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02:48 pm - CosPlay

I scribbled a few more notes on my pad before looking back to Chad. He was staring at me intently. At least, so it seemed. All the built-up prosthetics on his face, the tufts of red and green on the brows and cheeks, and the strange lensing overlay on his eyes made it hard to tell.



I found it a worthy challenge, though: interpreting the patient's state of mind without the easy crutch of readily understandable body language.



"Let's go back to what you were saying earlier," I suggested. "About this need of yours… this pack urge you feel. Do you feel like you encounter many others who are experiencing this same impulse?"



Chad's inscrutable faux-alien expression seemed to sharpen and focus for a moment. Then he picked up a writing pad of his own to make a quick note in. "There's nothing… impulsive… about it, Charlie," he said calmly. "We're a social species. The pack organizational layer is essential to the integrity of our society, both in how it governs the families below it and the tribes above it."



For some reason, I could feel that tic in my left eye returning. Sometimes, the calm, even tone of voice that Chad always spoke in threatened my own demeanor. It was almost like… I pushed the thought away before it could form any further. "Essential… to a society which you feel you belong in?"



"Of course I feel like I belong in it, Charlie. We all should. You should. You used to, after all."



My eye-tremor was making it harder to sort through Chad's words. I tried to review my notes but they were suddenly rather swimmy. "I'm not sure I understand…"



Chad set his pad back down. "Let's not mince words. It's because of your pack's concerns that you're here, Charlie. Shaving your fur… the paralytic injections to keep your outer lenses from functioning…"



No, I said. I tried to say. No, you're talking nonsense. "You…" I managed to get out, but my mouth felt strange. Gnashy. Trembly. "You're the one… It's you."



Chad raised his paws in the universal gesture for non-threat. His hands. His hands. Not really paws. Just a costume. Chad raised his costumed hands: "We just want to help you, Charlie. Your family, your pack, your tribe. You're not meant to run alone."



"You're the fucking furry here!" I managed to shriek. Then the tremors became too strong and I felt my teeth emerge, breaking through the restraining plugs. Chad immediately leapt back as the door opened. Two burly orderlies entered. "Grab him!" I shouted, but they were coming for me. Their manes flared with exertion as they rushed me.



I could not spring fast enough. Their paws dug deep, hooked me well and truly. "Don't struggle," one said, as she plunged some sort of needle into my flank.



The other could not conceal a look of… contempt? disgust? "Why the fuck would someone do this to themselves?"



Chad snapped his notebook shut. "Be kind to him. Social trauma has driven Charlie into a fantasy world where the individual is the unit that matters most. It makes him desperate to eschew body markers. He would rather be hairless and alone than furred in a tribe that he believes has hurt him."



The other shook his head sadly. "That's about the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."



Then, mercifully, the world closed around me in darkness, as though I were returning to my mother's pouch.



I will never wake up. I will never wake up. I will never wake up.



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For consideration: identity as just another word for costume