This is a tale of a parallel world. It was written as a gift for a friend of mine on FurAffinity and combines two of my favorite things: super-heroes and alternate realities. The main character, Quinn, is owned by his creator. Any other similarity to characters owned by Marvel Comics is strictly coincidental. Except where it’s not. In such cases, it’s parody.
Furvengers Assemble: Ant-Coon
©2013 Sylvan Scott
Heart racing, the raccoon peered around the fallen cupcake. The smells of fudge and vanilla filled his nostrils concealing far nastier smells. Beyond, spattered on the carpet and furniture, was a battlefield’s worth of blood and viscera. Their odors were foul, but no less appreciated. The monster stomping through the living room would find it difficult to sniff him out over the concealing scents. Even now, it turned its withered, bovine-like muzzle in broad arcs, snuffling at the air, frustration on its bullish face. Crouched nearly double, its polished, black horns scored the walls as it tried to find him. Vowing not to be whittled down any farther, the raccoon drew back behind the upside-down pastry and tried to figure out what to do.
Talking heads in the media had dubbed it “The Transformation”. He had been one of the lucky few to feel its touch. In a flash, a wave of light right out of a George Lucas movie had spread across the sky leaving change in its wake. A considerable percentage of the human population was no longer human. A few became something more.
He was one of the few.
The beast could have been like him, an animalistic hybrid, but he didn’t think so. It looked like a humanoid bull dressed in a tattered loincloth. Something in its solid, blood red eyes, though, told him this thing had never been human. There was a fury coupled with great exhaustion in that face: a combination implying age, loneliness, and experience. Even while stomping on body after tiny body, making splatters of his clones with its chipped black hooves, the beast acted as if this was nothing new. Killing Quinn by the thousands had been done as casually as walking in the park. And, even now, as it looked for what remained, the minotaur seemed jaded and grim.
He adjusted the metal helm on his head and peered through its colored lenses down the length of the breakfast nook counter. He had to make a plan.
Quinn had bought the costume at a local shop using what little money he’d been able to save in the month since changing into an anthropomorphic raccoon. He’d had to buy all new clothing to accommodate his new shape and physique. The costume had cost extra but it was a fun extravagance he’d want to show off at the next Sci-Fi con. With all the changes sweeping the world, he’d decided to find a way to afford little pleasures. Ever since that nut-job claiming to be Hermes unleashed The Transformation, he’d decided to really enjoy his life.
This, though, was far from “enjoyment”.
Although the character he had patterned the costume after wasn’t a humanoid animal with black splotches around his eyes and stripes encircling his tail, the powers he’d gained were similar enough. He jokingly called himself “Ant-Coon” while wearing the red-and-blue suit with its silver helmet. Standing at a height of three-to-four inches, he hoped he could figure a way out of this, alive.
From outside, the distant sounds of sirens told him not to expect help any time soon. The occasional boom echoed from far-off downtown. The assault by Hermes was still in full-swing. On TV, he’d seen his roommate, flying off in home-made armor, to take on dozens of modern day interpretations of ancient Greek myths. Chaos filled the Milwaukee streets, so it was unlikely help was on the way.
That was when the monster had broken in.
Where it came from, he didn’t know. But it leapt onto their balcony, one hoof going through the splintering planks of wood, and then punched a meaty fist through the sliding glass door like a battering ram. He’d acted instinctively and shrank. Normally a full-sized man, he quickly divided and became smaller and smaller and smaller. It had been instinctive. One minute he had been watching the news and wishing he could be out there helping his friend and the next he was looking at the room through a thousand eyes, only a few millimeters tall.
Unlike his comic book counterpart, Ant-Coon’s mass remained the same: it just spread out between different bodies.
As one, large raccoon he stood around six feet. As he halved his mass, there would be two of him. Halving it further would yield four and halving it again would yield eight. Height changes were the cube-root of mass changes, so doing the math hurt his brain. But it made sense.
When the minotaur had burst into his shared apartment, he’d gone as small as he ever had, covering the floor with thousands upon thousands of himself. He’d hidden in the carpet threads like a swarm of gnats.
The monster, though, hadn’t been fooled. It had seen the transformation and stomped after him, its massive, cloven hooves stomping on dozens of him with each lumbering stride.
His other selves weren’t independant but still fed him their senses. He felt the overwhelming bursts of pain before they were snuffed out, killing the connection. Those which had merely been injured, he re-absorbed. But as fewer and fewer of him remained animate, he found himself increasingly limited.
He hadn’t shared the secret of his powers with anyone. So many had become humanoid animals but none that he knew of had gained the ability to divide and shrink. Maybe his roommate was an exception, but it was hard to tell: he’d always been an engineering geek. Ant-Coon had watched his roommate build his armor in secret but hadn’t let on that he’d known. And rather than burden him with the knowledge that his raccoon friend wasn’t “normal” any more, he’d played with his powers, privately. He wondered, now, if that had been the best decision. No one knew what he could do and when his armored friend got home, he’d only find a puzzle of tiny, squished blood and guts.
In less than a minute, the beast had swept through the room, red eyes scanning the ground. It had stomped aggressively, crushing most of him into red smears. Despite being tiny and in more than one place at the same time, he still had one mind spread out between all his bodies. He looked through all their eyes at once making his view of the room faceted. Over the past few weeks, he’d learned to program his tiny clones to do simple tasks. The more he created, the more difficult it was to instill individual actions. They tended to all act in concert. Before the minotaur, the most he’d ever created had been about nine hundred, three-inch tall raccoons. Controlling them had been a nightmare.
Going even smaller had been a mistake.
As the minotaur stomped them into paste, all he could do was run away in a flood of tiny, furry creatures. Over ninety percent of him had been squished out of existence; he could no longer sense the world through their eyes. And he could no longer re-combine with them. Initially hiding under the couch, he had grown slightly and re-coalesced into several one-inch tall bodies and dashed to the kitchen.
He had to be careful. The cats were around, somewhere, and they would see a small, running raccoon as something to play with in a fatal way. Both were also probably hiding from the stomping monster in the living room. He’d finally coalesced all his remaining bodies into four three-inch tall raccoons, each wearing a red-and-blue costume. Two hid behind the legs of a stool at their breakfast nook, one hid in the door to his bedroom, and the last took shelter behind the cupcake. He guessed that if fully re-combined he’d be about four inches tall; maybe closer to five.
And what could a five-inch-tall raccoon do to a bull who resembled one of the titans from “God of War”?
Unbidden, a vague image of arming himself with a pin and diving into the creature’s throat came to mind. He shuddered and shrugged it off. No need to get ridiculous: he was in enough trouble. Maybe, if he waited and hid long enough, the creature would think he was dead and leave.
But if he didn’t...
The minotaur rose to its full height and looked around the room. To the raccoon, the intruder looked as tall as a fourteen-story building; one of his hooves being taller than the average house.
“Poú eísai , to mikró?” The booming of the beast’s voice was like thunder. “Eh? Poú eísai?”
Ant-Coon didn’t move. Although his hearts beat faster, he stayed where he was. He was tempted to pull the two by the base of the stool back, to have them run around into the kitchen and hide behind the trash. But standing where he was, the minotaur would probably see them. Even as confusing as having four separate sets of senses was, Ant-Coon didn’t want to lose any more. It was easier to keep tabs on the monster from several places at once.
Almost without thinking, he reached down by the cupcake and picked up a frosting-encrusted, plastic spear. A round sign at its top proclaimed “50% Off!” It was pointed at the bottom but he didn’t delude himself that it would be of any use against the behemoth. Still, it made him feel a little bit better.
Neither seeing him nor getting an answer, the shaggy beast turned its head towards the alcove next to the living room. It lumbered away, giving Ant-Coon precious seconds to shift position. He ran down the counter towards the pizza box from the previous night while simultaneously running across the carpet to hide his other two bodies beneath the couch. The clone in his bedroom doorway stayed put.
“Come out, to mikró,” the creature rumbled, now in English. “Come out and your death will be quick.” Its voice was deep and heavy; almost sad. It echoed and reverberated like a proclamation from God, shaped by its barrel chest, thick neck, and cow-like muzzle.
Quinn stayed put and didn’t answer.
“There is no choice in this,” it continued. Abruptly, it grabbed the futon in the alcove and tossed it aside. The beast scanned the carpet for signs of his quarry. Tossing the blankets, sheets, and pillow to the floor, it ducked low in the adjacent space and put its fist through the cheap, IKEA-like desk and office chair. After a minute of not finding anything, the beast continued. “My lord wishes to know why some of you mortals are more than mere beasts; why some of you have been touched by the Embers of Olympus. He has ordered me to bring back one of your bodies. I can find you; I will find you, no matter how small you are.”
For a moment Quinn was tempted to shrink, again. If he focused, maybe he could go tinier than millimeters. But what then? He already had seen the tens of thousands of near-microscopic creatures that lived alongside humans in their homes. They were horrific, bug-like things and all of them looked dangerous. Three inches tall was weak and fragile but compared to the veritable jungle of tiny predators around the house, he was still a giant. He’d best stay the size he was.
A second too late, one of his four sets of senses smelled the cat.
One set of senses heard her growl, low and tremulous, as it pounced.
Scared and seeing the tiny raccoon in its bright blue-and-red costume, the pet had probably not known what was going on but had merely acted out of fear and confusion. Ant-Coon’s tiny body, peering from its safe place in his bedroom door frame, squeaked as the giant feline lunged.
The pain shot through all his clone arms as he felt the single limb break. He hit the ground and rolled on the carpet, avoiding another swipe of the claws. But the teeth; the cat’s muzzle bore down on him like a collapsing building. Ant-Coon didn’t have a choice: he re-absorbed the clone.
The remaining three of him grew slightly bigger and each of their left arms ached while the wounded limb merged. None of them were still injured but the phantom pain of it made each wince. In scale, it was as if each of them had grown half a foot: still small enough to remain hidden. But the yowl the cat had made as it pounced caught the minotaur’s attention.
Ant-Coon slipped into the pizza box and hid under a cold, leftover slice. His other bodies watched as the minotaur charged towards the sound of the cat. With wide eyes, the raccoon watched the beast casually throw the couch aside. He couldn’t react fast enough. One of the two clones hiding there was tossed across the room while the other...
The other was crushed in an instant beneath a wooden leg.
The pain burst across the remaining two before fading into merciful numbness.
Peering through a vent hole in the side of the pizza box, he watched the minotaur loom over the cat who, terrified, stayed put for only a second before running back to safety in the bedroom. The minotaur’s horns dug into the low ceiling of the hall as it stood, looking at the floor by the door frame.
After a moment, it knelt and sniffed the carpet.
Tiny, almost invisible spatters of blood from the cat’s attack, colored the fibers. But it wasn’t small enough for the huge nostrils of the minotaur to miss the trace.
He snorted twice and, then, stood. His stared for a long time after the cat.
“You’re still alive, to mikró; I can smell it.” He stomped into the bedroom towards the bed. “Are you trusting your pet to save you?”
Ant-Coon used the minotaur’s distracting dialogue to slip from the pizza box and drop onto the top of the trash bin in the kitchen. In scale, it was about a fifty-foot drop but in the weeks since gaining his powers, he’d discovered all the benefits there were to having a small mass and small scale. Surface-area-to-volume ratio was his friend. He hit the plastic lid and rolled, without injury. But, then, he passed over the electronic eye that caused it to automatically open with a wheeze. At the same time, a crash from the neighboring bedroom told him the minotaur had flipped his bed. The screech and hiss of his cat also drowned out the sound of his misadventure with the trash.
Surprised, he tumbled back and fell off the rear of the bin. He slid down the wall behind it and landed on the linoleum floor. He managed to bite back a gasp.
The cat shot out of the bedroom and ran to hide itself further down the hall by the laundry. Ant-Coon stayed still. He listened as the minotaur trashed his room. There had to be something he could do. He still held the cupcake spear in one hand but couldn’t think of how to use it, here, on the floor. Idly, he licked some of the fudge frosting off of it and considered.
His other body, in the living room, tried to pick itself up from under a couch cushion. The weight of it was crushing; he could barely breathe. Both of them could feel his strained muscles and bruises. Having more than one body meant the minotaur would have to do more work to find him but the other one was useless. After a moment’s contemplation, he re-absorbed it.
He shot up to four inches tall: his new, maximum height. All the injuries, all the exhaustion, were concentrated in one body, now. He had to get out of this. Now.
If only he could-reabsorb his dead clones. Considering how badly it hurt re-absorbing the injured bodies, he doubted that even if he could re-establish a link to the cadavers, re-integrating with them could kill him.
The minotaur burst out of the demolished bedroom into the hall. A fist the size of a small house crashed through the post at the end of the breakfast nook counter. Sparks flew as wiring was ripped free and the dust from plasterboard rained down all over the kitchen.
“To mikró: where are you?” he shouted.
Above, the flimsy ceiling sank and sagged. The upstairs, with its own futon and seating, pushed down on the support-less ceiling. Ant-Coon got an idea and took a risk. He took several deep breaths.
Running out from behind the trash, he dashed across the open floor towards the space under the oven. He was in plain sight and the minotaur was looking right at him. He dodged fallen plaster and splintered wood as the beast roared a battle cry. The giant was fast but Ant-Coon was faster.
Just as the beast kicked through the remaining end of the breakfast counter, the raccoon dove and slid on the floor to safety under the oven. Behind him, with the last of the supports gone, the ceiling sagged again. Helped by the beast’s horns, ripping through some of the wooden framework above, the upper level crashed through to the first. The minotaur looked up just as the futon crashed into his face.
The boom was louder than anything Ant-Coon had ever heard and the shaking in the floor went on and on like an extended earthquake. Above him, the bottom of the oven bounced and shook. But it held. Behind his hiding place, he watched as the upstairs rec area collapsed into the kitchen and forced the monster to his knees.
He’d done all he could think of to do: he’d drawn the minotaur out and let the beast’s brutish strength be his own undoing. A chair and swath of carpet fell through with the rest of the furnishings. Soon, the monster was buried.
Ant-Coon breathed in the dusty air and tried not to let hope overcome his sense of self-preservation. He was a diminished man: whittled down to maybe four inches in height. But he’d survived.
Remaining hidden, he watched.
No movement disturbed the pile of debris. One of the beast’s horns was visible only a few dozen yards away. He could smell the acrid iron tang of blood in the air. But his sharp ears and sharper eyes saw no other signs of life.
A full ten minutes went by. Finally, nervously, he crept from his hiding place. The safety of the oven behind him, he stepped gingerly through the debris towards the fallen beast. He knew it was dangerous but it was the only direction he could go. He had to get out of here before the whole building came down. The beast had torn out half of their breakfast counter but the fallen, twisted futon was blocking most of his escape route. Stacks of recycling had been knocked over so he couldn’t easily climb and flee the breakfast area into the living room. He only had the one path before him.
Slowly, so carefully that he felt like he was in a horror movie, he crept forward.
Step by step, he approached the fallen giant.
Carefully, he began to pick his way past, heading for the demolished hall.
At his size, the debris was easily avoided. When it wasn’t falling all around him like a cascade of meteors, it was simple to navigate. One of the benefits of being small was that many things could simply be walked under or around. Gradually, he made his way past the giant.
Then, the rubble shifted.
He heard the chuff of heavy breath and smelled the exhalation even though the minotaur wasn’t visible. Ant-Coon ran.
Fingers attached to a hand the size of a full-grown elm crashed into view and surrounded him. Darkness fell and the thick, dusty scent of bull filled his nostrils. He squeaked, unable to resist, and rolled into a ball. The beast, the giant, had him.
His stomach felt like it was falling as the bruised and injured beast lurched to a semi-standing position in the ruins of the kitchen. Ant-Coon felt its body heat crushing in on him; the beast’s giant fibres of fur and body hair were sweaty and rank. The minotaur, rather than open his palm, simply squeezed.
Ant-Coon yelled in pain.
All he could think was that his roommate would return and not have any idea what had happened. He’d probably think that a cadre of Herme’s soldiers had come through the area and, at random, demolished the apartment. With Quinn gone, he’d assume the worst but never know the truth.
There probably wouldn’t even be a body.
One thought flashed through his mind: his earlier idea to re-absorb his dead clones flashed through his desperation-laden consciousness. Gasping for breath, feeling bones break, he tried to reach out with his mind to the fallen bodies. He tried to feel their mass; contact their flesh and blood. He tried to pull them back. Desperation made his heart skip a beat but, then, he felt something. It was tiny, barely a sliver, but it was there.
He grabbed for it like a drowning man on a life preserver. He felt the narrow, faint connection in his mind and he pulled on it. It was singular, not the thousands of him which littered the living room floor, but he didn’t care. It was mass and he pulled on it.
Like a dam bursting, all resistance gave away. He felt a flood of weight, of blood and bone, of sinew and muscle, rush into him. The fingers crushing him, burst open. He heard the minotaur cry out in surprise as he grew out of the beast’s hand. But as he grew, he watched the minotaur shrink.
Eyes wide, he felt the beast’s mass flow into him. The desperation-fueled link funnelled more and more of the creature’s body into Ant-Coon. His body and clothing expanded. Huge amounts of dust clinging to him, grew as well. Soon, he felt heavier, more solid, and stronger than ever. In moments, he loomed over the intruder and stood in the ruins of his apartment kitchen.
Still injured, he stood as tall as the dented refrigerator and, at his feet, the tiny minotaur looked stunned at a few inches high.
He felt like he should make a quip; a smart-ass comment about his unexpected use of his power, but nothing came to mind. Adrenaline still clouded his thinking. But before his would-be assassin could react, he reached down and picked him up. He peered closely at the tiny bull and snorted in amusement.
“So,” he rumbled, “what was that about a quick death?” As far as quips went, it would have to do.
The minotaur didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. As Ant-Coon opened his palm, the tiny beast didn’t even run. Five inches tall, the bull just fell forward onto his knees and bowed his head in defeat.
“Finish me,” his tiny voice squeaked. “Finish me and let this be ended.”
Quinn’s sharp ears heard the request. He looked around his demolished home. Down the hall, he saw the cat dash from between the washer and drier to escape into his roommate’s bedroom. All the destruction, all the demolition, had nearly killed him. He felt several ribs ache and thought they might be broken. He had a sprained left arm and he was pretty sure his ankle would need a doctor. Flashing back to the cat’s maw, its giant teeth and claws, he doubted he’d ever have the same relationship with his pet as he once did. This monster, this begging creature, had up-ended his life in a way nothing else ever had. And, now, it was begging him for death.
He looked back down, his bright eyes sparkling at the beast in his palm.
“No,” he finally said. “I’m not going to ‘finish’ you.”
The minotaur looked up, startled and wide-eyed.
Ant-Coon snorted in amusement. He didn’t know if he could absorb any more mass; his heart rate had gone down and he was exhausted. Maybe it had been a one-time thing or maybe it would take a near-death experience to give him the ability to draw mass from others. He didn’t know. But he did understand that simply crushing this creature, killing him in cold blood, wasn’t his style.
“You said you served Hermes,” he said, slowly. “But that’s wrong.” He considered his words carefully. “Tell me, little-one,” he asked, “who do you serve now?”
The beast, understanding the reprieve he was being given, nodded twice. Then, slowly, he stood.
“What do you want to know?” he squeaked.
Ant-Coon smiled. When his roommate got home, they’d have to figure out what to do next but, between the two of them, he felt pretty sure they were now honest-to-goodness super-heroes.
“Tell me about Hermes,” he said.
End
