

How It All Began
a history lesson by Alex Reynard
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THE FUTURE:

"Class, can anyone tell me how we took over the world?"

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THE PRESENT:

Huddled around the thick, bulletproof windows, eyes wide in fear and uncertainty, the furries watched the helicopters come.

They all knew who was inside those terrifying black metal nightmares, hovering on the wind. They all knew this would be the first time in close to sixteen years a human being had set foot on their island. Sixteen years. And the hate still remained.

The President himself was in one of those helicopters. And soldiers too. But worst of all, they knew, were camera crews. Television had finally caught up to them.

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THE PAST:

In the year 2146, the first legally-sanctioned animal/human hybrid was unveiled on television and computer screens across the world. It became an event that people measured the rest of their lives against. 'I was in the kitchen doing dishes when my wife told me to come see the news.' 'I was working and happened to look up at the TV in the corner of the break room.' 'I was in the bathtub.'

That iconic image, straight out of King Kong: a beast that stood like a man, shacked around its wrists and ankles, chained to a platform that would deliver electric shocks to the feet if it disobeyed. Its tail twitched in defiance. Camera flashes streaked across its cringing, inhuman face, the lips pulled back in a snarl. Of pain? Of contempt? It was obvious to all that this creature did not enjoy being paraded in front of the massive horde of reporters crammed into the room that day. That seemed to make it even more of a triumph for science; that man had not only created this fantastical storybook beast, but that he could also force it to bend to his will.

The scientists, over a dozen, seemed to scramble over each other like rats to all get their turn in front of the microphones. They explained all the clever little details. How the transformation matrix had been reduced to a single injection, not unlike a virus, that could be inserted into a human fetus and cause a non-human, but still sentient, being to emerge from the womb seven months later. They puffed up their fat little chests with pride as they announced that such a creature was fully immune from TRIG, and that further studies would undoubtedly determine how to extract that immunity and bestow its gift upon a needful humanity.

This last declaration brought universal celebration. TRIG was a disease that had ravaged Earth's population and made AIDS look like a bad case of the clap in comparison. TRIG, a.k.a. Terminal Recursive Internal Gelatinization, was airborne, incurable, and inescapable. It was not sexually transmitted, or transmitted through contact with infected blood, it was simply _transmitted_. So maliciously random was it that an entire family could be exposed to the disease and all of them would contract it except one; and no scientist on Earth could explain why. TRIG caused a person's insides to melt. Slowly. Over the course of ten years or more. It was not especially painful. But watching yourself rot internally like a living corpse was sufficient mental torture to drive most sufferers completely mad before the disease showed enough mercy to finish them off. (Needless to say, trigonometry took a rather unfair hit to its reputation by association.)

But now there was finally hope. After losing one fifth of the planet's men, women and children, there was finally hope. And once the initial hurdle of experimenting on human fetuses had been cleared (by generous bribes to the conservative religious overlords of America), all moral arguments were solved. After all, anyone with sight could plainly see that this new creature was not human, and therefore did not possess the rights of a human. And certainly not the soul of a human.

Furries became quite the fad. The news reported on every facet of their creation and development, and special reports were issued every time a new species was added to the pantheon. To make the public less likely to be frightened by the beasts, the scientists cleverly made them in the forms of animals that would be aesthetically pleasing to the human eye. Foxes, cats, mice, bunnies, squirrels, pandas; all species that had tested positive with the focus groups. So even when the occasional closeup shot showed the fiery hatred of captivity in one of the specimen's eyes, the viewers at home saw nothing but lush fur and pretty tails.

Naturally, the youth seized on this trend immediately. Given that plastic surgery had become commonplace enough that permanent tattoos could be obtained from vending machines, the populace was soon inundated with teenagers sporting surgically-created mouse ears, fox noses, kitty-cat tails and more. Some took the idea further, rebelling from humanity completely by transforming their bodies into thick pelts, rough reptilian skin or slick alien unknowns. There was even a small faction who eagerly embraced the new hybrids, telling the world on countless talk shows how their own souls had always been animals, and now there were finally beings who looked like they had always desired to look. For the most part, the public despised these 'deviants'.

But the best was yet to come. A year in the making, the most ambitious program of its kind ever devised, all the major networks had clawed and gouged at each other like berserkers to acquire the rights, it became in a single hour the most popular television show of the decade.

"Man Vs. Beast"

The premise was simple. The network brought twenty fit, healthy and intelligent hybrids to a quarantined studio in California. Every week, they were pitted against twenty fit, healthy and intelligent human beings in a contest of strength and wit. At the end of each episode, one hybrid or one human would be eliminated.

From the start, the show was never anything more than clumsily veiled racial propaganda. The contests were rigged and the scenes scripted so that the hybrids were portrayed as canny but soulless. Clever enemies, but easily dealt with by the superior will of mankind. It was a holy tenet to the network: the creation must never overtake the creator. On an early episode when the hybrids won all three challenges, riots ensued. Picketers marched in front of the station. People burned live animals in the street. The network could barely contain their glee. On the following week's program, the humans came from behind and this time won all three challenges themselves. The country erupted in celebration. And so it went. For forty weeks, the events of the entire world hinged on one inescapable television show.

But reality was the farthest thing from what the cameras showed. Deceptive editing hid the pain as perfectly as a magic trick.

After each taping ended, the hybrids were herded back into their trailers. Four trailers for twenty adult beings. Conditions were unimaginable. Filth was inescapable. The hybrids were kept on the edge of starvation to ensure their docility. Any objection was answered with beatings. Luckily for the network, bruises did not show up well under fur.

And those who were eliminated from the show were eliminated in real life. They were sent back to the laboratory to join their kin in waiting to be vivisected. Their lives were ended, their organs harvested and their unborn children cut from their bellies so the scientists could try in their ham-handed way to find a cure for TRIG.

Everything changed on the very last episode of Man Vs. Beast.

In what came to be known as the most notorious terrorist action in human history, the last remaining hybrid pulled off an unthinkable coup. For months, his people had been plotting, and had finally secured the help of a frenzied yet earnest group of animal rights activists. Everything was in place when the show began.

The host stepped out into the spotlight, the crowd cheered, and all the previous human contestants stepped forward to take a bow. The last hybrid, a foxmorph, entered from stage left. With cameras running, he produced an assault weapon as if by magic and without a second's hesitation, slaughtered the other contestants. The ones he had been forced to lose to for forty humiliating weeks. The ones he was smarter, stronger and better than in every measurable way. In less than a minute, he took back what they had stolen from him by squeezing the trigger again and again and again until none of them were left standing.

He shoved the gun's still-smoking barrel underneath the host's jaw and demanded a car with a full gas tank. As the world watched in horror, the word 'LIVE' never leaving the bottom of their screens, the hybrid ordered a cameraman to follow him as he dragged the mewling host with him through the studio, out the doors and into the waiting car. He drove like a demon. Throughout the journey, he spoke into the camera, telling the millions of homo sapiens watching what his life had been like. He told them of his genetically accelerated childhood. How he had never known his parents and instead had been raised by men and machines. How he was beaten, shocked and drugged every day to keep him from rebelling. How he watched friends and kin die in agony as the scientists drove them to their physical limits and then broke them one by one. How the armed men who kept his people corralled and domesticated would occasionally keep order by selecting an attractive female for a little show of public rape. How sometimes they chose children instead. How gradually, they began to choose almost nothing but children. How one time, almost as a joke, they had killed a young rabbit boy and roasted him to see if he tasted like wild rabbit. He told the camera how their laughter had sounded as the guards and scientists alike partook of the flesh.

Of course, the following day the President himself calmly explained to the nation that these were all lies concocted by a dangerous terrorist.

The hybrid drove miles and miles, stopping when he ran out of gas and promising to remove the host's fingers one by one if his tank was not refueled immediately. The host lost three fingers that long afternoon.

The fox's destination became obvious long before he ever arrived there: the island laboratory where the others of his kind were kept. News and military helicopters swarmed the mile-wide fortresslike installation. It was built like a shaved-off concrete pyramid. Designed to be absolutely inescapable. But at the moment, the inhabitants were not in the least bit interested in escape.

There were no guards with guns to meet the hybrid when he crashed his car through the chainlink front gate. They were all inside, dealing with the bloody insurrection of the created. The experiments turned upon the experimenters and proved to them beyond all doubt that tooth and claw will always win out over bullets. Like the rabbit boy, the scientists and guards were given a lesson on what it felt like to be eaten. Only now, the hybrids usually did not show mercy enough to kill them first.

Once the escapee had joined his comrades, the foxmorph hurled the quivering, weeping host away and spoke directly into the cameraman's lens. His words would become legend.

"This island is ours now. We ask only that you leave us alone. Any attempts at diplomacy will be ignored. Any attempts to retake this place will result in death. Yours, not ours. We are not your slaves. We are not yours to play with and discard. We have souls just like you. We will defend our lives just like you.

"My name is James Valjean Valentine. These are the last words you will ever hear from me or my people."

With that, he slammed the laboratory door. And, as promised, he gave the cameraman a five-minute head start before all four bridges connecting the island to the mainland exploded.

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Needless to say, the military had a hissy fit.

Within hours, tanks surrounded the laboratory. Over a thousand troops encircled the silent grey ziggurat. They waited.

Mankind was in a dilemma. Such an act of aggression by an inferior race clearly demanded a suitably violent response and a lot of chest-thumping patriotism from the politicians. But if the leaders in government obeyed the will of people and simply nuked the place, their only hope for a TRIG cure would be lost in the blast as well. It came down to a simple choice: avenge twenty reality TV contestants, or give all of humanity a chance to avoid extinction. The zeitgeist was with the first option.

Thankfully, ineptitude prevailed. The politicians hemmed and hawwed and made speeches for long enough that eventually, the attention-deficient population grew tired of the whole mess. The media eagerly welcomed a large natural disaster it could change the subject to. Twenty thousand dead in an earthquake in a foreign country was just what America needed to avoid having to make a decision about their greatest national embarrassment.

And so, the hybrids got what they wanted. For the next fifteen and a half years, the 'slabratory' (as it was dubbed) was silent as a tomb. No messages came from within, and any sent from the outside got as much response as a letter written to a brick wall.

Fifteen and a half years.

And then the phone rang in the oval office.

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THE PRESENT:

The blades were deafening as the lead helicopter descended to the slaboratory's roof. Nearly sixteen years' worth of dust and stray leaves were set free by the prop wash. The blades slowed to a stop, the door emerged, and a small, pale, oily fat man emerged, flanked on five sides by heavily armed and armored soldiers. The man wore glasses and his hair was shock-white. His face resembled a cross between a pear and a persian cat; as if someone had attached a grappling hook to his nose from the inside and pulled with all their might.

Standing mere feet away from him was the world's greatest terrorist. James Valjean Valentine. His name had become so synonymous with everything humanity hated that people no longer even acknowledged Valentine's Day. After all, who in their right mind would celebrate Hitler's Day either?

The cameras came out immediately after the fat little man, giving the world its first look in over a decade at the animal-man who had been called a criminal, a murderer, the bane of humanity, a tragic antihero, a misunderstood revolutionary, a hero, a cowboy, a sex symbol, a boogeyman and the savior of mankind. James looked much, much older. His russet fur had gone grey in places. His chin whiskers had lengthened into a villain's goatee. But the fox still stood straight and hearty. And his eyes gleamed with a terrifying intelligence. The people seeing his image on their screens were filled with primal hatred. Not because of what this creature had done, but because he looked as if he owned the whole of humanity, and relished the thought.

He smiled cordially. "Unless you've put on several dozen pounds or so, you are not the President. And that means this meeting is over." He turned around with a flick of his tail. "Good bye."

The fat man surged forward. "Wait!! Don't you know who I am!?"

James did not turn around, but instead kept walking towards the lone roof access door. "Of course I do. You are Vice President Hugo Aaron Cloverleaf. You were educated at Yale, have never served in the military, and were arrested at age twenty for punching a black man in the face for saying 'Hello' to your future fiance."

The Vice President's face turned pink. The creature's casual tone had stung worse than his knowledge of that 'little incident' he'd done everything possible to smooth over during the election. "The President couldn't come," he said. "It's a matter of national security. It's the _law_."

James stopped, then grinned. "Well, I certainly don't want to be accused of doing anything against the law."

Vice President Cloverleaf fumed.

The fox turned around. "You may select one soldier and one cameraman to follow you inside."

"That wasn't the agreement."

"That was _exactly_ the agreement."

The fat little man seemed to huff and puff for a little bit, like a fish trying to breathe out of water, but then relented with a grunt. He pointed at a soldier and a cameraman at random and bode them approach with a sweep of his hand.

"Excellent. This is all starting off much better than I predicted," James said. He looked into the camera and gave the world his most disarming smile. "Hello, humanity. It's been a while since I've been in front of one of these, hasn't it? And I'm sure you've all been just dying to know what's been going on in our little island hacienda. Have we resorted to cannibalism yet, you must wonder? Are there wild, savage orgies? Do we worship the bones of the men who created us and then tortured us endlessly for their ape-like amusement?" He paused, letting his words sink like venomous fangs into the collected souls of his audience. "Gosh, I feel just like Willy Wonka."

"Here we go!" he said in a chipper voice as he opened the door and ushered the three men inside.

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"Watch your step," the fox supplied helpfully. They were in a long, dimly-lit stairwell. "Just two floors down. We've spent all day spiffing the place up for you." Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he pinched the Vice President's cheek. "We so rarely get visitors, you know."

The soldier stuck the barrel of his gun in James' face.

The fox pouted. "Touchy, are we?"

James stepped out in front of the trio, turning his back to them with planned nonchalance, leading the way down the echoing metal stairs. "Just so you know, Mr. Soldier Boy, your gun won't do you much good down here. Even if you do shoot me like the rabid varmint you think I am, my people are watching our every step, hidden in the shadows where you can't see. You did give us animal grace and animal vision, remember? All three of you would be joining me in Hell before my body even hit the ground." He chuckled. "Just something to think about..."

Vice President Cloverleaf seethed. He didn't think it was possible that one being could possibly radiate so much smugness, so much arrogance, so much childish glee at humiliating them. The fact was, he had them by the balls. And he knew it. And he loved it.

The call had come in one month and two days previously. As casual as you please, James Valjean Valentine had dialed the White House and asked a flustered receptionist to speak to the President. At first, she naturally assumed it was a joke. But James let her know quite clearly that he had the power in his paws to shape the futures of a million lives. He could save them as easily as destroying them; it mattered little to him. He said his people had developed a new version of the virus-like concoction that had first turned them into anthropomorphic beings. He said it no longer needed to be injected into fetuses, but would work on children and adults alike. He said he was prepared to introduce it to Los Angeles' water supply if he didn't get a Presidential response in twenty-four hours. The receptionist's fear turned to slack-jawed astonishment when James added, playing as if it were an afterthought, that his people had also developed a fast-casting, permanent and easily-administered cure for TRIG. Then he hung up, leaving her opening and closing her mouth like a nutcracker.

The negotiations did not go well for mankind. The President had started off with the expected "we do not deal with terrorists" bluster, but had all the wind knocked out of him when, as promised, a package containing a small vial of fluid was delivered to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. As instructed by James Valjean Valentine, government scientists had first examined the solution, then administered it to a TRIG patient in the disease's final stages. Within minutes, there were signs of remission. Within two weeks, the man was running on a treadmill while scientists stared at him like goggle-eyed little children in front of a Christmas display.

At first, the government had conspired to keep the cure a secret. The embarrassment of accepting salvation from a mass-murdering monster was not worth the billions of lives that would be saved in return. But this had been anticipated by the anthropomorphs, and the formula for the cure (minus several key components) was sent out over the internet to the entire world. The existence of the cure could not possibly be denied now. From that point on, the wily fox got everything he requested, and allowed absolutely no compromise.

The Vice President, the soldier and the cameraman stopped in front of a green metal door at the end of the stairway. "Are you ready?" James asked.

The humans nodded.

James opened the door.

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"WELCOME!!!" came a thunderous cheer.

To the humans' blinking amazement, they stepped into an enormous room containing hybrids of uncountable species. There were men, women, children, families. Mammals, reptiles, avians. Some wore clothes, others didn't bother. The environment looked clean, well-lit, well-kept and comfortable. There were equal amounts leafy plant life and shiny white tile. Streamers hung from the ceiling. Balloons were everywhere.

"We've made some progress, as you can see," James said proudly.

Vice President Cloverleaf looked panicked. Sweat was running down his face. "How... How is any of this possible? We only started out with six species! There wasn't supposed to be enough supplies in here to keep your population alive for two years!!" He'd been told to expect only a handful of survivors, that the building would resemble a refugee camp. He'd been told to expect the stench of blood, death and feces.

James shook his head. "We'll get to all of that in a second. First, I have something more important to show you." He turned to the crowd and made beckoning motions to a radiant vixen and two children; a bat and an armadillo. The three furries came forward and James put his arm around the blushing vixen's shoulders. "This is my stunningly gorgeous wife, Claudia."

"Stop it, James!" she hissed coyly, shying away from the camera but clearly loving the attention. She extended her paw towards the Vice President and he shook it automatically, without thought.

"...and these are my two brilliant, awesome, incredible and all-around wonderful children, Nathaniel and Anastasia," James added, patting the bat girl and the armadillo boy on their heads. They giggled.

Vice President Cloverleaf narrowed his eyes. "That's impossible. These can't be your children."

Claudia 'hmmphed'. "Was it *your* vagina they came out of?"

James snorted a chuckle. "Dear, we're on television, remember?"

She put a hand over her muzzle. "Oh, my...!"

James turned back to the terminally frazzled-looking Cloverleaf. "I'm sure you're very, very confused, Mr. Vice President. But you see, when humanity created us, they did too good of a job."

The greying fox stepped back and extended his arms to the paradise his people had made. "You made us far better than you. We are smarter and physically stronger, yes, but only by fractions. What you unknowingly gave us was better _control_ over our emotions and instincts. We can reason better. We can think more clearly. I'm sure you're not going to like hearing this, but we are now the superior species on every conceivable level."

Vice President Cloverleaf rumbled but managed to hold his tongue. He had to keep reminding himself that the cure for the worst plague in humanity's history lay at the end of this fox's trail of insults and arrogance.

"We are now living in the very laboratory that created us," James continued. "After we, heh heh, 'disposed' of the scientists..." He mimed a burp. Most of the furries howled with laughter. The humans looked stricken. "...we began looking into their research. It's downright miraculous they got as far as they did. The work was so simple, it was only a matter of months before we discovered a way to input the characteristics of any species we desired into the basic anthropomorphic template you laid out for us. You start with the basic body, then add whatever species' characteristics you wish. It's as simple as a computer program, and not even dependant on the parents!"

He leaned in conspiratorially. "We have a couple, a mouse and a boar, who have given birth to a flamingo."

"This is absolutely insane," Vice President Cloverleaf could not stop himself from blurting.

James steepled his hands. "Now, now, Mr. Vice President. If this seems like insanity to you, keep in mind who set the stage. We're only following in humanity's footsteps."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, I nearly forgot. You see this grey fur? There's a little trick you played on us that no one ever knew about, did they?" He turned and looked into the camera. "You made us perfect, but you also installed a basic flaw to keep us from ever becoming too great a threat. You shortened our lifespans."

Vice President Cloverleaf bit his tongue. This was classified. Top secret! And this fur-covered bastard was telling the whole world!

"Planned obsolescence, isn't it called? Or something like that. The idea, I'm sure, was that even if we did somehow rebel, we'd all die of old age in a matter of years and that would be the end of it, right?" He reached out to tickle beneath the Vice President's chin. "That was a nasty little trick, don't you think?"

Cloverleaf could barely rasp the words out. "At the time, it was considered prudent risk-management."

James laughed out loud. "Oh, you and your euphemisms!! You crack me up! 'Prudent risk-management' he says! But of course, what he really means is that, even though I and my wife and the other remaining originals all have to endure painful medical treatments week in and week out, we all still have only a few remaining years left to us." The fox's smile remained, but all mirth left his eyes. "Which means my children will have to watch helplessly as their mother and father die of old age before they even reach puberty."

Vice President Cloverleaf had children of his own. And there is a scant possibility, if one were to review the recording made that day, that his face showed the briefest trace of emotion.

"Fucker," Nathaniel spat, and kicked the Vice President in the shin.

The fat man hopped on one leg amusingly for a few seconds while Anastasia giggled.

James, grinning too, turned to the soldier and spoke softly but clearly. "If you do not point that gun away from my children, I will make you eat your own genitals, raw and still twitching."

The coldness in the fox's eyes made the soldier back up swiftly. He very nearly dropped his rifle.

James patted his son on the head, "It's not very nice to kick our guests in the leg." He looked up to the Vice President. "Even if they do richly deserve it. Oh, and by the way, sir, your little failsafe lies in ruins. We successfully found the gene. We eradicated it. My son and daughter will have the chance to grow up strong and healthy and live long, happy lives. Lives that your scientists would have denied them, just to cover their own fat, hairless asses." The malice in his voice was like a throatful of rusty razorblades.

The fat, pale little man set his jaw. "Fifteen years ago, I was a state senator from Georgia. I had nothing to do with any of those decisions."

"Fair enough. Point to you." James paused. "Although, I think it's fair of me to guess that you *were* involved in the decision to bring five armed guards along with you when I specifically said I'd allow only one. Not to mention four extra helicopters, which I seem not to remember agreeing to either. Pardon me for saying so, but you seem to value your own safety a tad more than the lives of the billions of people who need my TRIG cure."

Furious again, Vice President Cloverleaf counted down from ten before he could even speak. "Could we, perhaps, get to that already? We have jumped through your hoops, Mr. Valentine. What more do you want from us before you'll agree to ease the suffering of those billions you were just talking about!?"

The fox was unfazed. "I already have."

The Vice President blinked. "Excuse me?"

James Valjean Valentine, looking more pleased with himself than ever, took a few steps back to address both the Vice President and the camera. "Remember my threat to dump a mutagenic compound in the water supply that would turn millions of Californians into hybrids like us?"

"Naturally," Vice President Cloverleaf ground out.

"It was a bluff," James admitted. "There never was any plot to put anything in any water."

Vice President Cloverleaf breathed a sigh of relief. "Well that's a relie-"

"The compound is airborne."

Vice President Cloverleaf felt a pain in his chest. "...Say that again."

"It's airborne," James replied sweetly. "And I don't just mean it's transmitted through the air, I mean that it already _is_ airborne. Right now, in this room. You are infected, Mr. Cloverleaf. It's delightfully contagious. We modified TRIG itself to be the carrier."

Vice President Cloverleaf was breathing hard now. All the muscles in his body seemed to go limp. "You... You absolute fucking monster...! You...!!"

James waggled his finger at the quivering, red-faced little man. "Temper, temper."

"YOU SAID YOU HAD A CURE!!!" Cloverleaf exploded. "You said you'd save us all if we agreed to your fucking demands, and instead all you ever planned to do was turn us into hideous goddam BEASTS like you!!!"

Unflappable as a stone statue, James cocked his head at the man. "Did we really? Are you perhaps assuming things I haven't actually said? You have your cure, Mr. Vice Nothing. Take it and be grateful."

He was huffing and puffing like an overheated engine. "Make SENSE!!! Stop contradicting yourself!"

"The cure and the compound are one and the same. Do you understand now, you disgustingly stupid little man?" James shot forward and seized Cloverleaf's chin in two black-furred scissorlike fingers. "Let me make it plain as day. You got what you came for, just not what you wanted. Did you honestly think we were so stupid as to not be able to find a way out of this place without you noticing? We've been stockpiling supplies and living fat and happy for the last decade. We have been among you the whole time. Brave, selfless volunteers agreed to horribly disfiguring surgeries to remove their ears, pelts and tails so they could pass undetected among you. We've planned this all out from the start! For the unimaginable pain and suffering you put my people through when you created us, I can think of no worse punishment than to force every last damned one of you to BECOME us!!!"

On instinct, the soldier squeezed his trigger.

"DADDY!!" Anastasia screamed.

James crumpled to the ground, clutching his midsection.

The cameraman captured it all.

The watching world held its breath.

Slowly, with fury radiating from his every hair, James Valjean Valentine stood up.

He took his hand away from the wound; the bullet had merely grazed his side. Painful, bloody, but far from fatal.

He stared into the soldier's frightened eyes. "That was unnecessary."

With a nod of his head, a dozen hybrids surrounded the soldier. His gun vanished into the crowd. He writhed and wet his pants as uncountable furry limbs held his body still.

James approached, his gaze still locked. "Do you have a family?" he asked slowly.

The soldier's lower jaw was shaking too hard to produce words at first. "Yessir. My-my-my mamma's at home. Fiance. A baby daughter. Please, for the love of God, I'm sorry."

James was silent for a moment, considering. "They are innocent. And because I can't in good conscience take a father away from his child, you will only lose your legs today."

He nodded, and his people dragged the soldier off. The man's helpless screams echoed down the long, long corridor.

James turned back to the Vice President. "Where were we before we were interrupted?"

With alarming swiftness for a man his age, Vice President Cloverleaf reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. Shockingly, he pointed it not at James, but at the cameraman. "I'll kill him and then kill myself before I let you turn us into Typhoid Marys," he said calmly. "I will sacrifice both our lives to preserve humanity."

James put up his hands in a patronizing 'let's not do anything hasty' gesture. "A truly noble sentiment, Mr. Vice President. And one I didn't think you had in you. But it's pointless, really. You're carriers, certainly, but you're not the *only* carriers."

Vice President Cloverleaf's eyes darted around the room. "The soldier? He'll kill himself too. He'll find a way. He's a good man. He won't be your pawn either."

James Valjean Valentine shook his head. "You're not thinking big enough. We released it in eighteen major cities all over the world before you even arrived. All of humanity will be infected within hours."

The gun went limp in Cloverleaf's hand.

"It's over, Mr. Vice President," James said consolingly. "We won. We won long before you ever had any chance to stop us. But it's not the end of the world. So you'll turn into an echidna in a few weeks! Is that so bad? Is losing your personal appearance really so terrible when it means that billions of suffering people now have their lives back?"

The Vice President screamed and started firing his gun blindly.

The first shot took off half the cameraman's head, yet he stayed on his feet just barely long enough for that final, historic image to be transmitted across the globe: James Valjean Valentine leaping at the Vice President of the United States and tearing his throat out in one bite.

Then the camera toppled to the floor and broke. Only static remained.

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THE FUTURE:

"Very good, Calvin. Now, does anyone know how many humans are still left in the world?" the teacher asked.

Robert raised his hand. "Too many?"

The whole class giggled. Children of every fur color and species.

Their teacher even cracked a smile. "Now, that's not very nice, Robert. At last estimate, there are perhaps four hundred homo sapiens still on planet Earth. They're totally harmless now. And where are most of them located?"

Clarissa's hand shot up. "In Australia! The aborigines!"

Mrs. Houstead nodded. "Excellent! Absolutely correct. The rest are scattered throughout the world in small groups, like cavemen. We leave them alone. It's better that way. Now, for a bonus question, who can tell me what TRIG actually was?"

The room was quiet for a minute or so.

"Anyone?"

Finally, Erik had the courage to put up his paw. "Um, wasn't it a weapon or something?"

Mrs. Houstead smiled. "Terrific, Erik. Where did you hear that?"

He shrugged. "Some news show my parents were watching."

"Good for you, being so observant. Yes, TRIG was created by Americans as a way to combat terrorism. The idea was that if another nation attacked them, they could release a small amount of TRIG in that country, and the results would be so gruesome and devastating that it would send a message to other nations that attacking America would not be worth the resulting response."

Brandy shivered. "That's horrible!"

"Horrible, but unfortunately true," Mrs. Houstead replied. "The American government tested it on prisoners, but found it was far more contagious than they could control. So they sent the test subjects to Africa to make it seem as if the outbreak originated there. The truth started out as conspiracy theories, but it wasn't until billions were already infected that the scientists who'd created the disease spoke out. They were hanged for treason. Not for creating the outbreak, but for admitting to it."

Erik had actually begun to cry. "I'm glad there aren't humans anymore," he said fearfully.

Mrs. Houstead, realizing she may have laid a little too much truth on her students, went over to Erik's desk, sat down, and petted his fur. "I'm sorry if I scared you, class. We as furries are far from perfect, but at least we've learned from the mistakes our ancestors made. You have to accept the truth in order to learn from it."

She looked up at the clock. "That's enough for now. I don't think anyone will mind if we start recess five minutes early. Go play, children. Have fun and don't worry."

The mood lightened immediately. All the children were up and away from their desks in a flash, lining up at the door and eagerly awaiting the chance to stretch their legs and run around.

Mrs. Houstead glanced briefly at the framed portrait of James Valjean Valentine that hung on the north wall. The same portrait that hung on the wall of almost every classroom in the country.

'You were far from a perfect man,' she thought. 'You were flawed as anyone, and you did unforgivable things. But that's probably true of anyone in history who's ever been bold enough to change the world.'

Mrs. Houstead went to the front of the room to let her class out. She followed them to the playground, grateful to feel the fresh air and sunshine on her fur.

----------



The end.





AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Huge, huge thanks to Alfador, both for editing this and for coming up with a plausible full name for TRIG.

I genuinely believe that there is nothing in this story that is implausible. All of the instances of pettiness, shallowness, and cruelty I've presented are based off real things I've seen or read about that we humans have done to one another. Never let yourself think that there isn't a low we'll sink to in pursuit of money, or that there's anything we won't cheerfully give up in exchange for the illusion of safety. The presidency of George W. Bush, and especially the appalling apathy of the American public during those eight years, ought to be proof enough of this. If this story seems ridiculous to you, it only means you aren't paying attention.


"How It All Began"
Started 12/03/07, 8:05 am Finished 12/03/07, 12:05 pm

