[The opening scene of my Ursa Major Award-nominated story published in CLAW Volume 1 from FurPlanet. This may differ from the published version in some minor respects.]

“The Beating of Wild Hooves”

Babs took the monitor from her pocket and unfolded it to check the time. Little thicker than a piece of paper and bearing a skin that gave it the appearance of such, the monitor showed twenty-three fifty-nine in the lower right-hand corner. She was going to be late to see Meg. If only there’d been someone else to watch her sisters, she might have been spared the tardiness, and the forthcoming chagrin.
“She was going to meet them sooner or later,” was what she told herself. She stopped and turned back to look them over. They were sisters by a different father, and though largely of Scottish blackface stock, as she was, they’d inherited a white band across the dark fur on their faces, rather like permanent domino masks. Also unlike her, they let the fur on their bodies grow out eight centimeters or more from the skin, so they looked like puffs of bleached cotton with black pipe-cleaners jabbed in for arms and legs. Tonight, all four of them were decked out in hooded polyester cloaks that shone in wavy lines in the headlights of passing traffic. They were just a few hundred years behind modern fashion. The only way they could have stood out more was if they’d striped their coats with neon dyes, but it was Babs, and not her sisters, who had done this. People were beginning to stare.
“Please don’t embarrass me,” she said, then sighed. “I just want to talk to her for a few minutes, so sit in the booth, be quiet ‘til I’m done, then I’ll excuse myself and take you girls home. Alright?”
With one voice the chorus of ewes answered,
“Sister, our eldest, did swing by the diner at midnight,
Bade us to hush while she flirts with her feline girlfriend.”
Babs took a deep breath and ran her hands down her face, resigning herself.
“Are you done?”
“Baa,” bleated Agnes, largest of the triplets, who all three smiled. Little Phoebe, born a year later and forever a beat behind in their antics, followed suit as soon as she noticed.
Babs went ahead, grumbling. Her hoofcaps made muted thumps as she walked over concrete eroded to smoothness by years of transit, number untold. Fresher concrete, which is still gritty in texture, could grind hooves down to nubs in a short time if they weren’t protected in some way, but even this polished type could cause cracking and chipping. Babs was always cognizant of that fact and took care to wear only the sturdiest hoofcaps that could be had, which involved black market military “surplus” and large withdrawals from her savings. Her hooves were how she made her living, after all, so she had every reason to foot the expense. Her sisters were wearing something more akin to house slippers, which didn’t muffle their steps as much as her gear would have done, so their gait included a clip-clop that drew even more attention to their odd dress.
At least they would be inside soon. The diner’s exterior of fake chrome, now peeling off in sheets the size of hand towels, was in view. It must have been meant to look old-fashioned, like an early mobile home, when it was new, but now it was becoming a ruin. The interior was however still clean and serviceable, if well-used, and kept busy at all hours feeding clientele from the bars and clubs down the block.
Behind it all, silhouetted against a sky of low clouds lit red by the broadcast towers, stood the tremendous wall that divorced the old world from the new one, where the bones of technology’s golden age spun trash into electronics, while those without scavenged and improvised. Babs paid it no mind. It was adamant as a mountain, and as final. If there ever had been a time when she’d entertained notions of trampling it down, then it was long past.
The greeter (Dorothy was her name, and she was also a server) was a chimera of harvest mouse stock, and with her granny glasses and stubby muzzle was the kind of cute that made Babs want to muss the woman’s hair like she did with her sisters. Instead, she waved.
“Hey, guys,” Dorothy said. “Just sit anywhere.”
Music from one of the state AV broadcasts played from a wall-mounted monitor, a tinny, synthetic noise, void of expression, accompanied by a kaleidoscopic visualization in garish colors. The place smelled like grilled cheese and the air was always humid, taking into account already-high regional standards. Bab’s coat was shorn almost to the skin, with some places shaven clean to show off her tattoos. Therefore, the moisture wasn’t going to be as much of an issue for her, but her mind conjured up a vision of her siblings’ coats frizzing out as though they’d all walked, hand in hand, into an electric fence. She had to stifle a laugh. Maybe the “grim reaper” cloaks hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. At least they could use the hoods.
Babs pointed to an empty booth with a sad plastic table, its blue textured coating scratched to baldness by tens of thousands of plates.
“You guys sit here,” she said. “I’ll be over there by the window, still in your line of sight. Just give me ten minutes. Order sodas or something.” The triplets, trailing little Phoebe, slid onto the bench seats and didn’t even pretend not to be staring as she walked away. She didn’t have to look back for confirmation, she could feel the stares on her neck.
Meg had her computer out on the table, a unit the size of a bar of soap. She had a portable keyboard deployed and the output routed to her glasses; Babs could see glowing characters scroll across the insides of the lenses. She was a feline with straight, light brown hair down past her shoulder blades, with tawny fur that looked grey when in shadow. She was covered in spots like a wildcat, though Babs did not yet know her phenotype. When Babs drew near the table, she got up and the two exchanged cheek kisses before taking their respective places.
“My sisters’ theater practice ran late,” Babs offered apologetically.
“Oh,” Meg said, and smiled. “Were they the ones in the-?” Here she mimed the outlines of a cape. Babs nodded.
“Mom had to pull a double shift, so I’ve only got a few minutes. I have to get them home.”
Meg smiled, and there was enough regret in it for Babs’ heart to flutter. She wasn’t wasting her time with this person. There was a spark in her where Meg was concerned, one which threatened to kindle into open flame at every interaction.
Just then, Dorothy the harvest mouse took their drink orders, feeding them into a tablet with light, nimble fingers. Babs, being a sheep, had a wide field of vision. That was why she could watch Meg ask the mouse about non-dairy creamer, but simultaneously observe her siblings slipping from the booth she’d put them in and creeping to the seats directly across from where she and Meg were sitting.
“And what will you have, ma’am?”
Babs looked up at the waitress, then at the table where her hand had found its way to her knife and taken it up in an icepick grip. She put it back down and shot death at the triplets with her eyes.
“Seltzer and a packet of sugar.”
“What?”
“Seltzer and a packet of sugar.” She turned to the mouse. “Please.”
“Sure thing, honey…”
Meg was grinning. Babs scratched herself on the back of the head as she sometimes did, unaware.
“I don’t like to drink caffeine this late,” she explained. “And I like the way the granules feel on my tongue. Listen, I’m sorry-”
“No, it’s ok,” Meg said, smiling still, and waved at the other table. Phoebe returned both gestures with vigor. “I guess the herd instinct is pretty strong?”
“Yeah,” Babs said, covering the left side of her face with her hand. “In a sheep home, everybody drifts around the house together as people need to take care of things. Nobody stays out of line of sight for long, so privacy isn’t…”
Here she caught a flavor of anxiety she’d tasted before: the awareness that she was saying the sort of thing that chases off prospective love interests. Her ears drooped, only to pop back up when Meg reached across the table and put her hand over hers.
“I see,” she said, and grinned reassuringly, her green eyes flashing like gems. “But I already know you’re not like other ewes.”
“No,” Babs admitted, voice flat. “I’m not.” The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in spite of her sour mood. In fact, she might have forgotten her anxieties entirely had not the dog chosen that moment to interrupt.
He was slight like a fox or a small coyote, but his muzzle was too pointy to be either of those. He must have been a jackal, she decided, and not much more than a juvenile. His pants were beige where they weren’t black with grime, and he sported a leather jacket with so many cracks and holes it looked like he might have snatched it off a drive-by victim.
Chimeras of herbivorous phenotypes often found leather off-putting, but not Babs. She was one of only a few who would wear it, and did so on the regular. So, it couldn’t have been that which bothered her about this person. It must have been something in the way he carried himself, the hint of mockery behind his smile, or the stink of tobacco and beer rolling off of him. Whatever it was, he put her on edge, every nerve in her body tight and ready.
“You girls want to have a threesome?”
Meg clapped a hand over her mouth, lips forming words, though none got through her fingers.
“Dude!” Babs snapped. “What the hell? No, hell no.”
“Oh, please,” the jackal said. “Don’t even try to tell me you two don’t like cock.”
Babs was on her hooves, fists balled up at her sides. She wasn’t a big ewe, but she was a full head taller than this guy. With her close-cropped wool and sleeveless shirt, it was not difficult to make out the cords of her muscles straining beneath her skin, taut as guitar strings. The jackal could, apparently. He cowered backwards and turned away, muttering. She fixed her eyes on him until he was out the door, until she felt Meg’s hand on hers. Only then did she realize that her date had been speaking for some seconds and she hadn’t heard a word.
“Babs? Hun?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She sat back down. Meg regarded her with pert ears and a scrunched mouth.
“You were about to hit that guy.”
Babs sighed. “Yeah.”
“Are you always so quick to fight?”
The fire was hot in Bab’s stomach, it wasn’t until she saw Meg’s frown that it was quenched.
“No, I-“ She stammered, chasing the right words. “Look, that guy was an asshole.” She buried her face in her hands, tormented by a fusion of shame, relief and unspent anger. Time passed, and Meg pried one of the hands away from her face, entwining their fingers.
“It’s ok,” she said. “I was just scared because I never saw you like that before. I mean, I know what you do for a living, but…”
Babs grinned ruefully. They’d discussed her career, and while Meg was inscrutable as any cat, Babs had learned to read her well enough to know that was going to be a point of contention in the future.
Just then, she snuck a glance at her sisters and noticed the quartet of Agnes, Sophie, Lydia and Phoebe had picked up a new herd-mate, a lamb who shared their “mask” facial marking. That would be Agatha, her cousin. She was holding a lollypop in one hand while Phoebe gave her a drink of soda.
“Oh, lord, they’re multiplying.”
Meg turned to look at what Babs had seen. Her eyes went wide and Babs had to laugh.
“We should probably get out of here. I need to get them home, and if my aunt’s herd sees us they’ll block us in.”