Chapter Text
>Paul pulled at the collar around his neck. He was uncomfortable. There were too many people at the mall. Of course, all the malls he went to as a kid were pretty empty. And abandoned. But somehow, it was even more unnerving that they were almost all anthros.
>He moved his little cart along the walkway like a little shield between him and everyone else. But as afraid as he was, he wasn't going to let anything stop his mission. He wanted a gift for his wife before she went to the hospital; and there was no chance that he'd put it off any longer. It'd been a whole year since she told him she was pregnant, so the baby had to be due soon, right? How long does pregnancy last for elephants anyway?
>When he first met Debbie at the assignment office, he thought he was going to die. A woman this big might not even crush him on purpose, but just by accident. But he knew better than trying to run, time in the pens taught him that if nothing else.
>Paul decided to stop at the chocolatier's for a gift; she loved her sweets. But before getting there, he noticed a kid's toy store and thought he ought to look for what gifts he'd get one day for their child, or children? She refused the ultrasounds, she wanted a surprise. He chuckled at the memory, the nurses really didn't like her decision. They said it was unfair and would keep the maternity ward statistics in the dark. Of course, it was probably just them wanting to snoop and see if it was a human boy or an anthro girl. But it wasn't their choice and Debbie didn't care about the government supplementary income for mothers expecting boys. With her cushy job, it's not like they needed the extra money.
>Paul strode down the aisles of the toy store. There were far more men here, mostly with their anthro daughters, but it was a welcome change of pace.
>He started where all the infancy toys were, the shelves practically overflowing with products. He thought about what his father would say, back at the end of the before times during the wars. How every store was empty and all the shelves were bare. How the cities had nothing for them but danger. Paul guessed it would have made sense to pack up and leave for the wild-lands back then. It didn't help him growing up though.
>He picked up a toy. It looked like it was some kind of mobile, but heavy-duty. He swore if he hit the wall, it'd make a hole into the adjacent store. He picked up another toy. Some kind of rubbery sound box with buttons to push. He pressed a few and noises came out: a tiger roar, a dog woof, and a human yelp. Odd. He never had something like that growing up. But he assumed kids needed exposure to lots of things to grow up right, and then set it back down.
>He wheeled to the next aisle. He picked up a toy for slightly older children; it looked like it was marketed for little boys. A dollhouse with little anthro women and human men inside. There was a tiny kitchen full of men busily working away preparing food. Whole roast feral chickens, baked feral turkeys, and whole trays of sushi. In the rest of the house, anthro women trotted around in suits, gowns, and sports jerseys doing... Paul couldn't really tell. They were probably meant to be working in a separately sold office playset. He set down the dollhouse and picked up a toy with anthro girls all over the cover. It was a little league baseball set. A small tiger hit a home run in the package's picture. He remembered when his father would play sports with him on their farm in the wild-lands. He missed not being able to get out and run like that. "It isn't right for a man to do such things, to risk injury like that" his pen counselors told him.
>He cried for a long time after that. A tear slipped from his eye and hit the baseball kit. He thought, hopefully, his wife might let him teach their daughter, if they had one. He reluctantly set the sports gear down and left the aisle, passing the rows and rows of dolls of various anthro girls.
>The next aisle had toys for slightly older children. For boys, there were coloring sets, more dolls of popular characters from movies, and friendship bracelet sets. For girls, there were science experiment kits and kinetic dolls. 'Oh whoops,' he mentally corrected himself, 'action figures'.
>But one toy at the bottom caught his eye. It was the last one. Must be a popular toy. It felt like a stuffed doll, but a rather large one, about three feet tall. It looked like a generic human boy, but that wasn't what concerned him. The whole toy, with the presumable exception of the stuffing itself, was made of thick coarse rope and rawhide. He turned it over and looked at the tag. "Little Bill: The Chewable boyfriend. Made tough for growing girls ages 11 - 16. Let them learn with him first; he ain't fragile!" Paul's stomach turned. This is what's popular for girls? Ragdoll humies?
>A paw gently pushed his shoulder. "Hey, buddy" a frustrated voice called. Paul jumped nearly a foot. The voice belonged to some store worker, a tigress. "If you're not buying that, I need that toy for an online order. Some lady's kid keeps chewing through them, but won't buy the extra tough edition, so she needs another." Paul kept his distance and handed the toy to her, "I... I didn't want it anyway" he said dejectedly.
>Paul left for the next aisle. City life in the anthrostate kept surprising him. How different things were compared to the farm.
>But then he came across a toy that looked familiar. The shelf was full of it, a poor seller. It was a metal dart game, for older girls, of course, to be played outside. The kid was supposed to throw the dart straight up in the air and hold a ring out to have it fall back through. His dad loved dangerous games like that, kept his own dartboard set back at the farm. He remembered his father's lessons on the game, "Gotta keep a balanced grip. You want power, but not too much. That'll just lead to shitty aim and you'll never get bullseyes like that." Paul set the darts down. These ones were as big as his hands. An excess. Too dangerous even for his father's liking. He didn't see many toys marketed to older boys, but there were some plastic building sets of flowers and houses that had some pictures of them in the advertisements.
>He moved to the last row and picked up one more toy. It was the biggest yet, a large foam dart machine gun. It was bulky and as large as his torso. "20 BAJILLION ROUNDS" the box screamed. A water buffalo on the cover held it in a heroic 'Rambo-style' pose, spraying down imaginary shadowy anthrostate enemies. He looked at its shelf. Empty. Another best seller. He looked back at the woman on the packaging. She wore a torn crop top and a single bandolier. Anthrostate soldiers don't look like that in person, he remembered. They wear lots of gear and heavy combat boots.
* * *
>He remembered the day a squad of them arrived on the farm, the day he had to leave forever. From his bedroom, he saw them sprint from the tree line toward the home. He could still hear the gunfire from his father downstairs; hitting the rifle against a wall when it jammed. "Fuckin useless! Don't know why I worked so hard to get this damn thing. Ugh! It ain't slowin them down!" He could feel his mother's soft human arms protectively hold him. He could hear the crash of glass and wood as four soldiers broke into the home. His father sprinted up to his bedroom doorway, gun in hand. "I've got four bullets left," he mimed with his hands. "Come out with your hands up!" shouted a soldier, "You are in violation of anthrostate law. If you come peacefully, you and your son will be unharmed." Father let off another round, "And what about my wife?" Combat boots below suddenly stopped. "She'll be submitted for... processing" the voice called, unsure how to mask the truth. "Three bullets, just enough" father signed. Father held him and Mom in arm, gun pressed in hand. He was shaking, and crying. "I can do it. I can do it" he said softly to himself with his most convincing voice. The boots downstairs picked up his whisper and rushed, but they couldn't reach the room before Mama was already dead. The soldiers arrived and one aimed her rifle into the room. Paul could feel the metal pressed against his head, could feel it shake with each of his father's ragged breaths. "Damn you, you freaks! You were supposed to get help, get treated for your disease. Why?! Why did you turn the whole world upside-down?!" he screamed in frustration. The soldier growled, "Step away from the boy, sir." "You want my little boy? My only boy? I know you would've taken my wife, made her one of you freaks! But I'm not letting you! I'm not letting you take them!!" He cried and wiped a tear from his eye. The soldier made a small step forward. His father got quiet, "We're keeping our humanit--"
>BANG.
"Oope, sowrry."
>A fox woman chuckled. Paul was deathly still. He didn't even notice how close her runaway shopping cart came to hitting him, crashing into the shelving instead. He was still there at the farm, holding his father's dead body. He dropped it to the floor, the foam gun making a loud thud against the wood floor. "I need to go," Paul said abruptly.
>Paul didn't notice the crowd watching him exit the store. He was used to it now, the stares, the memories. Or… at least he thought he was.
>His exit counselor at the pens said he should try and slowly work through those, preferably with a state licensed therapist. But after the last one… he'd rather push it all down. Keep it to himself. Live in the moment, the here and now. And right now, he just wanted to find a gift for his pregnant wife.
>The chocolatier had just the right stuff. Plenty of fruit dipped chocolate. And the store itself was pleasant too; far less for the mind to wander on.
>Walking back, a sound caught Paul's attention in his troubled stupor. It was a display TV in the window of an electronics shop. Displayed was some re-play of a concert over on the west coast. Some up and coming popstar. Raytan? Rayband? Whatever. The name didn’t really feel that important. What did though, was the fact that this 'rayban' was a human man.
>'What if Debbie has a boy?' he thought to himself. He stopped at the window and watched the young man sing slowly in a chair on stage. It surprised Paul how little clothing this popstar had on, a crop top with decorative feathers and stylish jeans. Doubly surprising considering the tone of this song. But, he thought, it was probably some performance stunt for the other songs, something to rile his fans up even more. He stood for a little while, absorbed in the melody.
>He began to wonder. To wonder if this boy was happy, doing the things he does, leading the life he leads, performing for these... anthros, living in this kind of world. He wondered what his parents thought when he was born, if they knew how they would take care of him in this world. Paul wondered if his son could be happy, living in this world with so few choices and so many dangers. The thought troubled him.
>As Paul left the window to walk back to the bus stop home, the pop star's song looped like a record in his ear.
"And I wear all your old clothes
Your polo sweater
I dream of another you
One who would never
Never leave me alone to pick up the pieces
Daddy to hold me
That's what I needed
So why'd you have to go?
Why'd you have to go?
Why'd you have to go?
Son to father, son to father
I don't know you, but I still want to
Son to father, son to father
Tell me the truth, did you ever love me?
'Cause these are, these are
The confessions of a broken heart
Of a broken heart"
[END]