Riftspace P2: Through the Glass by BrigantineW < Submission

Keywords male 1235880, canine 199935, wolf 198852, feline 157162, male/male 131170, canid 30660, sfw 30333, story 14691, romance 9332, space 8080, felid 7678, adventure 6004, sci-fi 4839, jaguar 3325, story progression 2092, story series 2032

—
Hollin
—

Oh, god.

Ow, ow, motherfucking OW.

I'm waking up slowly, and my head is killing me, which means at some point I passed out. I remember being handcuffed, then pulled off my ship, and bolted to a chair. Then—

Nothing. Everything goes black, and I'm just... here. I crack open my eyes a hair, but crash them shut almost immediately. It's bright—way, way too bright—in here.

Wherever the fuck 'here' is.

There are muffled sounds nearby. Someone talking, maybe? If they are, it's either a language I don't understand, or they're too far away to hear. My dry tongue flicks out to moisten my similarly parched lips, and I taste the air. Cold, crisp, and refreshing, a world apart from the recirculated crap in my ship. Every limb of my body is heavy and stiff, but I manage a groan and flop my arm over my eyes to block out the too-bright light permeating absolutely everywhere right now.

When I move, soft fabric slips over my limbs. Did they... put a blanket on me?

I can't decide if that's creepy or sweet, but I guess they don't want to eat me after all?

"Good morning, sunshine!"

I jolt, my entire body twitching as Desen's voice blasts in my head. "Desen, what the actual fuck?" I whine.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you finally awake! You've been out for half a day, based on my internal chronometer. So happy you're catching up on your sleep!" A pause. "I think. Did you program me to experience happiness?"

I didn't do much programming at all. My arm slips off my face and I cautiously blink open my eyes, letting them adjust. Everything's hazy, with rows of lights glaring down at me from their high perches on the ceiling of wherever-I-am. "Can you not talk for a while? I feel like shit."

"You always do wake up slowly." Desen pauses a moment, then chirps, "Would you an endorphin spike help you up?"

"What?" I blink, a bit of worry seeping into my gut as the question sinks in. "Uh, Desen, are you saying you can control my autonomic functions?"

"Yes!"

I wait for an explanation, but Desen's gone silent. I feel him in my head, if I focus a little, and I think he's distracted by something now. Hopefully, my AI isn't rewiring anything in there. God knows I have enough problems at the moment.

But the silver lining is that I'm wide awake after that, although with a splitting headache. I squint until my eyes adjust and start taking stock of my surroundings.

I'm lying, sitting up, in some sort of patient bed. Not dissimilar to what we have in our medical facilities, but it's enormous. Desen's onboard functionality lets me do some quick measurements and calculations, and I estimate an eight- to nine-foot maximum height. There's no way to approximate a max weight without further inspection, but whatever creatures this thing holds are built freaking massive. I'm practically drowning in it, my tiny five-six frame looking comically small in comparison. And if they don't have smaller beds that fit me readily available, that means most of their population is this size.

Gulp.

I was right, though. A loose, white blanket made of tightly woven fibers is swamping me in fabric. I rub it between my fingers, reveling in the softness. Are these natural? No, it can't be. Not in the middle of space. No way.

Sliding it off, I kick over the side of the bed. A sort of hospital gown has replaced my old work suit, but it closes with clasps at the front instead of ties in the back. It's made of the same soft, breathable fabric as the blanket, and also free from oil, grease, and burn holes, so honestly, it's kind of an upgrade. My feet pad against polished concrete—yikes. Cold floor. and I scan the room.

It sure looks like a hospital. Surgical trays, but no implements to be seen. Cupboards and a big sink on one wall. I try to open them, but they're sealed up tight. A bucket and stool lurk behind a curtain in the corner, which, given the lack of any other furniture in here, is probably for... oh, gross.

Well, we'll just put that off as long as we can.

Three concrete walls and a matching roof. Polished, but not painted. One blacked-out dome on the ceiling, which is almost certainly a hidden camera bank. A slot next to the sink might be for food.

The remaining wall is solid glass - I barely notice my own reflection in the harsh lighting flooding the room. It's quite thick from the looks of it, and I pad closer to get a better view. One claw taps against it - yup, that's not going anywhere.

Why do I feel like I'm in a zoo?

Hah. Cool. Exhibit A: Feline, mildly disoriented, prone to melancholy.

I take a few steps back from the barrier, wondering how I might escape, when I finally actually look outside the glass, and...

Oh my God.

Is this real?

Impossible. There's no way we're planetside! There isn't a single habitable planet hiding in this sector, I'm sure of it! But here we are anyway: a dirt path framed with grass and little white and yellow flowers waves in a breeze I can't sense from in here. The sky is blue, and a bright star hovers inside it. There's an honest-to-God tree, and an honest-to-God bird flies over and perches in the branches.

No way this is a ship. Absolutely not..

How is this possible? Was my data wrong, somehow? Where the hell am I?

...

I have to know.

I've spent three centuries rotting in a metal box.

I have to KNOW!

My toeclaws click, trying to dig into the concrete for added purchase as my feet move without permission. Palm outstretched, I race to touch the beauty outside. I need the dirt under my claws. I want to make a flower chain and wear it like a child. I want to laugh for the first time in an eternity -

PWONG!

Oh, right. There's still glass there.

My head throbs worse than ever as I ricochet off the barrier and land hard on my butt. Which also hurts. Zoo: 1, Hollin: 0.

I'm just rubbing my temples and feeling like a total idiot when I hear a low rumble.

"Ah, Hollin?" my brain buddy says, voice strangely stilted.

"Not now, Desen."

He goes silent again as I stretch. The rumble hasn't stopped, either - in fact, it's getting louder.

What is that? Damn, it's vibrating my fucking bones!

So, I do what any self-respecting scientist would do. I gather evidence. It, uh, doesn't take long, though. When I raise my eyes, I see a massive bipedal wolf-man on the other side of the glass.

Oh, of course. The one from the ship. The one who didn't shoot me, but chose handcuffs instead.

Hackles up, fur puffed out, snarling and showing all his teeth.

I scramble back, paw slipping as I almost fall over myself.

His pointy, pointy teeth.

Yeah. Wolf-man's pissed.

Well, he already spared me once. Maybe this time he'll finish the job.

—
Cavan
—

It's been hours since they sedated the subject.

I'm just standing here, rifle slung over my shoulder, watching a two-legged cat sleep. He's restless, which I think means he might be waking. His breathing picked up a few minutes ago, and the prisoner's getting pretty twitchy under that blanket. Command said to alert them the second he woke up.

I haven't decided if I hope he never does.

The feline starts, and I watch as he flinches and flings an arm over his eyes. That... wasn't my call. Captain Grimm, who was waiting for us back on the cruiser, got one look at the prisoner and made a snap decision to sedate. Something about him—his markings, his form, his otherness—made Grimm panic when he saw that cat, eyes white around the edges as he recoiled.

I still don't think he's dangerous. Not safe, but not dangerous, and orders are orders. The Captain used one of our medical tranqs, but their dosage is for canids, not tiny little cat men. It's a miracle he's waking up this soon, honestly.

Should I have stopped him? If anything happens to it...

The feline struggled upright, blinking and squinting while holding his head.

... him. If anything happens to him, it'll never make it into Grimm's report.

I paged Command, but their response was, "Continue to observe. Notify of any changes." Apparently, there was a whole political nightmare over who took jurisdiction over the prisoner. Looks like I'm the highest-ranking babysitter on the Ark.

Great.

Fine. So, I observe. The feline's standing, but just barely, legs shaking even under his trivial weight. It's hard to believe he's so much smaller than us; I've got to be at least three feet taller than him, and the cat's so skinny I could probably pick him up in one hand and toss him like a javelin. His short fur is sleek and shiny, though, with an orange-to-yellow-to-white gradient and these deep black contrasting spots all over his body. I've never seen anything like it, except in ancient history books.

He's so strange. And...

Well... it's a little beautiful, too.

He's exotic, in a way I don't have words to say.

He's walking across the cell now. Heads over to the sink. My paw inches towards my rifle when I see him attempt to get into the supply cupboards, but he doesn't try very hard, so I relax a bit. Long, skinny fingers trace over the metal trays and stands that we left after the squad medic refused to examine him. But when he comes to the bucket and curtain, he visibly recoils. Horror? Shock?

Despair?

For the first time since we captured him, a pang of guilt washes over me. He doesn't know it yet, but command put him in a fucking zoo. Sure, it's sterile. Secured, to prevent pathogens from spreading. But come on. We're really going to take the first alien life form we see that isn't trying to destroy us and make it shit in a bucket?

This is where you keep a caged animal.

Not a person.

Oh. He's wandered up to the glass now. Taps on it, but doesn't seem to be trying to escape this time, either. Just... exploring. The cat takes a few steps back, and pauses, before his eyes widen from little slits to wide portals. His entire body tenses, and then -

"Fuck!" I yell, hand flying to my rifle as he dashes at the only barrier between him and the world I'm sworn to protect. I meet him there, but he just bounces off it - hard, if the way the sound echoes means anything - and lands on his backside. I almost wince with him. That looked painful.

But I have to keep my guard up. A growl rises in my throat, a warning and a threat that doesn't need a language to be understood. The prisoner is shaking his head, and I can hear a groan coming through the glass. But when he looks up at me, sees my face...

I'd recognize that face anywhere.

That. That's fear.

He's so, so afraid.

His pupils are fully blown now, and the prisoner's trembling like a newborn pup. The whites of his eyes run all the way around, and the man's scooting away from me. But not far; he only makes it a foot or so before his palm slips on the polished floor and he wobbles. Nearly falls over, but catches himself, and then just sags. Shoulders slumped, whiskers drooping, the little man almost looks...

Defeated.

Is it entirely weird that I want to hug him?

I shake myself all over, my growling long since stopped. The little feline is pointing now.

At me?

No. Whatever it is, it's out here. I curl my lip in a snarl again, and for emphasis, I shake my head. "You're not getting out of here, prisoner."

But he presses on. Points more urgently, then mimics plucking an object from the ground.

Did he drop something? I thought I took everything off him... I scan around and shake my head again.

That tiny feline is something else. He's inching closer; almost, but not quite, touching the glass. Sure, he's still shrunk in on himself, looking impossibly smaller than before, but with a trembling paw he repeats the gesture. This time, he brings the imaginary object to his nose and sniffs delicately.

My brain chugs along.

This is important to him, whatever it is. Enough that he closed the distance when he's clearly terrified of me. He keeps picking something up, and sniffing, over and over. Is he broken? Why is he—

Oh.

Oh, gods above, I'm an idiot.

My feline ward is picking a flower. That's what he's pointing at. The little flowers on the walkway.

Now that I think about it, how long had he been on that piece of scrap, anyway?

He saw a flower, and got so excited, he forgot we'd put him in a cage.

And somewhere inside my chest, something immensely tiny twinges, and my eyes sting.

He's a kid. He's not a Harrow, not even a threat.

A kid with a thing for plants.

...

No.

That man's a prisoner, Cavan. You have to remember that.

...

But gods, he's so small...

—
Hollin
—

"Please don't kill me," I whisper, arms wrapped around and gripping my shoulders. I can tell he sees my lips move, but of course, he can't know what I'm saying. His eyes stay glued to me as I sit on the cold, hard floor of my cell. My shaking isn't getting better, either, and my stomach clenches in tight knots as my jailor glares at me from his lofty vantage point. That paw still gripping the rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Please don't kill me," I say again, and a hot tear runs down my cheek. "I just wanted to see the flowers."

There's a long moment where neither of us move. My eyes are burning, but I can't turn away, can't even blink. The wolf-man's jaw is tight, clenching as his gaze bores holes into me, straight through me.

Something shifts. Almost imperceptibly; I just barely catch the way his shoulders relax the tiniest bit, and the quick puff of breath he lets out.

The wolf's paw twitches.

Slips off his rifle.

Lands at his side.

He's moving at a snail's pace, hitting one knee at a speed that would've made my desk-jockey legs shake with exertion. Is he trying to keep me calm? No, that's impossible. He was ready to bite into me not two minutes ago.

But it is calming me down. My incessant quaking slows to a small series of tremors, though my arms still clamp onto my shoulders. His knee finally hits the grass, and he glances down for a split second.

And the wolf grabs a single tiny, white flower between his claws.

Snaps it off.

And brings it up to eye level. Well, my eye-level. It's just level with the bottom of his chest.

His broad, bulging bulwark of a chest.

God, that man could snap me in half.

My jailor goes stock-still, tension coiled in his frame, but his eyes are only cautious now, no longer hostile. Mirroring his speed, I stay low, crawling toward the bloom he's holding out to me.

So beautiful.

I'm close enough that my breath is fogging the glass as I study his offering. It's remarkably similar to flowers on our home planet, resembling a tulip, but much, much smaller, and with vivid violet stamens instead of the normal yellow.

I wonder what it smells like.

We linger there for a while. He doesn't move an inch, but for the breeze ruffling his fur; I'd think he was a particularly angry stuffed toy if I didn't know any better. But for a moment, there's the thinnest thread of connection forming between us.

If I'm lucky, they won't kill me after all.

Shouting comes from somewhere nearby. I can't hear what's being said, couldn't understand the language anyway if I could, but whoever it is caused my captor to stiffen. He shoots to his feet, the flower getting crushed in his suddenly clenched fist as he snaps to attention.

Well, moment's over, I guess. But I'm barely shaking anymore.

As I stand, dusting off my bare knees, a much, much smaller male wolf in a white lab coat rounds the corner at a dead run. Doc—that's what we're calling him now—crashes right into my jailor, who doesn't move an inch. Doesn't even so much as rock back, and the small one (smaller than Mr. Warden, anyway. I'm still a good foot-and-a-half shorter than the new guy) is jumping up and down with a big grin on his face.

It'd be cute if it weren't for all the teeth.

They look pretty similar. Like, really similar. Is that speciesist? Not all wolves and all that? But something about the way Doc is looking at my captor tells me I'm not far off the mark there.

It's heartwarming for a whole two seconds before a portly german shepherd wearing clothes that match my warden's rounds the corner.

He's huffing and puffing and clearly trying to run but failing. Though his biceps are as big as my head, so when he shoves past the wolves and slams a fist against the glass, I flinch and jump back.

A-a-and we're basically vibrating now. Thank you, sympathetic nervous system.

The shepherd starts barking at me. Sort of, anyway. It's definitely a language, and it doesn't take a sociologist to know the man is utterly and completely pissed at me. Warden and Doc flank him on either side - the small wolf is waving his paws and raising his voice, but he looks pretty scared, too.

My jailor is just staring. Again. But he's not going for his gun, which has to be a good sign.

Right?

Shepherd is snarling at Doc and jabbing a finger in my direction, but he seems to calm down. Or at least, he's quieter now. The pair are talking animatedly, with wide, sweeping gestures, pointed fingers, and occasionally raised fists. The angry one hasn't eaten Doc yet, which must mean Doc's important, because that dog could snap him like a twig. But Tubby's visibly restraining himself from touching the little wolf. And he's... pouting?

"Good news!" Desen shrieks, which nearly causes me to jump out of my fur. "I've downloaded their language from local servers! Shall I upload the patch to memory?"

"Wha - yes! For God's sake, yes!" I bark out angrily.

That was a mistake, because all the canids twitch. Doc flinches and steps back, Shepherd's paw flies to a shiny gun holstered in his belt, and Warden's paw inches towards his rifle, though it stops halfway when I bring my palms up in a placating gesture.

"Upload complete!"

The patch kicks in mid-sentence. " - don't even know if it's intelligent! We should just put it down and let Kearne autopsy whatever's left!" Shepherd growls.

That hits me like a knee to the gut. I drop to my knees, the blood draining from my face as my hands and legs go numb.

"I think he's intelligent," Warden says. "Probably. Seems like he's responding to basic gestures, at least, though who knows if he can actually speak."

Doc chimes in. "If it communicates, it can't know our language! We should try to communicate with it! I won't authorize anyone killing the first non-Harrow alien life form we've encountered." He claps his paws together and rubs them. "Think of the scientific progress!"

I shift uncomfortably at the gleam in Doc's eyes when he says that last bit. They argue back and forth on the merits of murdering me, dissecting me, or just letting me live out my days in captivity like an actual zoo animal. At some point, the existential dread of having three aliens discuss my grisly and untimely demise smooths out into a moderate undercurrent of stress, and I'm able to stand again.

It's only a few more minutes before Doc - He's Kearne, I've gathered - glances over at me and stares. I stare back, and his eyes go wide.

"Oh," he breathes, and the other two fall silent to stare at him. "Gentlemen, it is intelligent!"

"What?" Shepherd - Captain Grimm, my jailor called him - asks gruffly. "How can you tell?"

Warden looks at me again. Is it just me, or is that a ghost of a smile on his lips? "It's `him'. Not `it'."

"You two have lost your minds! That thing's a Harrow!"

"I really don't think so," Kearne murmurs. He steps up and places a paw flat on the glass. "I've been watching him for a while now. He's following our conversations." He clears his throat and speaks cautiously. And slowly. So, so slowly. "Can you... understand us?"

I wait a moment. Do I want to let them in on this? Or should I keep it a secret?

No, no secrets. They wanted to kill you before they knew. What worse could they do after?

So, I nod. Once, twice. Then I step forward and place my paw on the glass opposite Kearne's. His paw is so much bigger than mine, even though he's the smallest canid I've seen yet.

"Ah," he whispers again. "How marvelous..."

Captain Grimm snaps to attention, his furious eyes boring into me as he starts rapid-firing questions at me. "Who are you?!" "What are you?!" "Where did you come from?" "How did you slip past our sensors?" "This is a secure sector, damnit!"

Yeah, so that last one wasn't a question, but still. I'm about to crack under the pressure from the massive shepherd's inquisition, but I fight to steady myself with a deep breath.

Or two.

And a third for luck. I step back from the glass and point to my Warden, who I haven't learned the name of yet. "Him."

"What?!" Grimm shouts. "What do you want with him? I swear to all the gods I'll rip your head off if you so much as twitch in his direction, you little—"

"I'll talk to him," I say, mouth stumbling over words I understand but have never spoken. Even I'm surprised at how steady my voice is - it barely cracks at all. I give the hulking wolf a small, shaky smile. "Him, and only him. He doesn't want to kill me, and he was the first to treat me as a person instead of a... a thing." Two steps to my right, and I'm standing in front of the massive wolf, who looks like I just slapped him with a cold, wet fish.

My eyes remain fixed on him as my smile softens. I'm suddenly shy? Huh. Imagine that.

"I'll talk to the man who showed a prisoner a beautiful flower."

—
Cavan
—

Captain Grimm is fighting with my younger brother. I wish I could say this was a surprise, but they've butted heads frequently in the past, particularly after my accident. Kearne is clearly winning—the mayor chose him to be the head of xeno-research. And that makes sense. After all, he's earned his reputation as the most talented doctor and surgeon on the Ark.

I can see my brother's convincing the Captain to spare the feline's life, at least for now. Grimm's pouting, which he swears he doesn't do, but the entire troop knows that when he's pouting, you're about to win.

Behind the glass, the prisoner yells, too.

We all jump. It's the loudest I've ever heard him, and although it sounds like words, I can't understand the language. Kearne flinches and takes a step back. Grimm goes on high alert.

And my paw is halfway to my rifle before I even realize I've moved.

But I freeze there, because the prisoner's palms are raised in front of himself, shoulders tense but hunched, head slightly bowed.

He's not charging again.

This isn't an attack.

Is he... surrendering?

My arms drop to my sides as Captain Grimm and my brother go at it. I occasionally jump in, trying to get Grimm to see that we don't have to kill the poor thing - it's hardly a threat at all - when Kearne raises a paw and shushes us.

"Oh," he says, voice soft and wondering. "Gentlemen, it is intelligent!"

Three pairs of eyes snap to the little feline behind the glass. There's a bit more conversation, in hushed, awed tones from Kerne and terse, angry barks from Grimm. I dimly recall reminding them that this is a `him', not an `it'. Then Kearne's pressing his paw to the wall and asking the prisoner if he understands us.

And when his head nods slowly, I can see the fear and hesitation written all over his feline face. Just how much of our conversation did he hear? Grimm's yelling again. I'm about to tell him to shut the fuck up when the prisoner points at me.

"Him."

My blood runs cold as my body stiffens. Grim yells some more, but this time, the prisoner stands his ground - even though I can see he's still shaking.

"Him. I'll talk to him."

And I'm momentarily lost in his words. They're clumsy, like he's not sure how the words are supposed to fit in his mouth. But gods, this tiny cat-man sounds... I can't describe it. I'm not a poet, gods-damn it! But every syllable he makes is smooth, rounded. And his voice is hoarse, but with a pleasant lilt to it.

It almost sounds like music.

The prisoner's in front of me now. He's barely shaking at all, and heaven above help me, is that a smile on his face? Is he smiling... at me?!

"I'll talk to the man who showed a prisoner a beautiful flower," he says, and it's so gentle I nearly give in to the urge to wrap him in a blanket and tuck him somewhere cozy.

He's a prisoner, Cavan!

Remember that!

Still. Me! Why me?! I had him bagged, tagged, stuffed in a glass-and-concrete casket, and he wants to talk to me?! I haven't earned this! Why would he—

Ah. The prisoner - my prisoner - is already sinking down, sitting on his knees, and looks up at me like he trusts me.

How could he trust a man with a gun who's done nothing but hurt him since they met?

Well, I don't know what else command expected me to do.

I planted my ass in the dirt, legs sprawled out in front of me, left arm propped up on my knee, gun tossed to the side. The prosthetics still get a little heavy sometimes, so it's honestly a relief to sit after the hours I've spent guarding the... prisoner...

I don't even know his name.

Before I can ask, the feline shifts uncomfortably, grimacing and rubbing his knees. Without taking my eyes off him, I call out to Grimm. "Captain? Go get the prisoner a stool."

There's silence for a beat or two. Then Kearne chokes delightedly while Grimm splutters. "Y-You can't give me orders, Lieutenant! You've got ten seconds to apologize and take that shit back, or else I'll—"

"Now," I say again. And the gratitude I see radiating from the prisoner's face - strange, how similar our facial expressions are - makes my stomach do a flip as it fills with a warmth that drives away any doubt that I'm doing the right thing. "Now, sir."

Grimm coughs and stalks off, muttering to himself about court marshals and insubordination. I wait till he's out of earshot before I let myself sag.

"Okay," I mumble. Then louder. "Okay." I pull my legs in to sit cross-legged, leaning forward to the glass. "Hey, prisoner."

He blinks at me, eyes large. "Prisoner? We're still doing that?"

"Well, it's not like I know your name." I say.

And I sound like an idiot. The cat couldn't have picked anyone else for this?!

Silence looms between us like a physical thing, so heavy I could pick it up and wear it as a cloak.

He lets out a gusty sigh. "It's Hollin."

"What?" Yep, still got it.

But his mouth quirks up at the corner. "My name is Hollin. Hollin Arensen." Hollin winces and moves to sit cross-legged like I am, tugging his gown to avoid flashing me his nether regions.

Oh. He doesn't realize I'm the one that undressed him.

I blink dumbly, and Hollin raises an eyebrow. "Well?" he asks. "Are you going to use it, Warden? Since you have my name, you don't have to call me prisoner anymore."

"Who's 'Warden'?" I ask, trying to follow the conversation and somehow entirely forgetting I've been speaking to people my whole life and I'm better than this, for fuck's sake!

If Hollin rolled his eyes any harder, they'd have fallen out of his head. "You are," he drawls. His grammar and pronunciation are quickly improving.

Cat's got sass.

... Nice. Nice? Yeah, I think I like that.

He goes on. "You haven't told me your name, and nobody's called you anything except `Lieutenant' or `Brother'. So, you're `Warden' to me, because that's what you've been doing since I woke up. I understand, though." Now he's leering at me. "I'll bet it's top secret, or you're afraid that telling me will give me mystical, eldritch power over you." Hollin wiggles his fingers at me. "Hate to break it to you, but I'm not that interesting. Now, I'm sure you have questions, so let's - "

"Cavan!" I blurt out. Now it's his turn to look stupefied. "Sorry!" I thread my paw through my hair, the short bristle of it prickling against my paw pads. "My name. It's Cavan. Cavan Brannock."

The smile he gives me is shy, raw, genuine... and breathtaking.

"Well," the exotic little cat whispers. "It is so very good to meet you, Cavan Brannock."

—
To Be Continued
—

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