hello
tihs is shiro
this is
is this Krin
?
you can sned the muzic herr
send muszic here
music
thanmks
Shiro stared at the messages he sent on his phone again. At that point, he'd reread everything so many times that he experienced every emotion he could possibly milk from them. Optimism, embarrassment, despair, and desperation; all in successions, sometimes in that order. He cheered himself for sending the texts. He cringed over the mistakes he'd made. He contemplated rewriting everything and starting over. He regretted sending those texts in the first place without thinking over it first. He calmed himself down, trusting in Krin to understand his circumstances. He doubted his conjecture for a while, before returning to faith once more.
At some point, he grew tired of the emotional tirade and simply let his heart be. With heavy fingers, he closed his eyes and turned off his phone, laying it on his lap. He turned it on again to check the time. It was already a quarter past midnight, nearing the single-digit territory. For comparison, the last he sent those messages was during the early afternoon.
He sighed, sat up and looked around the room he was in. It was sparse and near-empty, save for two sofas and a coffee table with exactly one magazine laid neatly on the corner. The walls were of virginal white, with only one wall-mounted television sitting adjacent to the sofas.
Shiro's mother was on the television, wearing her green contacts as she recited tonight's news to the public. From what little understanding Shiro could infer from the report, a pile-up occurred on the highway just this morning, involving several cars and a lorry carrying construction equipment. Two lives were lost in the process. His mother delivered the information in a monotonous voice, relaying everything as a matter of fact. If she had any wavering towards her diction, it was impossible to tell.
A knock came from the door, prompting Shiro's attention?
He asked, "Y-Yea?"
The voice from the television answered the wolf.
"We can go now," it said.
"O-Okay," Shiro stood up, shutting off his phone again and stuffed it in his pockets. He turned the doorknob and stepped out of the room.
"Hey Ma," he greeted Ma. She was still dressed as she was on the television, save for her contacts.
Shiro glanced towards the Ezo wolf standing behind her, "Mrs Ezo."
Mrs Ezo returned with a slight nod.
Ma asked Shiro, "Are you hungry?"
"A l-little," the wolf answered.
"We'll eat out," Ma turned around to Mrs Ezo, "Do you want to join?"
"I'll pass," the Ezo wolf said, waving her palm across her snout, "You wouldn't want a third wheel in the scene. I'll see you in the morning."
"Likewise," Ma replied, and off Mrs Ezo went down the corridor.
The orange cat turned towards the opposite direction, with Shiro following close from behind.
The corridors shared the same features as the room Shiro was in, with some added flair and details. Framed newspaper clippings, given certificates for awards, golden plaques that oozed royalty, pictures of celebrities; the walls were like slideshows of achievements, all attributing to a television channel whose name Shiro had a hard time reading, much less pronounced.
They passed many people as they made their way through the corridors. Nearly all of them bowed to Ma as they crossed paths, giving snippets of congratulations and praises regarding her good work, as always. Ma would give a simple nod of a head, sometimes accompanied with an uninflected voice of gratitude before continuing without a hitch of a step. They would glaze their eyes away from the orange cat, only to see a tall, black wolf behind her gazing back.
Some just looked away, going back to minding their own business, paying no attention to the stranger. Others stared as he passed, making note of his peculiar appearance, especially to his eyes, comparing them to Ma’s. Those who did would make the obvious comparisons from their nonplussed expressions; those who tried to hide their surprise were betrayed by their twitching pupils, darting across the wolf’s face to the orange cat’s before going back to the wolf’s again, though none made the verbal confirmation.
Ma suddenly asked as they walked, "Where are your friends staying?"
"Hotel," Shiro answered.
"Why don't you stay with them?"
"I'm fine," Shiro replied.
Ma inquired further, "What do you mean 'fine'?"
Shiro stayed silent on that question, keeping his lips between his teeth.
The orange cat caught on a moment later.
"I see," she said.
They reached an elevator hall where half a dozen metal doors waited on standby, all sitting on the same side. Ma went up to a panel sitting between the doors and called for an elevator. A ring came from behind, prompting their attention. One of the doors slid open, and the two stepped in.
The city seemed to be breathing.
The elevator had a glass dome, facing a cityscape sitting beyond, stretching across the surrounding horizon as far as the wolf could see. As it descended, Shiro watched the neon shine of the skyscrapers pulse like a heart. Highways wrapped around like veins as small balls of light coursed through the roads, fueling the glow of the cityscape. Colours oozed into one another, forming an ethereal grey mesh that slowly descended upon the lesser structures beneath. A light, hazy halo oozed from the scenery, wrapping around the skyline like some celestial atmosphere native to the airspace of the concrete jungle.
Shiro watched as the cityscape drew closer the lower the elevator went. He went from being the observer to the subject as the rays of the city bounced off the windows, joining the soundless orchestra of the night lights. Shiro watched the buildings and towers grow before his eyes, piercing the skies by the meters as the elevator made its descent towards the ground floor. The horizon was swallowed by the edifices dominating his view, holding a vice grip on the wolf’s sight, at least until the next city block.
The elevator doors slid open, and Ma stepped out. Shiro swiftly followed, but not before holding a final glance outside the glass dome.
They made their way to another elevator hall, this time trading conspicuity with the number of doors. On the way, Ma was met with more to greet, with many giving verbal gratitude as she passed. One of them was already in the elevator and held the door open for her. Shiro joined in, slipping his tail through the gap right before it closed. The inside wasn't as grand as the one from before. Four dull steel walls pressed in from all sides. There wasn't much else to see. The ceiling was also considerably lower. Shiro had to duck to his shoulders, and the tip of his ears still touched the top.
The doors opened up to an underground parking lot. It was like walking through a barrier between two separate realities. The air held a perpetual staleness that was both hot and dry. The low ceiling did nothing to help. Shiro reckoned if he straightened his elbows, he could touch the top with his pinky.
He followed Ma past a few dozen cars, each as grand as the next. They were sedans with tinted windows and souped-up SUVs with giant, chrome rims.
Ma stopped next to a small, stout hatchback, painted in a dull, cream colour. It barely took up half of the parking space. It looked prone to tipping over if two people were to lean against it. To Shiro, it was about the same height as a standing table. He could lean his elbows over the roof without even lifting them.
Ma went over to one side and opened the door. Shiro opened up the passenger side.
It was the same as he left weeks ago.
The backrest was dropped far towards the back, so much so that it almost seemed like a lounge chair in comparison. The seat itself was pushed far back, depleting the back seat of any leg space at all.
The driver's seat seemed virtually untouched. It sat at a perfect right angle as if it just rolled out of the factory moments earlier.
The two stepped into the car. Ma entered as normal, diving headfirst before pulling her legs in. Shiro had to stick a leg in, retract his knees, hunch his back and stuff his big, lean frame onto the seat. His ears brushed against the ceiling as he leaned back on the seat. When the wolf was settled in, he seemed like a giant in a cage two sizes too small for him. Instead of the image of a driver, Ma looked to be a prisoner under Shiro's mercy.
"Wear your seatbelts," Ma ordered.
Shiro complied.
The engine whirred to life to a soundless awakening. Ma fiddled with the gears and stepped on the accelerator. The hatchback zipped out of the parking space and, within moments, out of the parking lot and into the city streets.
The night sky didn't have any stars. What it did have, instead, were words. Bright lights and signs jutted out of one another from the passing buildings as if they competed with one another for attention. Those that didn't have brightness to their merit contended in height. Some greedy ones hogged both for themselves. As the hatchback accelerated, the lights grew in frequency, flashing a dozen colours within seconds in great successions.
Shiro's eyes grew sore the longer he looked. He needed something to distract him. Something that's preferably static.
He pulled out his phone again.
Krin replied.
Shiro shot up, only to slam his snout onto the roof of the car. Signals of pain blazed through his nerves as he felt his gums tremble in shock.
Ma asked from beside, "Did I drive too fast?"
"N-No," Shiro said, "Just me."
He rubbed his snout as his eyes regained focus. He tilted his head to the side and raised his phone's screen to his face.
Hello, I've received your messages. It is nice to talk to you again.
I've sent a link to that piano piece I've mentioned to you on Friday. You can find it below this text.
Below that text was a link to the piano piece Krin mentioned to Shiro just days ago.
The wolf panicked for a moment. He made a furtive glance towards Ma. He saw her from behind, her back straight against the seat as her hands held a firm grip over the steering wheel. He didn't know why he decided to make look at her in the first place. He squeezed his eyelids shut and took a silent, deep breath.
He pulled up his phone again. With a trembling thumb, he typed.
thsnk yiu for ssendinng the sing
thank yiu
somg
song
i will lissen to it wehn i get home
He shut his phone off the moment he sent his last text. He distanced his mind from the messages, letting it be as of then. There was no use putting his mind through the useless ordeal again. He moved his sights outside the windows again.
The lights have turned into a blurry stream, streaking past like a multicoloured river. They felt warm to his eyes. It heated the wolf's body under the cold, night air, breathing through the fur under his tracksuit. The concept of the phenomenon itself was ludicrous, but the effects were there regardless, felt through Shiro's physical body.
He stared at the lights for a little while longer.
Ma came to a red light, stopping right at the front of a crossroad.
It was then when Shiro spoke.
"Ma," he said.
“Yes?” Ma replied.
"Can we go to a store?"
"What do you want to buy?" Ma asked back.
"I want to cook," Shiro replied.
Ma looked towards Shiro for a moment. Shiro gazed back.
"For us," the wolf said, "Dinner."
Ma stared at the wolf for a moment before looking back at the traffic lights. After what felt to be both a minute and an hour, they turned green. The orange cat pulled the shifter and stepped on the accelerator, pulling away from the pack.
"Okay," she answered.
"Anything you want?" Shiro asked.
"What do you prefer?" Ma asked back.
Shiro kept silent for a while.
"Just tell me," Ma insisted.
"N-Nothing," Shiro muttered and added, “Just want to cook for you.”
“You still need to eat,” Ma said.
Shiro remained quiet.
He answered a few seconds later, “Yu-Yuba.”
"Salmon Teriyaki," Ma replied.
"So salmon?" Shiro asked.
"No," Ma said, "We get both."
Shiro turned towards Ma, eyes wide with shock as he sat up from the backrest for a moment. His surprise subsided over time. He sank back into his seat, turning his head towards the window again.
"T-Thanks, Ma."
"It's for us," Ma replied.
Recess came.
The wolf cub's been in the classroom for years, and never once has it been anything but musky. Exposed wires dangled from the ceiling, reaching down to the walls. After the incident involving a classmate and said wires, the cub has learned not to raise his hands without necessity. The grey, concrete walls held splotches and stains long-ingrained since who knew when. The pattern spread itself across the ceiling and floors, caked with a layer of dust, occasionally sprinkled with morsels of dried mud and dirt. The windows were tainted with substances the cub wouldn’t poke with a long pole. As far as he knew, they were only cleaned by the months. There were posters and drawings pasted around the walls, but they seemed more like distractions than decorations.
It didn’t seem like a classroom, but an abandoned space in a building that just so happened to have people in it. The school bell seemed to reflect that feeling. It sounded like a dying alarm, echoing its demented cry across the hallways, begging for demise or, as a lesser alternative, solitude.
The cub sat at the back of the classroom, where his height wouldn't affect anyone in the class. He was seated between a seal and a bison, both whom the cub's barely acquainted with.
Two seats in front, however, was a different story.
Two seats in front, a lynx sat. A lynx the wolf cub couldn’t be more acquainted with, at least beyond his will.
At that time, the cub’s will didn’t matter.
On both sides, the seal and the bison got up and left, joining with their respective colonies and herds for recess. They do many things. Play ball in the frozen field, smoke in the bathrooms, flirt with girls and sometimes, from hearsay the cub picked up on, committing coition. The cub learned from a young age to stay out of other people’s business. He dared not even look at another person’s way.
He waited until the class was well deserted. The ones left didn’t matter. They shared the common sentiment of blissful ignorance.
The cub gulped a big ball of saliva down his throat. He gripped the hem of his white shirt, scrunching it in his fists. He reached into his jean pockets and felt around the blunt pair of scissors he brought from home. He found it under his table while running the vacuum in his room. The plastic handle had shattered on one end. Rust ran through it like an infestation. It looked like the blade would spontaneously explode into a puff of metallic dust, much less when it’s used for its intended purpose. He scraped his nails across the rust and swiped it on his hips, leaving a faint orange trail on the back of his shirt. He stared towards his front for a while.
The cub could see the lynx’s sharp ears, drooping to the side, occasionally twitching in the cold air. The cub could see his bomber jacket, tears strewed across the surface with traces of cotton bursting from the seams. The same went for his jeans, as patches of his light fur stuck out from the rips on the denim.
He stood up, and walked up to the lynx.
The lynx wore a cast on one hand. It looked like a giant, plaster mitten covering up half his forearm. They sat on the side of his table, the palm facing the air, motionless like a sculpture. His other arm was bandaged from the fingers to the wrists. It held a pen, or rather, a pen laid across the palm whilst the fingers wrapped around the body like fragile veins. With light, careful movements, the lynx dragged his palm around, using his fingers to stabilize the pen as he wrote into a book. The words written seemed fearful, trembling all across the lines as the symbols toppled against one another.
The cub kept the scissors in his pockets.
“Vysok,” he said.
The lynx looked up for a reason, his ears catching the sound of his name. He stared towards the front for a moment, gazing towards the blackboard with absent pupils before turning to the source of the sound.
He met the cub in the eye.
He didn’t say anything for a second. He didn’t need to. His change of expression told the cub everything he could’ve gotten from the lynx.
His chest rose and fell in an erratic fashion. His pupils contracted as his eyebrows fell to a cross. His snout stretched out to the side, his breath growing louder and heavier. Through gritted teeth, he spoke.
“What do you want.”
It wasn’t a question, what the lynx gave. It was a statement; one of an unchallenged order that was undefiable.
The cub wrung his lungs into a vicious twist, keeping himself from devolving into a panting mess. He retained even breaths, though barely.
He reached into his pockets again, holding the scissors by the broken handles.
“Money,” he said.
Nothing happened for a while. The cub and the lynx stared at one another in silence, wrangling their breaths from bursting out of their snouts. The cub didn’t dare to swallow. His drool pooled over the side of his snout, almost leaking over the seams of his lips. The lynx kept his eye on the cub, the pen still laying over his bandaged palm.
After what felt to be half a minute, the lynx’s breath fell deeper.
“What?”
The cub threw everything in his mouth to the back of his throat and spoke.
“G-Give me your money.”
This time, the lynx’s reaction came much faster. By the third second after the cub’s words, the lynx’s eyelids twitched. His upper jaw lifted by a fraction, letting out a lower, grizzlier, “What?”
The cub didn’t take long to reply.
“Give me the money,” he said, “What you took from me. In double."
The lynx’s face sunk to a level of anger the cub didn't know he was conceivable. It was the shame of being ridiculed in front of one's very eyes at their lowest point. There was a dying ember in the lynx, and the cub's very words reignited the ashes like the most volatile of substances. The lynx looked up from the depths he fell, and clawed his way back to the top from sheer wrath alone.
His ears raised above his head. His tail shot upwards. His teeth ground against one another as his limbs trembled from the adrenaline shooting through his veins. The pen fell from his bandaged hand, sliding down onto the paper below. The cub could sense it. The valve was getting forced open from the lynx's unbridled rage.
The cub latched his fingers around the scissors' handle, keeping it in a firm grip within his palm.
The cub could see the steam, jetting out from the lynx's cast. The plaster rumbled atop the table as fine, unseen threads of rationality tied it down as a final bastion between the cub and the lynx's unrestrained fury.
He took a deep breath in his head.
“Tein wants it,” he said.
The cub’s words didn’t seem to reach. It bore no effect on the lynx. His emotions only grew, refusing to reside out of pride and self-respect. The pressure was welling up under his skin; the inevitable conclusion inching ever closer to reality. The cub could see it. It was coming anytime soon.
The cub raised his elbow, ready to pull the scissors out at any moment.
Then the lynx’s cast stopped shaking. His limbs returned to stagnancy, laying still on the table, frozen and lifeless.
The look on the lynx’s face changed. His expression switched from furious anger to that of melancholy, all under a slow process. The folds on his raised snout fell over his teeth. His eyes slipped off from the cub’s face as he looked towards the ground. Both his ears and tail slowly lost their vitality. They flopped downwards as if their energy were sucked out, little by little.
Something else occupied the lynx’s focus; something that was strong enough to overrun his newfound resentment. It held a vice clutch on the lynx’s eyes, forcing his sight upon its presence, not letting even an inch of leniency for the feline.
The lynx couldn’t breathe for a moment. It wasn’t until the physical stress kicked in when he was snapped out of his trance, catching onto the absence of air in his lungs.
His pupils dilated, having his sight returned to his possession. He stared towards the table, silent for a while.
He didn’t speak until a good minute later.
“Just take it,” he said.
The cub was unsure of how to act, nor what the lynx spoke of.
“My wallet’s in my left pocket. In my jacket,” the lynx said, “Take it yourself. I can’t.”
The cub hesitated. He didn’t trust the lynx enough to depend on his words. There was no telling what he’d do when the cub goes for the reach.
Then he thought of what’d happen otherwise.
His fingers clutching the scissors in his pockets, the cub reached into the lynx’s bomber jacket.
The lynx gave no signs of defiance whatsoever.
The cub pulled out a frayed, leather pouch. Flakes of fake skin dangled from the stitched rims, peeled off from the cracked surface of the wallet. He opened the pouch. The cub checked the money. There was an abundance of large sums, with smaller bills stuck in between. He tried counting it, did it twice, tried for the third time and promptly gave up. He simply stuffed his hand into the pouch and pulled out a handful of big bills. He left the pouch on the table, between the lynx's hands.
The lynx gave no reaction at all. His snout faced the ground, the shadow of his head casting over his face, shrouding it under impenetrable darkness.
The cub didn't care to pay the lynx any mind. He didn't want to stay if he didn't need to. Without a second word, he went back to his seat, his eyes making furtive glances behind, hands still in his pocket, just in case.
The lynx remained silent throughout.
Shiro learned to forget his dreams. He treated them as a separate identity in a different world, one where he had no control over himself. He didn't invite nor welcome the dreams; if they came, he simply let it be. He left his subconscious stranded with the current. He didn't care, so long as he wakes up later.
Oddly enough, the weekends he spent at Ma's were peaceful. His nights consisted of closing his eyes at night at one second and opening them to the morning at the other. Those kinds of nights, he welcomed, when his rest wasn't a compromise, but one of luxury.
As for his daytime activities, Shiro spent his second day in solitude. He forgot to ask his dormmates for their numbers, and only saw them that evening, where they met up at the alleyway with Cooper the brown hare and the limo awaited them as if they'd never left. Before that, he spent his day walking around the city with the remainder of his allowance, among other things. He hadn't asked for one since three months ago, and that was given by Ma of her own accord. She said she'd give more if he asked, as long as it's within a reasonable time. Shiro took that order to heart, and never asked for more. He never used much anyway. On that day, he spent a single figure on some eggs on toast for breakfast from a food truck, and used the change for a bottle of water at the vending machine beside it. That was the most he ever used that month. He skipped lunch, and left for Rormund right before dinner. He shared meals with Vox, who couldn't finish his takeouts, and that became the end of his day.
He woke up in the dorm than usual, despite going to sleep at the same time as always. He felt jetlag, even though he was never near an aircraft throughout his weekend. Even then, he still managed to get out of bed earlier than everyone else. He got up, did his morning routine and decided to check the balcony before checking the time. He went to the blinds and rolled them open.
The sunlight was already brimming over the landscape, yellow halos bubbling at the rims of the horizon. He didn't need to check the time. He knew he was already late. He picked up his briefcase and promptly set off.
As he made his way towards the elevator halls, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out his new phone.
There was something else Shiro did during his weekends.
He pulled out a pair of earphones; a black, straggly piece that barely constituted as a piece of electronic equipment. Ma gave it to him as part of the box that came with the phone. It was there with the warranty card and the manual, wrapped in a dusty package at a perfect state. Even so, it was as basic of an accessory as it got. It offered sound through a wire and nothing else.
Frankly, it was all Shiro needed.
He plugged the earphones in and turned his phone on.
is it old muzik?
It does sound vintage in some regards. But it was composed recently.
Didnt kmow that
know
sound like it plays on old raidio
It does take some influence from other older pieces, yes.
Like classik music?
It's not classical, but rather, romantic.
love music?
Romantic, as in the genre.
oh
How was your trip?
met my momther
spend tiem with her
time
That's kind of you. I hope you had a pleasant time with her.
did
Thank
im takking the car home now
to scchool, not home
school
see you tomorow
I'll see you at the library.
see you thare
Shiro swiped his fingers upwards, scrolling past dozens of messages before hitting the top of the page where their conversation started. There it sat; the link Krin sent to Shiro on the weekend.
He played it and dropped the phone in his pockets, letting the music run in his ears.
Melancholic remembrance was what Shiro would describe it if he had the vocabulary. As of then, he only had the vague feeling for it.
The piece played at a fast, constant pace, with heavy repetition in each verse. The melody had a conventional structure, following a cheery, almost jovial spirit to the rhythm. Yet, though elated, the notes had a bubbling undertone persisting underneath; one holding a different emotion than the main composition. There was a pensive, wistful sensation foaming around the rims of the genial tune, covering the melody with a near-omniscient presence. It felt like an image was forming amongst the symphony. You wouldn't see said image looking at the individual fragments, only when all the pieces are together will the full picture be seen.
Shiro liked it. If there was any hidden, innate meaning to the composition, the wolf didn't understand any of it. He just thought it sounded nice and dug the emotions it instilled in him. It was soft to his ears too, which was the cherry atop an already decent piece of music. It managed to make him forget his commute to the library. The path, the passing crowd, the corridors; it all happened past him in a flash. He reached the elevator hall, played the music piece and reached the library doors in an instant. He took off his earphones and stuffed them into his pockets. He pushed against the library doors.
There she sat, the dark green sheen of her hair falling over her skull, dressed in the usual sailor-like top and navy blue long skirt. She was writing something into a notebook when he stepped in, as she always did. She looked up towards Shiro, and reached under the table, pulling out her signature red board with the words already pre-written on it.
Good morning, Krin wrote.
"Morning," Shiro replied.
He walked towards his usual spot on the desk, dropping his briefcase on the floor. As he sat on his chair, Krin wrote something on her red board, but Shiro answered before she could finish.
"I listened to it," he said.
Krin looked up from the red board, staring at Shiro for a moment.
"The song," he said, "You sent me."
Krin looked back to her red board, erased everything and wrote something else.
I wanted to ask about your weekend.
"Oh."
Shiro remained silent for a while, averting his eyes to the side. He cleared his throat.
"It was fine," he said.
Krin nodded, glancing back to her red board.
She wrote something else, So how was it?
Shiro was confused for a moment, but he answered again, "It's fine.'
Krin seemed thrown off by his reply. A second passed before realization struck her and she swiftly erased the red board.
I meant the song, she wrote.
"Oh."
Shiro thought about it for a while.
"It's fine."
Krin faced Shiro for a while, her expression stagnant throughout the duration. She nodded a little and wrote.
I see.
She went back to her notebook on the table, putting the red board next to her.
Shiro caught on to the situation almost immediately and made a frantic attempt at saving it.
"I-I listened to it many times," he stuttered, "I-It was very good. I liked it. The part that goes… uh… the… uh…
"I like it. A lot. Heard it many times already. I can show you. It's on my phone."
Shiro was near wheezing when he finished. He let out a barrage of words, firing at a rapid pace as he flailed his tongue in desperation.
Krin was left stunned at Shiro's sudden verbal charge. She didn't speak, but the wolf could tell from her face that if she had the capability, it would've been a simple oh.
Krin picked up her red board and wrote.
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
The wolf heaved out a silent sigh of relief in his head. Just as he was about to turn back to his chair though, a thought hit his head like a sudden raindrop from the sky. It was enough of a surprise to have him voice it out at the very moment it came to his head.
"Thought I told you?" Shiro asked, "On the phone. When we talked."
Krin was quick to reply, though not without a pang of hesitation before she wrote.
Just wanted to make sure.
Silence paced around the two as they faced each other, Krin still holding her red board as Shiro simply sat, staring at the lizard. They weren't uncomfortable with each other, just that they were unsure of what to say towards one another.
In the end, Krin erased her board and wrote.
Shall we begin?
Shiro turned to his briefcase and pulled out his notebook.
"Sur-"
Then the door opened again.
It prompted both Shiro's and Krin's attention as they turned their heads towards the entrance. It was uncommon to find early comers to the library. Whenever there was one, they wouldn't stay for long; they'd either be there to make a return or the opposite. Krin would be the one doing all the work, while Shiro acts upon his responsibility of eliminating his presence, either ducking his face against the table or getting any requested material for the student, so long as he's out of sight.
This time, however, wasn’t such a case.
The club president stepped in instead, dressed in the usual uniform, carrying a rather large backpack behind him. The otter also carried a different expression compared to his usual. On the rare occasions he came he always brought spite on his face, mostly directed to Shiro, while giving Krin indifference.
This time, he seemed drained. If he did feel any emotions, he didn't have the strength to express them.
Krin, ever polite and respectful, shot up from her seat, bowing down to the otter before flashing the largest Good Morning she could write on her red board.
The club president barely acknowledged her. He took a furtive glance towards her before turning towards Shiro. The typical snide gaze he used to equip for the wolf was nowhere to be seen. He walked in, leaving the door open behind him.
Dove followed in, a rucksack slung to his back, hanging over his worn knuckles.
Shiro felt a crushing weight sink into his abdomen.
The Doberman was like a catalyst of chaos; a singularity where reality liquidised and poured into a spiral. The shelves and the door and the floor around him melted to a pool of washed-out grey, spinning across his presence like a vortex whose eye didn't lead to an abyss, but a state of decay where the conclusion is complete dissolution.
The effect only grew as Dove approached Shiro, following the club president from behind, his brown pupils scrutinizing his surroundings. It seemed to affect mental states too, as the wolf grew increasingly disoriented the nearer the Doberman came. He glanced back down to the desk, shutting off all attention from the Doberman's presence. His ears still picked up his footsteps. It started from a muffled distance, slowly growing louder and deeper as the aural trail came closer with each passing moment.
The footsteps stopped behind him.
Shiro kept his eyes to his front. He had enough of his senses occupied. He didn't need more. He didn't want more.
The desk was still a desk to his arms, but it turned into brown water to his eyes. The floor beneath him followed, dissolving into a dark, murky lagoon. Shiro couldn't see his chair from where he sat, but he had a good guess on what it looked like then.
He was getting swallowed whole. He could breathe, but he was unable to. He was drowning under a pressure he couldn't feel in a body of water he wasn't in. The only thing holding him up was his chest which was, frankly speaking, petrified.
Shiro fought to keep air in his lungs and colours in his eyes. He couldn't tell if it was draining from his sight or that the table had always been grey, and that he was just looking at the world through a pair of tinted lenses welded to his eyes.
Then the footsteps continued. It was preceded by a familiar click that belonged to a particular hidden door on the wall, followed by said footsteps before being cut short by the same click from before.
Silence overrode the soundscape. The desk returned to the shape of a desk. The same went with the floor. Shiro took the moment to catch his breath.
He felt a palm resting on his back. It was then when Shiro realized that he'd pushed himself away from the desk, his snout resting square against the surface as his back hunched towards the glass ceiling.
He glanced to the side, his snout just a bare inch away from Krin's skull. Her red board laid resting on the desk, face down. The permanent smile was there where it's always been, spread far across her face, stretched under her hair.
"I-" Shiro lied, "I'm fine."
Shiro sat back up against the chair, brushing his hand against the desk, finding his notebook and stationery. He found them with his fingertips, dragging them to his front. Krin reciprocated, bringing her textbooks front and centre, though her attention remained on the wolf.
Shiro's attention, on the other hand, for a lack of a better word, was irreversibly screwed.
There was no capacity within Shiro capable of keeping focus whilst withstanding the presence of that glaring reality. Not a single word from Krin's red board went into his head, and it took him two minutes to realize he'd been gripping his pen with the wrong hand. Krin didn't give up, and persisted with the good will she had in her. She repeated herself several times until repetition eroded the wolf's thick skull, and even that took considerable effort from the lizard.
There was no putting it any other way. The Doberman was behind him, with only a few inches worth of solid in between.
He knew this was coming. He knew when Leo came to the library. He knew when Romps showed him the video. He knew when he met Dove in the elevator. It was coming, no matter what Shiro could've done. That, he had come to terms with, even before the weekend arrived.
Shiro had to do something about it.
The click sounded off again after a moment, or was it a long while? Shiro couldn't tell anymore. His mind too preoccupied to keep track of anything else.
The wolf sensed two sets of footsteps coming from behind, followed by the same click again, this time muffled, as if it's been blocked off.
"We're welcoming a new member today," the club president's voice spoke. His tone was deep, but not dark. It sounded as if all levity's been siphoned from his throat. His voice was given out of pure necessity, without a single decibel to spare.
Shiro kept his eyes straight.
“I need someone to help him get familiarized with the layout of this place,” the voice said.
Shiro stayed silent.
“There’s been a complaint regarding rows C40 to H20,” the voice continued, “It’s in need of a rearrangement.
“Shiro, take him with you.”
As soon as the club president finished, Krin brought up her red board, her words prewritten for a flash response.
Shiro reached towards Krin’s scaly arms and pushed it down. She reared her head towards him, the red board still in her arms. The wolf didn’t speak. The lizard looked back down and placed the red board back on the table.
It was the first time Shiro sensed any semblance of reluctance from Krin.
“Follow me,” the wolf said. He didn’t look back. He pushed away his chair and walked out of the counter, making his way towards the shelves. A pair of footsteps chased from behind, like echoes to his steps.
Rows C40 to H20 housed scientific papers, mostly proven hypotheses and theorems; at least that's what Krin explained to him. He had next to no clue what the lizard told him. He was aware of the tags stapled on the corner of the copies, and where to put them; that was the extent of his understanding. He rarely ventured around that area, not even in passing. It was situated on the far end of the library, away from general sight behind the more popular genres of books. One wouldn't need to go there unless it was for explicit purposes. He took turns with Krin to do periodic checks on the shelves every day before closing off the library. He barely ever touched the shelves. The few times he did was to see how dusty the place got, and whether it needed cleaning or not.
Shiro checked it again, taking a light sniff over the lingering air between the shelves. It was the same as always; stale, with a light scene of mould.
Shiro figured it didn't need much cleaning after all.
He turned to his back.
There Dove stood, his hands were tucked into his pockets; his ears stiff and still, pointed to the ceiling. His glare, ever present in his eyes, hung over his expression. This time, however, the intensity was increased. He harboured no indication for any other emotions aside from pure, concentrated focus. He glared to his front without a hint of a wavering sight.
The Doberman drew out his hands, revealing white, elastic strips taped tightly across his palms and wrists, leaving only his fingers out in the open.
He balled them into fists, raising them to his cheeks.
Shiro stared at him for a moment. He glanced towards his left fist. The bandage over his ring finger was gone.
He turned towards the shelves, picking off one of the papers and showing it towards Dove.
"This is the shelf number," the wolf said, pointing towards the small note stapled to the corner of the paper, "Shows where to put this thing."
Dove froze.
"The alphabets are sections," Shiro continued, "There's a map on the counter. Tells you where's where."
The Doberman's fists remained where they stood, but his expression soured.
"The numbers are for boxes," Shiro went on, "They wrote it on the sides. On the shelves. See? Just put it in."
Dove's hands started to lower. Another emotion was starting to churn beneath the Doberman's face, turning it from a look of surprise to that of genuine rage.
Shiro asked, "Questions?"
For the first time since he stepped in, Dove spoke.
"Are you fucking stupid?"
Shiro kept a lingering eye on the Doberman. A moment passed before he let out a deep breath from his nose, stuffing the paper back on the shelf.
"That cell," Shiro spoke, "Or wall. Whatever.
"You're not the only one."
Dove kept his glare on the wolf.
"Thing is," Shiro continued.
Dove tightened the grip of his fists.
"I don't give a shit."
Dove's upper half disappeared.
It started from a familiar spark.
It's always how it started. It was a tick from a feeling, be it haste, anger, frustration, annoyance, or the will to pursue. His nerves would send those feelings throughout his body, acting as a sort of adrenaline rush, only that it's powered by a placebo more intense than the real thing, so much so that the real thing would kick in as a response, fueling the emotion further, spiralling into an endless feedback loop until one or the other dies out.
It happened again to Dove, at the very moment he heard those words from Shiro.
Dove felt that emotion dropkick his heart rate to the stratosphere in a split second. His head couldn't comprehend the feeling quick enough, letting his body take centre stage instead. It took control over his limbs, yanking open all the valves, letting everything pump the levers past his limits.
He couldn't register the sensation to form a cohesive thought. He simply let it run amok, as he always did.
His muscle memory reigned supreme, yanking his shoulders over his snout. It lunged his fist to a cross, his bones snapping at all the right angles, as they always did the many thousandth times they've done before. His knuckles streaked through the air like a comet burning through a still sky, hailing down at breakneck speed towards an image too blurry to see.
Then something grabbed the comet by its tail. It happened just as quick as the sensation that drummed his heart and boiled his blood. It stopped it dead at its track from a force so dense that a whiplash hit his fists down to the core of its bones. He felt his knuckles push under his fur through his muscles, his skin tugging over his bones. He felt his nerves scramble for a split second, touching places where they should never have been.
The sudden turn of events snapped Dove's head back to reality, waking it from the intoxicated trance it was in. It woke up between a groggy state and a panicked rush, sending all the blood back to his head. The image swam back into his sight, the edges sharpening, the colours slowly being made.
A black fist clamped over Dove's wrist.
For the sum of its visible parts, the fist was barely the size of Dove's, possibly even smaller. The fingers were long and scrawny. The knuckles stuck out like deformities, bulging from within his fur as if they were sore bruises. The Doberman could see strands of his brown fur sticking from between the grip.
The fist felt bigger than it seemed. He felt the blood congregating just under the black palm. He felt his veins razed deep in his flesh, merging with his deadened nerves. It was like a machine slamming pressure down his wrists, never letting up even an ounce of force. The tension just kept pressing and pressing, rubbing down to his bones.
Dove couldn't raise his other fist. The conclusion would just be the same. He could only fight against the strain, steadily rising with haste as the seconds passed.
He couldn't hold on for much longer.
He released his fist, giving space for his blood to run through. His fingers felt frozen. He could still move them, but they felt detached. They moved like mechanical claws in a prize machine, driven from an unseen controller in the background. The climbing pressure from the wolf’s grip stopped, but it didn't let up. It was just enough for his blood to run, but not enough for Dove to pull his wrist away.
The Doberman traced his eyes from the black fist to the arm, ending his glare on a face.
Shiro looked back at him, his ruby red feline eyes staring down from above. An expression of indifference hung over his face. He kept his arm up, his grip still strong over Dove's limp palm, now bare inches from his face.
"I've said it before," Shiro spoke, "Your cell. Go look for it yourself-"
Shiro squeezed deeper. His claws pressed into Dove's veins, forcing the Doberman's fingers further apart. His flesh began to congeal, turning hard and rigid.
"And leave me out of it," Shiro finished.
Dove's expression dropped to a grimace.
He forced his hand back into shape.
Red, hot blood began coursing through his veins, flowing in currents strong enough to quake his wrists. He started pushing against Shiro's grasp. The wolf noticed. He glanced down to his fist, watching Dove's fingers overpower his grip. They curled inwards, hugging the tape around his palm, turning into the worn-knuckled fist he once held.
"Or what," Dove growled.
Then a ringtone sounded off from the Doberman's pockets. It was a monotonous melody, made for the sole purpose of alarming anyone of its presence within range, and nothing else.
It caught both canines off guard. Their tails shot up, standing on their ends. Their ears instantly blasted upwards, with Shiro already perking ears erecting higher than usual.
The wolf took a while to trace the source of the noise. He glanced towards Dove, whose snout drooped down towards his side. Surprise was evident in his face, though he did have a hint of certainty on his expression.
With his free hand, the Doberman reached into his pocket. The ringtone was instantly muffled. He pulled out his hand once more, revealing a phone in his taped palm, the ringtone still blaring from its speakers.
Shiro let go of Dove's wrist, remaining where he was. The Doberman himself took a step back from the wolf. He swiped his thumb across his phone without looking and planted it next to his ear.
"What," he growled.
"Good morning," a smooth voice replied over the speaker, speaking loud enough for both Shiro and Dove to hear, "This call is given under orders from the Ethics Committee."
Dove's eyes widened.
As the voice continued, Shiro walked off back towards the desk. He strolled past Dove, leaving nothing but his fading scent and his footsteps.
The Doberman left the phone call to deaf ears as his eyes followed the wolf. Shiro made a turn around the shelves, making his way out to the tables, under the open light of the glass ceiling.
"... sufficient material was given to indicate your harassment towards the provider of the report," the voice continued, "However, there are minor details that are only given as claims…"
As Shiro stepped out, he was doused head to toe in the light. The rays shot through the seams of his fur, reflecting a radiant glow from his body.
"...unable to prove nor disprove the report," the voice went on, "As such we require your testimony and if possible, evidence suggesting otherwise. Failure to comply within the deadline will result in an immediate…"
From Dove's perspective, the wolf was the brightest thing in his eyes.
"...this afternoon," the voice spoke, "Further arrangements can be made. As of now, the committee requires your confirmation to comply with the given time."
Shiro stopped. He turned to his back, glancing towards the Doberman once more. His stare, feline and ruby red, lingered over Dove for a moment.
His pupils were sharp and fierce, like a pair of dark slits cutting through his eyes.
The voice asked, "Sir?"
Shiro turned back and resumed his walk, disappearing into a sharp corner and away from the Doberman's sight. He looked down at his wrist. He opened his fingers and balled them in, repeating the action multiple times.
He couldn't feel them.
The phone still in his ears, Dove spoke.
"I'll come for you," he growled, "Soon."
