 
think it, but there's an odd relief you get when you can make a 
choice in a place like this, and not just what coffee to drink or what 
permanently-scarred guards to sit by during lunch. 


The excuse they gave us was that it was proof of our "dedication", 
so to speak. That we were, you know, really furries. If we weren't, 
we'd shrivel up into a shrieking, spitting mess from whatever Walcott 
put on his website. It was borderline ridiculous, how serious they 
were about this, how much time and money went into this. The 
interview process was absurd. 


And what did you say your fursona was again? the interviewer 


asked me, fondling my papers like I've applied for an entry-level job 
flipping burgers. He'd sifted through my résume, eyeing all those 
reference sheets I'd blown so much of my Foundation-made money 
on. He'd held them up. 


A unicorn, sir, | managed to squeak. | half expected him to stand up 
and laugh in my face, like this was all a big joke. Hah! he'd cackle, 
and every researcher and doctor would poke their prying faces into 
the doorway. Hahahah! They'd caw at me like birds, throwing their 
heads back and showing their shiny, white teeth, sharp and ready 
for the kill. I'd cower in my chair like a stuck rabbit, compacting my 
body into a tight little ball, as small as | could make myself. 


But, that never happened. Thirty minutes came and went, and | was 
in and out of the office. I'd started down the hallway, and glanced 
back at the guys behind me. Some were sitting with their legs 
pressed together anxiously, others were as calm and collected as 
frozen pudding. There had to have been at least thirty two. 


Yesterday, they'd finally tracked down Walcott. He was holed up in 
some cozy little house in Maine, blissfully ignorant to the Foundation 
peering in through his window like sick, spying ghouls. They caught 
him through his laptop, they'd said. Apparently, Mr. Walcott wasn't 
smart enough to burn his laptop in a bonfire when Mr. Perry started 
having seizures and called PETA, begging to be sent home to the 
North, where all of his polar bear friends and family lived. He whined 
about his precious snow, and how the polar ice caps were melting, 
and only stopped briefly to take a hefty bite out of his housecat. Of 
course, PETA called the cops, and the cops started turning into 
furries, and look now, Mr. Perry's in a containment chamber, almost 
due for his third psych eval to determine whether or not he 
remembers jack shit. Apparently, Ollie caused all of this. It was all 
the fox's fault. 


They'd showed us a video of Ollie in his house after everything that 
happened. Through the leafy underbrush obscuring half of the 
camera lens, me and five other guys watched as he slid across his 
kitchen in mismatching socks. Twelve prying eyes stared as he 
twisted and turned, doing a silly three-step dance on the linoleum 
floor. He cracked open a box of Star Wars-shaped macaroni and 
cheese and twisted the dial up on a radio on the counter, blasting 


Electric Feel to seven sets of ears. It's strange, the way people act 
when they think no one's watching. When he turns to the window to 
see a chirping bluejay, he's got this grand smile on his face, like he 
lives in Wonderland. We watch as he scuttles across his kitchen to a 
high-up wooden cupboard and throws it open. Inside is a little jar 
styled after a honey pot from Winnie the Pooh, the word "HUNEY" 
proudly misspelled across its ceramic belly. Ollie bounces up on the 
tips of his toes to reach it — the kid must be 5'9", at best — and 
drags it to the edge of the cupboard with his finger tips. He wraps his 
palms around it ever so gently and sets it on the countertop, then 
digs his fingers in and scoops out a handful of birdseed. With a skip 
in his step, he canters up to the window and unhooks the latch 
above to push it open. The bluejay peeps and hops back, but Ollie 
stretches out an open palm, and the bird scoots closer. It hesitates, 
then dips its head down to examine the seeds. Ollie's looking at that 
bird with the most adoring eyes, and for a second, he almost seems 
normal. That nagging thought in the back of my mind gets crammed 
deep down, and | think, hey, maybe this kid's not so bad. 


When the video cut to static, | had jolted up and earned myself a 
good staring from the lead researcher on this case. Oliver Walcott is 
a nineteen-year-old freelance artist from Maine, she'd stated. He 
should be considered armed and dangerous, as he has 
demonstrated a number of anomalous abilities that have led to the 
deaths of several dozen individuals so far. He will infect you without 
a second thought. He has not shown remorse for his actions. You, 
Mobile Task Force Y-42, are responsible for locating Walcott and 
detaining him. You will be provided with modified equipment to 
protect you from SCP-3312, his work. Preparations for the operation 
will begin at 2300 hours tomorrow. 


Here | am, telling myself that this is normal, as a full MTF squad 
arrives to a property raid decked out in neon rainbows and cooling 
gear. | look to Sgt. Pollock, who's in a bog-standard gray wolf suit. 
Older guy, maybe in his late forties. His kid made his fursona. He 
nods to me, and | unholster the tranquilizer gun at my side. The 
muzzle on my suit puffs out hot, stale air. One by one, we traverse in 
unison to the front door. | look down at Sgt. Moira's tail in front of me 
as it wags like a pendulum. They're necessities, and they'll protect 
you, the Site Director had reassured us. I'd wanted to say, Really, is 


that how being a furry works? | kept my mouth shut. 


Two of the guys ahead of me have a battering ram. The big, metal 
column heaves back and forth as they aim it between the double 
doors, itching to bash that paint-coated oak to splinters. Ready? 
Push! It swings and crashes in, sending woodchips flying as the 
door bends on its frame. The battering ram falls to our feet, and we 
rush into the house. 


This house is an art pop nightmare; popcorn walls lined with Scotch 
taped-posters of The Lion King and carefully-hung commissioned 
works. From some distance away, | can hear the frightened pitter- 
patter of feet. A piece of flesh inside my cheek gives way, and | taste 
the filthy penny-tang of blood. | didn't know | was chewing on it. 


| glance over my shoulder to see a yellow dragon, Sgt. Paisley, 
gazing at something in the living room. | turn to look, and | can see a 
giant stuffed fox toy slumped over on the couch. Its gargantuan, 
bowl-sized eyes gleam white light from our flashlights. They're 
unnervingly large, and they shine like sinewy, tar-colored oil. We 
keep our distance and move on through the hallway. 


You never get used to raids. My hands are sweating though the fur 
of my paws, and | can feel the gun in my hands growing moist. | 
haven't got the steel nerves of every war hero you've ever seen. I'm 
a marvelous actor. A fraud. | passed every basic test, but every 
other week, | tell myself | was more cut out for an assistant 
researcher role. I'd take watching a ghost disembowling someone 
over confronting one face to face. 


With a gun in my hands and five squad members by my side, 
everything in the real world is muffled, like someone turning the 
volume down on their TV. | am the law of the land, and even as | 
sweat and tremble, | can feel every drop of adrenaline surging 
through my arteries and pumping, ounce by ounce, into my hands, 
my spine, my brain. Maybe that's the rush Ollie gets from seeing his 
friends warp and gnarl into caricatures of themselves. They scream 
and groan, but he keeps on grinning, and maybe it isn't power. 
There is a chance he's so goddamn deluded that this is all just a 
game to him, and he's seeing how many people he can finger 
through like paper in a file cabinet before the authorities catch him. 


07 (Dr. Garcia) 


08 (Dr. Garcia) 


09 (Dr. Patel) 


normal, except for the much 
shorter-than-normal 
transmissions time for wired 
communications between those 
points. 

Islet approached by boat from 
Kamchatka Peninsula. Audio and 
video recording equipment 
installed at islet, to monitor islet's 
conditions for 33 consecutive 
days. No remarkable activity 
except for occasional visits by 
birds of diverse origins. 

Islet approached by boat from 
Quebec, South Africa and 
Ethiopia. Dye released in 
surrounding water and colored 
smoke released into atmosphere. 
Observation of dye and smoke 
indicates that the colocation 
phenomenon appears to be 
limited to an irregularly-shaped 
volume, approximately 80 meters 
in radius, roughly centered on the 
rock. 

Islet approached by boat from 
South Africa. Audio and video 
recording equipment installed at 
islet. On day 29 after installation 
of equipment, unknown 
individuals (presumably human) 
remove equipment. Agent 
approaches islet by helicopter 
from South Africa to investigate 
and finds that in place of the 
equipment, the individuals have 
left baskets containing fruits, jade 
trinkets and a handwritten note 
containing undecipherable 
lettering resembling letters in the 


Or maybe, he doesn't know what he's doing is wrong. He could be in 
such serious need of social interaction that he'll take anything he 
can get, and when that first chance came for him to make real 
friends, well, he went above and beyond and created friends. The 
best of friends that only last for a year at most, a week at least. 
Followers and worshippers. | think back to the video and those big, 
awe-struck eyes. 


Pollock stops at the door at the end of the hallway and hesitates. We 
can hear music playing, something with a quick beat and electronic 
buzzing. 


"What are you waiting for?" Paisley barks. Pollock sucks in a quick 
breath through his teeth and kicks down the door. 


The window is jammed halfway open and Oliver's gotten himself 
through the opening. He's a mess of orange hair and plaid pajamas 
among the saturated images stuck up on the walls, not a square 
inch left uncovered. The music has been hooked up to speakers 
from Oliver's laptop and blasts at full volume. | can see fursuit heads 
hanging from racks on the walls, their concave eyes following my 
every move. Hairs on the back of my neck prickle up. Thousands of 
beady eyes from little orange foxes stare down at me, the faces 
they're sitting in smiling huge and deceptive. | squirm in my skin. 


Pollock starts to retch, and | whip around just in time to see him 
doubled over, but the vomit's got nowhere to go, and when he tilts 
his head back to breathe, | can picture his face slathered with bile. 
He collapses to the ground and begins to writhe, coughing and 
hocking up spit. One hand shoots out from under him and wraps 
around Merryweather's leg. He stumbles and trips, coming down on 
top of Moira. 


"Pollock, what's wrong?" | yelp. My cry is met with a guttural, throat- 
scraping yell from Pollock as he claws his helmet off, tossing it aside 
and filling the room with the vile stench of stomach acid. There's 
blood smeared across his lips, and when he opens his mouth to 
scream, | can see it pooling in the back of his throat. He lashes out 
and yanks a fistful of Merryweather's neck fur, pulling his head clean 
off, and opens his mouth to take a chunk of flesh straight from his 
neck. Merryweather howls in agony, fighting to beat Pollock off of 


him. He fumbles for his gun, discarding his paws. Moira clambors 

away from them as Pollock climbs on top of Merryweather, locking 
his legs around him. | can see slivers of muscle dangling between 
his teeth. 


What the hell is happening? My mind races as | pivot and turn to see 
Oliver dashing away from his house, stumbling over his own two feet 
in the cold shadow of night. | hear two rounds being fired behind me, 
and another yell, but it's not from Pollock. There's nothing | can do 
but climb through the window and take off on a mad sprint behind 
Walcott. 


A thousand questions flock my brain like vultures to a carcass. What 
did he do? What is he doing? The wet grass crunches under my 
feet, and | slip and suddenly there's mud caking the fur on my chest. 


All in an instant, it hits me. Pollock didn't make his fursona. His kid 
made it. It wasn't his, and he wasn't doing this for himself. It was for 
his kid. He was doing this for his kid! 


Fuck it!| clamber to stand, my shoes knocking against my calves as 
| pull myself together. | reach up and dig my nails into the cheeks of 
my fursuit head, and with one violent toss, launch the head across 
the field. It nails Oliver straight in the back, and he stumbles. His fall 
gives me just enough time to raise my tranquilizer gun and fire. One. 
Two. Three. Four. Five bullet-sized syringes whiz by his head. Four 
bite like mosquitos in his spine and throat. For a second, he 
shudders. His feet slosh through the mud and after a minute, he 
drops like a corpse to the ground. 


| wheeze. Behind me, | can no longer hear the yelling, the tossing, 
or the fighting. Before me, Walcott is taking in labored breaths. His 
eyes are glazed over, but when | kneel next to his head, they shoot 
up at me with the ferocity of a cornered animal. His pupils have 
expanded to gaping abysses devoid of life. His fingers twitch and 
curl. Saliva is dripping from his bottom lip into the slimy dirt, and | 
think to myself, this is the kid we were scared of. | can't help but feel 
a little bad for him, and | begin to pluck the darts one by one from his 
skin. There's already enough juice in his system for the whole week. 


This kid is a poor excuse for a villain, what with his rosy cheeks and 


spindly limbs bearing no strength. Hot tears are dripping down his 
chin, sliding past his teeth and mixing below him, creating a little 
soggy pillow for his head. His bushy mess of orange hair, knotted 
from sleep, is matted with blood. He's whining a little. He probably 
hit his head when he fell. | bite my lip, rob him of what little dignity he 
has, and wipe the tears from his cheeks. 


You screwed up, | whisper to him, not with my mouth but with my 
eyes. | furrow my brows, and in turn, he coughs up a wad of mucus 
into the dirt. | think he knows. 


| know Pollock is already scheduled to be terminated. Oliver will be 
locked away in a little hole somewhere deep within the Earth. Our 
team will be surveyed, and given another mission next week. And 
me? 


I'll Keep refusing those amnestics. 


Mongrelization 


The school officials gathered around the scene had masks on for the 
smell. Priss thought that a bit much. She wasn't accustomed to 
dealing with corpses, but this one had an almost pleasant smell 
compared to some of the other horrors to smell when living in a big 
city. 


"The door was locked?" Agent Sharpe asked again. 


"Locked," The school official repeated, giving a quick look as 
Priscilla Locke, as if he were so clever.