The Soulless Sole/Part 2

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Misaki jumped awake, all but certain of the falling sensation she'd felt. Her nails dug into the sheets, failing to make holes in them by virtue of the microfiber weave. The last sensation she recalled was the fast-approaching grass, and an opera song that she hadn't heard since she'd been dragged to the theater as a kit...an aria that was still playing, from somewhere. She wiggled her head around, shaking loose the blanket corners that had been shoved into her considerably large ears. It must have been a loud night, she figured. With her ears now free of obstructions, she was now aware of the source of the opera, the alarm clock radio at her bedside.

"What you've just heard was the finale movement of the Vulpes Zerda Cantata in D minor, composed nearly a century ago by history's first recorded vulpine composer, Thomas Corsac," explained a soft-spoken elderly voice from the alarm clock. "Born from a tale of star-crossed lovers and rivalry between social castes, a small grain of truth may be found in the protagonist's last aria, as its lyrics mirror a similar scenario from the composer's past. As the legend goes, Corsac was smitten with the eldest daughter of a working-class family, but on account of his already-high social status, the family was unwilling to trust him with their children, and had forbidden him to see their daughter. Although the Cantata was written many years before Corsac's death, it is generally acknowledged that its protagonist's fruitless suicide would eventually come to mirror his own."

"God, what a depressing story," Misaki muttered to herself as she finally found which button silenced the radio.


Still dripping wet, Misaki reached the phone with only half a ring remaining. "The Pawsitive Touch," she answered, "I'm sorry, we're not open until ten."

"Good, I was hoping you weren't busy yet," came the rough-cut smoker's voice from the other line. "It's Scrimshaw. I need to push up our appointment."

Scrimshaw...how is he still alive? How am I still alive? What relaxation Misaki had found in the shower was now gone. There was no way last night's events were going to leave her mind anytime soon, especially not when the main subject of them insisted on calling her before opening hours. "Uh....push up?"

"Yeah, I was hoping we could meet as soon as possible. I don't think this is gonna wait very long."

"Meet...where? I don't remember saying I was..."

"I'm already on my way over, so there's no point arguing."

"I'm sorry, I'm confused," Misaki said, no longer caring much about dripping water all over her bedroom carpet. "What day is it?"

"Ms. Calmira, I know how crazy this is going to sound, so I'm not going to bother trying to explain it on the phone while I'm driving. Get yourself dressed and meet me downstairs, because if you wanted a clear sign the shit's hit the fan, this is it!" The line died immediately afterwards.

Misaki rifled through her closet. A summer dress stood out from the rack full of coats and camisoles. Grass stains? What's this even doing in here? She snatched the dress from its hangar and threw it to the hamper, instead opting for a tank top and sweatpants. There's no reason to get dressed up, she supposed.

A bell sounded from the living room. Darn, it's him! She hastily slipped into her flip-flops and rushed down the stairs into the "retail" portion of her inner-city business space, where Detective Lieutenant Traeger Scrimshaw awaited behind the glass door, clad in a ripped, grass-stained, grey pinstripe suit.

"You, too, huh?" Misaki said with a slight shudder to her voice as she unlocked the door. "Let me guess...you thought it was a dream?"

"I never thought for a second that it wasn't real, Ms. Calmira. Especially not with these clothes."

"Where's your hat?"

"Take a guess," quipped the detective. "I can't find my hat, my gun was empty when I picked it up...and here's the really fucked-up part: I can't find the field, either!"

"What?!" Her ears flicked back of their own accord.

"You remember that field, right? Where I showed you the body?"

You expected me to forget? Misaki wanted to say, though her present state of shock stopped her from saying much of anything.

"It's gone. It's fucking gone! It's a lake now! It's the one thing emptier than an empty field!" Lacking his usual police desk to pound a fist on, Scrimshaw instead punched the air, regretting it immediately as he strained a shoulder in the process.

"Hey, whoa there," she finally managed to say. She gently took Scrimshaw by the arm and guided him to her massage table. "As...uh...messed up as that sounds, you've got to mind yourself, Lieutenant. We'll talk while I try to figure out if there's any lasting damage."

"It's not that bad," grimaced the aging detective as he held a paw over the pulled shoulder.

"Not that. I've got a hunch, all of a sudden, and only your muscles can tell me what I want to know." She helped Traeger remove his slightly-torn suit jacket and shoulder holster.

"Lady, I've heard better come-ons at the widowers' club."

"You know what I meant."


"...Jesus, you weren't kidding," said Misaki. The one block in the city, that she'd so clearly remembered being a wide-open field of freshly-cut grass, was now a lake. There wasn't much of a way it could have been flooded overnight -- or however long it was she was out -- but because Detective Scrimshaw also remembered the field, Misaki wondered if there was more to the situation.

Scrimshaw once again popped open the cylinder of his service revolver, as if it might have magically loaded itself in the half-hour it took to get here. It still hadn't. All six of its .38-caliber bullets still bore the same strike marks. Just as his suit still had the telltale rips in it, where those flying things had grabbed him. Now somewhat calmer than before they'd left (though he hardly believed it himself), Scrimshaw gave Misaki a puzzled glance. "So, this's gonna sound personal, but what were you wearing when you woke up today?"

"That does kinda sound personal. And maybe a bit creepy."

"If it makes you feel any better, Ms. Calmira, I asked my wife the same thing." He rubbed the back of his head, as if to imply that the question didn't go over any better, even then.

"Well...nah, I know why you're asking. I found my sun dress in the closet, still covered in grass stains."

"I was still wearing this suit when I woke up. On my couch."

"I take it Mrs. Scrimshaw wasn't very happy to begin with, this morning," said Misaki with a smirk.

"Well, don't take it personal, but she seems to think we're a thing together." He scoffed at the thought.

"I don't...what?" Misaki glanced sidelong at Traeger's face. His whiskers were all bent at near-right angles, and his ears were beginning to droop. Misaki wasn't really convinced that anybody would mistake them for a couple. "...I don't see it, Detective."

"That's what I thought. Besides, she hasn't even met you. I probably shoulda told her what you were, at some point, but she probably woulda come up with an even worse reason not to like you."

"What I am? What, a masseur?"

"A fennec."

"Oh. OH. She's one of those kinds of..."

"Hey hey, don't go categorizing ol' Mrs. Scrimshaw just yet. She might be a species-discriminating old moggy, but she's my species-discriminating old moggy."