Separation (2 page)

Their last encounter with a megalomaniacal
madman named Szabo, a former Hungarian soldier, had proved to be
their toughest. Szabo, a combination of a shark and bear, had
proven almost impossible to beat, yet Harry had triumphed and
now... now all was quiet. There’d been no reports of transgenics
massing for an all-out attack for the last few months... but that
didn’t mean more transgenics didn’t exist.

They did. He’d been checking. Reports had
started popping up all over Europe around three months earlier,
mainly in Italy, France and Spain. Some accounts detailed clashes
between the hybrids and the local populace, while others talked of
discussions held. Nothing conclusive had come from said
discussions. They’d talked... or so the news reports said.

The bottom line was hybrids existed, and the
world had to get used to them—or not. It was the
not
factor
Harry worried about. In the back of his mind, he had the feeling he
and his wife would never fit in with the regular populace no matter
how many talks and meetings they went to. At times, he missed the
companionship of others like him.

In particular, he missed a friend of theirs,
a pig-man named Istvan. A dwarf in human form, he’d been kidnapped
by Szabo for an endgame only a mad scientist would have been able
to dream up. All hybrids had the unfortunate propensity to devolve
into their dominant animal form. Istvan’s blood carried a peculiar
enzyme that managed to stop the devolution.

Unfortunately, he’d disappeared after the
final battle with Szabo. It had taken place in Russia, and a search
had failed to disclose his survival or demise. “I want to believe
he’s alive,” said Anastasia in a heartfelt manner.

Harry had also wanted to believe, but Istvan
had never shown. They’d given him up for dead. Now, safely
ensconced in a quiet and quaint wood cabin deep in the woods, they
went on with the task of living and trying to carve out a new
lifestyle.

“No one’s going to hire us except as sideshow
acts,” Anastasia complained one day. She’d been poring over online
jobs, and with a sigh of disgust, she’d switched off the computer.
“We have no skills except for being able to run fast and fight
hard.”

True enough on that point. Harry would have
liked to work in his own chosen field—transgenics—but the other
private companies had not been open to the idea. The government had
also nixed the idea for reasons not given. His lawyer had prepared
a case, but matters like these took time, so any research done had
to be done at home.

As for other possibilities of finding gainful
employment, mentally ticking them off one by one, he came up with
possible jobs as bodyguards, runners, MMA fighters, models,
and...

“There’s always the circus,” he joked while
dismissing the other avenues to mainstream success.

“Get serious, Harry.”

While they didn’t lack for money or food,
they both hungered for acceptance. Matters seemed to be breaking
their way when a popular talk show host, a man named Peter Baskins,
asked them to appear on his program, Peter’s Daily. Anastasia had
balked at going in front of the camera at first.

“You know what his pattern is like,” she’d
objected when he brought up the subject. “He gets people who are
disabled or in the LGBT set and then starts mocking them. Think
about what he’s going to call us.”

“We haven’t gone—”

“Freaks,” she’d interrupted, stabbing her
forefinger at the floor. “I’m not a freak,” she stated in no
uncertain terms. “I’m a girl, just a very furry one.”

“And I’m your furry husband.” It went without
saying, but he felt like it needed to be said, anyway. “We’re the
same, remember? Let’s give it a shot.”

Anastasia’s expression, somewhere between
dubious and pissed, had stayed in place, but in the end she finally
threw up her hands as if to concede his point. “We’ll try...”

The honk of a horn disturbed things and Harry
snapped back to the present. Farrell was early. Then again, he
usually dropped in early to deliver their groceries. Hustling out
of bed and over to the front door, pulling on a pair of jeans as he
went, he opened up, and sure enough, their handler was in the
process of getting out of his car, a beat-up old Ford. He probably
hadn’t thought of changing it for the last ten years.

In his hands, he carried two bags of
groceries and made his way over to the cabin. “Good morning,” he
said, puffing under the load.

“Hi,” answered Harry as he took the bags.
“You’re here early.”

“Since the FBI tasked me as your minder, I’ve
got too much time on my hands,” Farrell replied, still panting.
“This is all I do.” Tall and rail-thin, he’d been working with
Harry ever since Anastasia had made her presence known.

In the past, he’d been a by-the-book type,
taciturn and unemotional for the most part, but over time he’d
mellowed, and Harry had come to trust him. Still, he’d never been
able to bring himself to trust the FBI as a whole. The authorities
still didn’t know what the presence of hybrid humans meant. In a
sense, this was a test of human nature, and Harry had experienced
the ups as well as the downs since his transformation.

Some people were shocked and repulsed, while
others simply accepted them for what they were. At times, he wished
they’d just get over it, but perhaps that was hoping for too
much.

“Where’s your significant other?”

Harry heard the question as he put away the
groceries. “She’s in the shower.”

“Actually, out of the shower,” Anastasia
answered as she made her way into the room and greeted the agent
with a cheery, “Morning, Agent Farrell.”

She wore a bright yellow skirt and matching
blouse. Barefoot—she never wore shoes and neither did he—she
twirled around. “How do you like it?”

“Perfect,” replied Harry as he took his time
admiring the view. Yellow had always been her color.

“You look fine, and good morning, in that
order,” Farrell answered, and wiped his face as he took a seat on a
nearby couch. “Sorry, I guess I’m a bit out of condition.”

Taking a good look at him, Harry wondered if
he was hiding something. He did look a little thinner, though, but
stress from the job, living a single life—Farrell was divorced—and
keeping late hours wasn’t the healthiest thing around.

In a situation such as this, it was better to
say nothing, and he excused himself to walk into the bedroom and
get dressed. He decided to wear a fancy dress shirt. It hid most of
the fur, but his catlike features, yellow eyes and general
appearance of being the other couldn’t be hidden, even if he shaved
all over. Shaving, by the way, didn’t work. The hair always grew
back within a day.

As he walked out of the bedroom, Farrell
greeted him with “You look fine, too.” He sat on the couch
observing the activity with his usual stony expression, but it
seemed as though the semblance of a smile was beginning to form at
the corners of his mouth.

“You mean, Anastasia looks great,” said Harry
as he tucked in his shirt.

“Of course she does. Do you think I’d be
looking at you?” A wry smile accompanied his comeback, and with a
grunt, Farrell got to his feet. His face twisted for a moment as if
in pain, and then relaxed into its usual hard ass impersonal mode.
“I’ve been asked to take you to Manhattan, so if you’re ready,
let’s get going.”

After an hour of watching the scenery change
from country green to urban steel, they arrived at the studio, and
Farrell let them out. “I’ll be waiting here...” he started to say,
but a buzz from his pocket stopped him. He took out a cellphone and
studied the screen. “Excuse me, this is business. Have a good
time.”

Early morning or not, a number of people
stopped to gawk, and immediately Harry felt the stares. Anastasia
strode ahead and did not deign to return the looks of admiration or
disgust, or those that fell in between those two extremes.

Once they were inside the studio, a young
woman with a head of frizzy blonde hair and an officious manner
came over and introduced herself as Melinda. “I’m Mr. Baskin’s
assistant. Do you need anything to eat or drink?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” answered Anastasia with
only the faintest trace of annoyance. It was too nice a day to get
annoyed, but Harry also felt a twinge of apprehension.

Melinda nodded. “Follow me.”

At least she didn’t gawk, merely ushered them
into the studio. There, they took their seats on a stage, two
simple wooden chairs side by side, and a larger, more luxurious
leather recliner off to their right. “You don’t need any makeup, I
take it?” she asked.

What did they expect, hair brushes or
personal grooming? Harry started to toss off a snarky answer, but
decided to let things play out and answered, “We’re fine,
thanks.”

She fitted them with mini-microphones and
gave the cue to the cameraman. He gave her a thumbs-up and a few
seconds later, the audience filed in. He swung into position, and a
fat man in his forties with thinning red hair and a pasty
complexion walked out from behind a curtain at the side of the
stage and onto the platform.

“I’m Peter Baskins,” he said in a rather
high-pitched, reedy voice. “It’s so good of you to make it.” He did
not offer to shake hands with either of them.

Harry replied, “Happy to be here,” and
immediately got a bad vibe from this man. Pleasant or not, as his
wife had already mentioned, Baskins had a reputation of going for
the jugular in interviews. Previously, Harry had watched a few
videos of him, and Baskins’ manners were, in a word, sordid, always
looking for the negative, berating his guests when he found a weak
spot.
Be careful around this guy
was his most immediate
thought.

Once the host had taken his seat—luxuriating
in it like a potentate—the intro music played and the audience
dutifully clapped. “We are live,” a technician called.

Baskins started with some very basic
questions, those of how they’d met and the adventures they’d had.
Harry answered as well as he could. Farrell had cautioned him
beforehand not to say anything about foreign countries’ politics,
and he didn’t, but at the very least, the audience responded by
clapping in the appropriate places.

However, the mood took a U-turn into the
sleazy when Baskins, true to form, got around to the S question
which provoked a few chuckles from the audience. “So do you two
have sex?”

Anastasia didn’t find his question amusing
and let out a soft growl indicating disgust. “We’re married. Does
that answer your question?”

This time, her response provoked a general
round of laughter from the attendees, but Harry got pissed. This
was stepping over the line. Baskins followed up his initial salvo
by asking, “And will you two be having any children? I’m wondering
what they’ll look like, human or,” he turned to the audience,
“freak?”

If he’d wanted a reaction, he certainly got
one as the murmurs began in the audience and Anastasia leaned
forward in her seat, her eyes shooting off danger signals. “What is
your problem? We’re members of this society or haven’t you
heard?”

Baskins didn’t seem fazed at all. The look on
his face resembled that of tofu. “You may have been granted
American citizenship, but you’re still Russian to me.”

He then turned to the audience and related
Anastasia’s past, complete with her work as a prostitute. Some of
the people in attendance who weren’t in the know let out the
expected gasps of shock and surprise, while others muttered
something about Euro-trash and the company they kept.

“You knew about all that, didn’t you, Harry,”
Baskins stated in the smarmiest of all voices once he turned
back.

Flabbergasted at how this man knew something
so personal, for a moment Harry didn’t reply. Yes, he knew about
his wife’s past. She’d been a prostitute before her transformation.
He loved her anyway, and what was done, was done. “I knew,” he
finally managed to say. “It doesn’t matter to me. It didn’t then,
and it doesn’t now.”

“You were also in jail for illegal genetic
research,” the host continued, his eyes beady and predatory. For a
fat man, he moved swiftly, and got to his feet in a quick, circular
turn, a move only a figure skater would have attempted. He
addressed the audience in familiar, almost fatherly terms. “So we
have a hooker and an ex-con, and you want them to be part of this
great society of ours? I see only monsters and freaks.”

His words ignited something in Anastasia.
Jumping to her feet, she strode over and grabbed Baskins by the
collar of his shirt with her right hand. The razor-sharp claws on
her left hand extended a good two inches which she deftly
positioned only a hair’s breadth away from his flabby throat. “It
seems the only freak around here is you,” she ground out. “Now I’d
like an apology.”

The members in the audience, some of them on
their feet, cried for a little order, while others yelled out,
“Waste him!” Right now, Harry didn’t know what his wife was about
to do. Her eyes radiated pure violence.

“As I thought,” Baskins choked out. “You
are
a freak.”

With that comment, Harry’s initial thoughts
of asking Anastasia to stop all but disappeared. This slob had gone
too far. Still, maybe this matter could be resolved peacefully—or
as peacefully as possible. “I think we’re done here,” he said.
“Let’s go.”

“Not yet,” she growled and lashed out with a
closed fist. It connected with Baskins’ jaw and he sagged to the
ground, out cold. “
Now
we’re done here.” She took her
mini-microphone off and stamped on it, then walked out.

As the audience erupted in hoots of laughter
as well as shouts of outrage, a few of the members, large, male,
young and presumably stupid, started to hurl insults. Some of them
charged forward, but security stepped in and held them back. One
guard, wearing a faint smile, jerked his head toward the exit.
“You’d better get going, sir.”