FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

CW: This story contains depictions of (non-sexual) violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Sylvain De Volière turned his head left, then right, his beak pursed into a concentrated frown.

The bird’s face and front were a tawny yellow, handsome and debonair. He held a small pair of scissors in one yellow, black-taloned hand, gently pruning them down to give them smooth definition. He inspected his tan linen blazer and crisp white shirt underneath for any sort of blemish or speck of dust, fluffing up his ascot as part of the process. The wings on his grey and darkly-speckled back flapped once, twice, wicking any potential dust or dirt off of them. He’d preened them plenty earlier.

After the job in Amsterdam had him undercover as part of an itinerant group of buskers for a solid month, he was more than glad to return to his usual debonair sense of style.

This particular mission called for it; it was almost the complete polar opposite.

Agent Finch - OSS Cint-Dix-Serin in his home country - was one of a small cadre of Interpol’s most elite agents, the best of the best from around the world. Their work, clandestine and precarious, was what kept the world’s fragile peace in place; several dozen Atlases carrying the world on their unseen shoulders.

Sylvain was no stranger to saving the world. If not for his work in Amsterdam, Dr. Mycos’ mutated, grain-hungry ergot would have held the world to ransom with the threat of total famine. That would have left P.E.A.C.O.C.K., the sinister organisation Dr. Mycos was part of, free to wreak havoc and achieve total domination.

Thankfully, every trace of the fungus(not to mention the mad doctor himself) had gone up in flames. It made for a rather conspicuous aftermath; you could smell the burning grain from Stuttgart.

This one would most certainly be a little easier to cover up. Particularly since his destination was a rather secluded island, the sort of place one could only arrive on via ferry or, if one could afford it, a helicopter.

Having finished his grooming, he pulled out a small felt-covered box; the sort of thing one might hold an engagement ring in.

He slipped out a microfiche tucked in the folds of his ascot and slid it into a hollow compartment at the base of the device. When he opened it, the ring that was nestled inside glittered to life.

The projector’s sound was thankfully muffled by the bathroom’s fan and the sound of the waves as the board steadily rocked. There was a clear white wall underneath the bathroom’s porthole, and it was just dark enough for the monochrome slides to be legible. He studied a layout of the island, as well as its primary owner, one last time.

The owner of this island was a ram with dark, dirty looking wool that covered every bit of his head save for his ears, the tips of his curved horns and his pierced snout. Little ribbons were tied into braids and plaits all around that shaggy mane.

This was the island’s occupant, and the primary person of interest.

Sylvain studied the face very carefully.

–

“Now, OSS Cent Dix-Serin, what do you know about Isla La Ikpa?”

Sylvain stood in front of Pater’s desk. The Patrician Porcupine stared up at him with a wizened, probing stare. There was a lot on the stodgy Brit’s mind, evidently; he seemed a bit sterner than he usually was in his briefings.

“The disputed island near the Gulf of Mexico?” Sylvain said, casually, like a brainy schoolboy rattling off his times tables. “Yes, I believe I’ve heard of it.”

“And doubtless you’ve heard of the so-called Conduit of the Divine.”

“Yes, haven’t the Railway Boys written a song or two about them?”

“Among others, yes. Celebrities, dignitaries, diplomats, all of them have been flocking to this little island for an audience with him over the last few years.”

“It seems rather harmless to me, Sir,” Sylvain said, laconically. “If they need something to fill the spiritual hole that celebrity can’t fill, who are we to stop them?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Agent Finch. We’ve had some very concerning internal breaches lately; agents who for all intents and purposes were perfectly loyal have been caught with quite loose lips, or have turned traitor on us. The one common thread between all of them? This.”

He slammed a book on the table, a mauve-coloured, well-thumbed-through copy of ‘Meditations on Life’s Mysteries : Lessons from the Conduit.’

“Are you starting to dabble in the spiritual, Pater?” Sylvain quipped as he picked it up and inspected it, leafing through the pages as if to find something nestled between the pages.

“Don’t be ridiculous, OSS Cent Dix-Serin. Everyone who turned traitor had a copy on their person. Personally signed by the Conduit himself.”

“He is rather popular, from my understanding.”

The next slide was projected. It was a view of two men locked in a half-clothed embrace, smoke weaving around their heads. Sylvain snorted.

“Should this slide be there? It looks like it’s part of your private-”

“-Nothing of the sort,” Pater snorted. “That is Codename Scalpel from the Mounties Agency and Xin from the People’s Republic. The two of them were caught together in a hotel in Bangkok, in the throes of a tryst. It transpired that neither of them swapped anything besides each other’s fluids. But they both were ready to admit they’d spilled the beans to this Conduit fellow.”

“So it’s going to a third party. This Ungulate oracle fancies himself a broker of secrets.”

“Or worse,” Pater continued. “He may wish to establish himself on the world stage as a puppet master.”

“I see. What else do we know about him?”

“Primarily his real name - Kasimir Owczarek. A child of the Eastern bloc, so as you can understand there’s precious little we can glean about him; our friends out east are not too keen on sharing. However, we do have plenty of intelligence about his current situation.”

Sylvain knew now was about the time he could sit and lean on Pater’s desk, so he did.

“Have a look, Agent Finch.” A black-outlined bird’s eye floor plan was the final slide; a large temple structure at the centre, with dormitories and communal spaces as satellites around it. “This was received from Agent 009 out of MI6, shortly before they lost contact entirely. We can only assume the worst.

“The central temple is where the orientation takes place, after which the visitors are sent to a communal living space. Owczarek himself lives in the villa towards the back.”

Pater leaned back in his chair, the leather dimpling from his spines.

“You’ll be infiltrating Isla La Ikpa as a small-time wine-maker who’s seeking enlightenment. At your first opportunity, you will peel off from the group and carry out reconnaissance. Gather as much intelligence as you can. Interrogate Owczarek if the opportunity arises; find out the man behind the ram. And, if you deem it necessary, compromise him to a permanent end.”

“Understood sir. I might get a nice new jumper out of the arrangement,” Sylvain mused.

“Do that and you might stink up the whole HQ. I doubt that crusty ram has even seen running water.”

-

CASHMERE AND LIME PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS

SYLVAIN DE VOLIÈRE

IS

O.S.S. CENT DIX-SERIN

IN

A SHEEP IN ORACLE’S CLOTHING

FEATURING

SHEEPLIKE1 AS OTIS BARNABY

LEEM AS THE CONDUIT

RUFFLES AS FRAISE DEMÜNE

WHYTHEOTTER AS WES

MILOMESMER AS MILO

–

Sylvain took one last look through all the slides just to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.

As soon as he had committed the details to memory he removed the microfiche, and crushed it in his hand, dumping it and the ring box out the porthole window.

Just at that moment there was a shy, hesitant rapping on the door.

“Erm, excuse me,” a voice said, apologetic, light, and American. “Are you nearly d-done?”

“Be right out,” Sylvain said, doing one last check of his outfit before unlocking and opening the door.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said.

A donkey, besuited and very overdressed for this trip, stared down at him with wide, nervous eyes. Sylvain smiled and stepped out of his way. The donkey returned the smile with a far broader, more awkward grin, before he shuffled into the bathroom.

It wasn’t the first time he caught the donkey looking at him.

Sylvain had already deduced that this donkey was no agent, no rival or insider. He was simply attracted to him.

The donkey was attractive too, in a sort of awkward, nebbish way, and truth be told, Sylvain wouldn’t have been opposed to asking him out for a drink were they still on the mainland. But considering the island’s strict policies on alcohol in particular, that would not be likely.

Perhaps the opportunity would arise, who could say? Some leisure time could find its way into his schedule, since this retreat would last the better part of a weekend.

The finch took his time heading to the front of the ferry, to where the majority of the passengers were watching the distant island approaching. It was easy enough for him to blend into the crowd.

The tropical greenery had been mostly undisturbed, but several stone buildings towered over it, with minarets and colouration that suggested a somewhat miniaturised version of the Taj Mahal.

The owner had seen to all these additions, and presumably removed the old villa that used to be there - said owner being the Conduit himself. This island was of the many gifts he had been bequeathed by a monied plastics magnate who credited the ram with helping him process the grief of losing his parents and inheriting the burden of a vast fortune.

Everything Sylvain learned made the guru seem more of a lamprey than a lamb, plus the tacky boisterousness of the compound was a perfect lure for individuals with a surfeit of money and a distinct lack of sense.

As the boat approached the shore, he cast a lazy gaze over the others who had gathered to gawp. A few minor celebrities here and there; lead actors and actresses from spaghetti westerns or low-budget romances, musicians chasing the coattails of more successful acts, and so on.

As the ferry approached the shore, the true scale of the island began to loom over them. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain noticed out of the corner of his eye that the shy, gangly donkey was scraping away at a notepad, hurriedly glancing around.

He approached, hands in his pockets. The first word out of his mouth made the donkey leap.

“Either you’re a very avid diary-keeper, a very novice spy, or a journalist. Which is it?”

“Th-the third one,” the donkey stammered. “I’m here to do an e-exclusive impromptu profile on the guru!”

“Ah.” Sylvain nodded. A guerrilla journalist. “So you must be Proctor McCurtain, then.”

“Yes-! I mean, n-no, I wish, haha, I’m not as well known as him. Otis. B- Otis Barnaby at your service!”

Sylvain took his hand - receiving a rather weak, apologetic handshake - and nodded.

“Lorain D’amasque,” he said. “I own a modest vineyard near Sedan, and I thought, why not allow myself to live a little now that I’ve others to run the business?”

It was good to keep the cover story fresh in his head. Perhaps one of Sylvain’s few weaknesses was keeping a cover story perfectly straight, so having some assistance would help. He got the sense this reporter could be trustworthy and, more importantly, useful.

The ferry’s speed gradually reduced as it sailed towards the wooden pearl-white port. Numerous dock workers were waiting - noted that all of them dressed like they were more suited for a harem, what with the billowing size of their trousers and a distinct lack of garments on their upper halves.

“Rather libertine here, wouldn’t you say?” Sylvain said, sotto voce. Otis flinched again.

“What? Y-yes, that’s part of the appeal, I think. According to the research I’ve already done, a lot of people come here to, uh… let loose.”

“Evidently,” Sylvain said, noting that some of the excited couples towards the bow of the ship were noticeably getting more amorously hands-on with each other. “I ought to have brought a plus-one.”

“I mean, there’re going to be plenty of swingers about too, I bet.”.

“Plenty of space for free agents like us to play the field, then.”

“...Gosh. Maybe.”

As the ferry was pulled to a stop, a quintet of equine greeters stood at the point where the guests would alight. They stood in a perfect choral arrow, each of them holding a brass bowl in their hands. They struck the bowls with small batons, creating a five-part harmony that washed over the gathered crowd. Each pony and colt stroked their baton around the rim of the bowls, sustaining the choral note and seeming to charge the salty air with it.

Sylvain never thought sound could have weight to it, and yet, he could feel it pressing into his muscles and squeezing his bones.

Agent Finch noticed it had a decidedly more pronounced effect on a few; perhaps some returning guests. They seemed to shiver, their hands dropping a little lower - down between the forks of their legs.

“D-do you see that?” Otis muttered.

“I do indeed. They’re wasting little time. Do you see yourself joining in with them?”

“...Gosh.”

There it was. Sylvain had confirmed Otis’ tell when he was flustered.

A cow stepped out in front of the chorus. She was short and stocky with pale pink dyed fur, a cloud-like pouffe of white hair between her ears, and, in contrast to the others’ garments, she wore a brilliantly white linen dress. She looked more like a sacrificial maiden out of a Greek tragedy than a flower child.

“Welcome to Isla La Ikpa, the island of the Conduit,” she said, her voice clear and soft as crystal, yet somehow carrying through the brassy din of the singing bowls. “Friends, my name is Fraise. Our blessings wash over you, as will the Conduit’s. You may follow us to the central temple where the Conduit will greet you all. For those who have returned, you bless us with your presence. For those who have just arrived, you, too, bless us. Please, come!”

More musicians waited at the end of the dock, brandishing cymbals, gongs, and long sticks that were festooned with chimes. They began to beat a rather bouncy, joyful percussive rhythm as the bowl-singers moved back gracefully to allow the passengers at the front to disembark. The musicians danced gracefully with a gentle, agile bounce to their movements. Some of the returning guests were joining in, already in the throes of ecstasy by the looks of it.

“Rather pleasant so far, isn’t it?” Sylvain asked.

“It’s a little similar to the dancing of the Hare Krishnas…” Otis said, his eyes seeming just a little sharper. “The Conduit did spend a lot of time with them, as he ‘found’ himself. His own teachings seem to lift a lot of different elements from a lot of different practices. He doesn’t have much original stuff...”

“So this belief system’s a sort of spiritual goulash, then.”

Otis shot Sylvain a slightly quizzical look; he wasn’t quite so enamoured with that one, evidently.

-

The journey onto the beach and up the long terracotta staircase towards the temple was glacial, to say the least. Most of the arrivals took their time to gawp, marvel, and fawn over the island’s beauty. They nudged at their plus-ones to point out feral animals staring at them cautiously, or a distant group of acolytes carrying out a meditation on the beach - a nude one, at that.

Sylvain wasn’t fazed by that sort of thing; at least it seemed cleaner than that libertine squat in Amsterdam.

Otis was more absorbed in filling page after page of his notepad. Sylvain’s primary focus was on a possible escape. The dock was likely not the only way off the island; the far side was bound to have something, particularly if this Conduit ever needed to make a hasty retreat.

From this distance, the temple’s grandeur was rather impressive; though it was a pale comparison to the authentic temples Sylvain had been to in Delhi as a young backpacker.

“Please,” Fraise said, “leave your belongings with us and undress, so we can give you your liveries.”

“Here?” Otis croaked, his eyes flitting like horseflies. “In front of everyone?”

He was already transfixed by the more enthusiastic ones, who clearly wore things that were quick and easy to slip out of. The rest followed, some with more trepidation than others. The smocks were not all uniformly coloured, some patchier than others, but they were all ostensibly unisex, and looked pretty modest by all accounts.

“Come now,” Sylvain said, though he was taking his sweet time unbuttoning his shirt. “I take it you’ve never been to a nudist beach before?”

“Never. Uhm, e-excuse me,” Otis said, waving to the cow. She smiled sweetly as she approached. “There isn’t a, um… private place to change in, is there?”

“There is,” Fraise said. Her smile never left her face, her cheeks plump and her lips and pursed, like she was suckling on a sweet. “Please, follow me.”

“I think I would like some privacy, too.” Sylvain said. He didn’t want to risk the tools of his trade being discovered.

Fraise stared at him a little longer. There was something scrutinising behind those otherwise kind eyes.

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “Would you be able to share? We only have so much space.”

Otis blushed brightly. Sylvain looked at the donkey, flirtatiously quizzical.

“I have no objections. I promise to turn the other way.”

“Thank you…” Otis said.

The cow led the pair away from the main group towards a small yurt about the size of a four-man tent.

“We would have more of these, but we haven’t had the opportunity to construct more yet,” Fraise explained. “I beg your pardon for that!”

“It’s fine, thank you,” Sylvain said, before looking at Otis. “Aprés vous.”

Otis was worrying the soft, shiny fabric of his smock, and he suppressed a nervous smile before he dipped inside. Sylvain followed, though he noted Fraise seemed to be lingering more than a moment; it was about a half-minute before he heard her hoof-falls receding.

Sylvain took his meticulous time undressing himself and folding his clothes. He surreptitiously glanced around the room as he did so.

Birds like him had quite keen senses, particularly when it came to those subtle electromagnetic waves that had become more and more ubiquitous with the advent of electronics.

Having the intrinsic ability to detect cameras with no help was one of the things that made him such a good asset as an agent.

There were no cameras, no listening devices.

“Good. We are most definitely alone,” he said.

Otis’ hands were hovering around his collar, seemingly afraid to go for the first button of his shirt until his changing-partner did.

“Don’t be shy, we have time to speak.” Sylvain was down to his torso-clinging undershirt and his hip-hugging trousers. Otis was trying and failing not to gawp.

“I might need your help,” Sylvain continued.

“Oh?” Otis choked. “With your, um, pants?”

“No, my dear reporter,” Sylvain said. “With my mission.” He approached Otis, who shrank away a little, clearly somewhere between intimidated and infatuated.

“You see, I’m here for very similar reasons to you. I’m investigating this place, but to an extent significantly above your pay-grade. You may call me Sylvain. The rest of my identity will have to remain confidential, I hope you understand.”

“Okay…?” Otis said. Even though he was taller than the bird, he seemed to shrink the closer the bird got, like an ice cube near a hot stove. “Wh-what do you want me to do?”

“Just do what you were already doing. Observe. Record. And if you find any information worth swapping with me, perhaps we can find an excuse to change in private again.”

“I, uhm, uhm, okay, s-sounds… lovely!” Otis stammered, bright red and playing out a hundred different fantasies in his head.

The finch lingered close to him and relished in that infatuation before finally breaking the spell by turning back to his well-folded clothing.

“Now then. Let’s finish re-dressing.”

As Otis hurriedly changed, Sylvain went through his clothes pockets . Once his trousers were off, the devices were easily strapped to hidden holsters in his thigh and around his body. The baggy garments nearly hid his silhouette entirely.

He glanced over his shoulder to watch Otis bending over a little awkwardly and shuffling out of his trousers, his hindquarters bent unconsciously in the bird’s direction.

Sylvain had found his companion for the mission, or at least someone who’d be a useful asset. In more ways than one.

Considering the hedonism of this place, there would probably be the opportunity for a quick tryst. Americans were easily seduced into such things.

When they left the yurt, a different acolyte was waiting for them: a rather muscular and imposing black bull. He stoically inclined his head in the direction of the procession and the duo followed.

The open temple space soon loomed over them. Not a single one of the gathered flock wasn’t gawping at the canopy of stone wreathed with long strands of greenery. It was impressive, that was certain, but something like this didn’t spring up in a month. Not without slave labour or cutting some corners. Perhaps this guru’s gazebo was made out of chicken wire and papier mache built on flimsy foundations. It was more of an amusement park than an island retreat.

“Isn’t this incredible?”

“Hm?” Sylvain looked to his left. A rather excited looking goat was briskly walking alongside them. He was almost entirely black save for the upper half of his head - that part was milky white. Something looked familiar about him.

“Is this your first time on the island?” the goat asked, looking from Sylvain, to Otis, back to Sylvain. “It’s my fifth. I managed to reserve a place right up front, right next to the Conduit…”

Sylvain got the sense this goat had told that fact to basically everyone he knew in the lead-up to this.

“I’m just gonna… scooch by here, excuse me, pardon me…”

He didn’t even give Sylvain or Otis the chance to respond; he slithered through the crowd until he was out of sight.

“...Do I know him from somewhere?” Otis asked, more to himself than to Sylvain.

“Now that you mention it…” Sylvain frowned. Deja vu was a concerning sensation for a spy. It usually precipitated an ambush.

The interior of the gazebo looked at least nominally more like a yogic temple; the floor was covered with lacquered wooden planks that had a rather pleasant creak to them with each bare-pawed or bare-taloned step the gathering crowd took. Pillows, cushions, and rugs were arranged in a perfect circle around an empty space in the middle of the reflective planks.

The crowd spilled into the centre of the gazebo, slowly but surely covering the floor until they were all equidistant around the empty space. Sylvain sat on a cushion close to the entrance with Otis shacked up next to him.

Through the murmurs, Sylvain heard the slow clop of chitinous hoof-toed feet against the wooden floor.

The chatter of the crowd gradually ceased as Kasimir Owczarek, the so-called Conduit of the Divine, walked among them. Although his eyes were hidden behind the canopy of rust-red wool, he seemed to gaze at each and every one he passed for a lingering moment.

Everything from the shoulders down was completely covered in a cape-like poncho, seemingly fashioned together from patches of velvet and velour. A far more opulent cry from the hempen garments one would have expected.

His woolly head was even more festooned with braided ribbons and cords than in the previous photo, as if he was adding more to him. The golden chains drilled into his horns likewise seemed more lustrous and shining in person.

“I can smell him from here,” Sylvain remarked.

It wasn’t exactly the sort of pungence one would expect from an unwashed woollen creature; whatever body odour the Conduit might have had was completely concealed by equal parts incense and cannabis.

Kasimir’s jaw moved in a low, circular chewing motion as he surveyed the room, his eyes hidden behind the implacable ball of wool.

Somehow, Sylvain felt the sheep’s eyes on him through that felted canopy.

Then, at last, Kasimir sat, his poncho billowing around him before it settled.

“Welcome to you all,” he said, with a soft, yet well-supported voice that almost seemed to quaver with a touch of sadness. “I am so grateful to be blessed with your gathered presence… as are my poor acolytes, they were getting sick to death of my rambling.”

A good natured chuckle spread from his muzzle and seemed to radiate through the crowd.

“Everything you hear from my lips comes from the divine energies that bind every atom together, but there’s a limit to everyone’s patience with it - oh, Wes! I thought you’d had your fill of me after last time!”

The quavering voice remained, but it was like the ram was letting his guard down, revealing just a little bit of his ‘true’ self behind the mask of asceticism.

The Conduit was looking directly at the goat from earlier, and he reached out to stroke under his chin - a strangely intimate gesture that seemed to pass unnoticed by everyone else.

Sylvain sensed a slight deflation in what little tension there was in the room. He knew better than to relax, though. Even though he wasn’t in that squat in Amsterdam anymore, Sylvain got a very similar feeling from this ungulate and his flock. A feeling of absolute conviction to their own personal cause and a total loyalty to the so-called Conduit. Though the apparent libertine nature of the commune seemed appealing.

“I can see how he attracts people,” Otis murmured, next to Sylvain. “He’s got a good pair of pipes, and he’s charming too…”

“Superficial charms can take one a long way, Mr. Barnaby,” Sylvain said. “And superficial people are quite easily entertained.”

Otis bristled with a tinge of offence. “Are you calling me superficial-?”

A middle-aged marten turned around and shushed him sharply, fixing the finch with a brief glare before returning his attention to what evidently was Mr. Owczarek’s stand-up routine.

“But I digress, my friends,” Owczarek continued. “None of you came just to listen to me ramble on like I’m your Dziadek, did you?”

There were more murmurs of assent, even some hands raised, and the ram laughed mirthfully.

“Ah, you flatter me, but words can only go so far to convey the divine energies I am the blessed Conduit for. Please, make yourself comfortable; your body knows what it needs.”

Some immediately crossed their legs under themselves, others wrapped their tails around their lower halves, others - the newer ones - looked around at their fellow travellers to see how it was done. That goat, Wes, seemed to already be in an optimal position, and Sylvain caught a glimpse of the sheep making sort with him. The sheep was gesturing slowly, yet broadly, and the goat was following the blue glitter of the Conduit’s painted hoof-tips - not just with his head, but with most of his upper body, as though following the movements of a mesmerist. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening.

Sylvain watched carefully, taking his time to fold his wings around himself. Everything about this induction suggested a different sort of one coming up soon. It was easy enough to put the pieces together.

The Conduit’s acolytes stood all around them each carrying a different implement. Some held those brass bowls from before. Others held censers that looked like they’d be more at home in a cathedral than a temple.

Owczarek removed what he had been masticating on from his mouth, and placed it in a small wooden bowl in front of him. The bowl was full of damp, mossy green plant matter of some sort. He lifted the bowl up and graciously reached it towards the nearest traveller; a brightly-coloured toad with a rather large belly.

He took a small piece and slipped it into his mouth, closing his eyes as he passed the bowl on to Wes. The goat thanked the sheep profusely before taking a mouthful, his whole body shuddering.

“Eugh…” Otis recoiled. “has all of that been in his mouth?!”

“Evidently,” Sylvain whispered.

As the grass was passed around, Sylvain got a very distinct bitter odour. The sort of subtle scent that came with a very concentrated toxin.

The bird slid his hand across to Otis’ knuckles, brushing along them and leaving a small object in. Otis stiffened and looked down at a sac appearing to be made of gossamer.

“Wrap it in this before it goes into your mouth,” Sylvain whispered. “It should protect you against whatever that plant might do to you.”

“O-ok,” Otis said. The donkey seemed a little reassured, but remained tense. The poor thing was out of his depth, Sylvain noted. He would need some calming down later.

As the bowl came closer, passed from person to person, the bowls rang out in a chorus that shook Sylvain to the bones. The censer holders walked from their positions and began to weave through the congregation. The sweet smoke of the incense began to fill the space, issuing forth from the swinging censors in a cloud so thick that it seemed to roll over them like fog. He could see the ones closest to the sheep starting to relax further, their gazes going unfocused, their eyes falling closed. Moans reverberated amongst them too; whatever they were going through was too pleasurable not to vocalise.

“Now… my friends, let the vibrations of smoke and sound wash over you. Set an intention for the retreat. Mark this moment as the beginning of your journey to find your soul’s place in the Divine… The Conduit brings you the vibrations of the Divine. Bathe in it…”

Owzcarek began to ululate; it was a deep guttural sound from the throat that somehow rose above all other stimuli just as the bowl was passed into Sylvain’s hands. The agent reached down, his own sac pinched between his fingers, and pulled up a piece of the moss. It was luminescent green and rather tender, slightly soft from what he assumed was the sheep’s saliva.

No one saw him expertly twist it into the translucent sac before putting it into his mouth and carefully worrying it without properly chewing - just to be safe. He hoped Otis had been watching.

He closed his eyes for the moment and pretended to meditate. Though, as the sweet smoke spread and the sound seemed to grow louder and louder, it became harder to pretend. He felt strangely grounded. The cushions underneath him seemed to rise to meet him, expanding and contouring to his shapes. Keeping his spine straight became harder and harder - even though he felt a little light in the head. Shapes and smears of colour began to dance behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stay much longer. It wasn’t just the moss…

When he opened his eyes again, the white smoke had somehow taken on a rainbow sheen. Lights danced through them like an aurora. Through his slight intoxication, the finch could deduce some lights had been set up, perhaps a projection. Simple stuff. An easy way to fascinate.

The figures ahead of him within the fog were illuminated by the colours as they very slowly disrobed. He couldn’t see their faces, but from their sluggish movements Sylvain could tell this ritual was taking a far quicker effect than any normal hallucinogen.

The intoxication was spreading too. As the front-row listeners approached the Conduit, he welcomed them with open arms.

The smile did not look so beatific anymore.

The ram lifted one of his hoof-tipped feet and pushed it against Wes’ face. The goat groaned and nuzzled against it as the chitinous tips tapped against his horns. He dragged his tongue gratefully and graciously, his eyelids fluttering as his eyes disappeared upwards inside them. Wes’ whole body pushed forward into the Conduit, so much so that it made his leg bend back a little. The sheep’s free leg pushed in between Wes’ legs, and the goat looked like he was already about to climax.

The Conduit continued to sing and drone, and Sylvain swore he could see vaporous, rainbow-coloured smoke emitting from the parted lips.

Others were beginning to gather round the Conduit.

Sylvain caught a glimpse of an almost lecherous grin before the ram opened his maw and accepted one of the figures’ shafts into his mouth. Then, he was gone from view, smothered in the love of his ‘friends’.

The guru’s singing was silenced, but somehow the memory of the notes echoed inside Sylvain’s skull. A taste, dark and thick, like treacle, lingered inside his beak. The baggy hadn’t broken, it wasn’t the moss…

Synaesthesia. He’d heard about things like this. He was ‘tasting’ the sound. The incense was making him see shades of violet and white. His senses were dining on shuffled sensations, all alien to them.

The moss was only one part of the broader whole.

He was in danger, and so was his companion.

“We should leave,” Sylvain whispered as he leaned to Otis’ side, a little disturbed by how slurred his speech was.

The donkey’s lips pressed into his neck, sluggishly puckering into a kiss.

“Otis?” Sylvain hissed, looking Otis in the eye.

The donkey barely saw him. Sylvain only caught the final glimpses of Otis’ pupils expanding until his eyes were two jet black marbles. The coloured lights caught those black orbs, making them shimmer with motes of colour. As Otis nestled nearer, something warm brushed against Sylvain’s arm and throbbed. Otis’ tunic was tenting, his cock poking out from the underside and oozing out a thick gob of pre-cum.

“Gosh, I feel…” Otis moaned, the gossamer sac dangling from his lip, decidedly empty, as he chewed on the moss. “So good…”

“Merde.” Sylvain felt good too. He’d discounted the incense and the singing, how well they seemed to have primed each and every one in this space. His mind was fraying ever so slightly at the edges. His own arousal was beginning to build. His shaft was jumping to attention, and somewhere in his gut he felt a pulse, an emptiness. He wanted to fuck and be fucked. He wanted to lose himself in an orgy of transcendence. He couldn’t stay.

He pulled away, staying low and crawling quickly between the legs of that bull who’d escorted them - his turgid cock nearly brushing against the top of his head.

He got more measures of the fresh, unadulterated air as he emerged and could feel his mind returning. It was as though the hypnotic hypoxia was entirely contained to that enclosed space, through some strange alchemy.

He took one last look into the intermingling tangle of bodies. Otis was barely visible. The marten from before seemed to have forgotten Otis’ rudeness earlier, judging from how he had freed the donkey’s shaft from his robes and wrapped his lips around them. Otis moaned and brayed softly, his hips rolling slowly with the odd twitch - the tell tale sign of someone who had rarely been touched. Another figure, a svelte cheetah, nestled underneath the donkey’s testicles and lapped at him while stroking his thighs. Otis’ face was stroked and guided towards another figure, one Sylvain couldn’t make out. The donkey opened his mouth and pushed out his tongue into a tapered black-furred snout.

That was the last Sylvain saw before Otis disappeared into the mass of flesh. But his moans were still discernible in the chorus of sexual bliss as it grew louder, seeming to harmonise with the singing bowls and the sheep’s droning voice. From here, Sylvain couldn’t see if Owczarek was still enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, or if his voice simply reverberated through that space. But his voice seemed to be omni-present, even from inside the meditation space, through that rainbow of fog.

He had mercifully escaped before his senses could further jumble, but he knew his reflexes would be a bit slower than normal; surely it would still be superior to most others’ though.

“Down to business,” Sylvain muttered to himself before circling around the temple and heading further up the island hill, towards the villa at its peak.

As he jogged up the long winding steps, the first thing he took from his robes was his silver-linked wristwatch. He felt naked without having its comforting hug around his wrist, or the reassuring glints it caught from the sunlight. It was a way to channel his natural avian proclivity for shiny things into an easy way to focus. From here on, if he was caught, it wouldn’t matter whether he was wearing it or not; he’d be found out.

The polished steel of the watch caught the morning light. Sylvain could smell its sheen. It was sharp like a fine bourbon…

He stopped himself before he could get too absorbed in the sensation, and the ‘scent’ faded by the time he’d reached the entrance to the hilltop villa. Its angular brutalist style, all glass and concrete, seemed quite at odds with the Conduit’s ethos. The long colourful drapes hanging in front of the windows and along the entrance did very little to hide it.

It was built into the top of the hill with large columns built into the sheer cliff surface to keep it stable. Not unlike those awful places that were slowly pock-marking the mountainside in Beverly Hills… definitely not to Sylvain’s taste.

The finch didn’t walk directly up the steps to the door; he slipped off to the side and onto the sheer slope. His talons could easily make purchase as he got underneath the floor of the building and recalled the floor plan in his head. The best place to start would be in the bedroom - he could easily hide his exit point beneath the bed. The underside was concrete, of course, but that would be easy enough to get through with another gadget.

He reached into the strap on the inside of his thigh and took out a small sheer sack. Inside it was what appeared to be a pearl-handled razor blade. It flicked open, and the sharp blade fanned outward into a saw-blade disc. Upon the press of a button, it glowed white hot and whirred to life.

He briefly recalled what that old, tetchy fox told him.

“Do remember to put the carry-sac over your head if you’re cutting into something solid, OSS Cent Dix-Serin. You don’t want concrete dust in your lungs. If it’s asbestos, you’re likely to be fine.”

He slipped the sheer bag over his head - it stretched to fit around his face, covering it in black as he got to work.

Cutting took a solid few minutes. Every so often he glanced from his vantage point down to the central gazebo.

Colourful smoke was wafting from it like it was a burning oven. The bodies looked as though they were melting together, and the odd moan reached his ears even from there. They were all completely absorbed in their tantric induction.

Hopefully Otis was having a nice time…

He’d have to check in on the poor fellow later.

Eventually, Sylvain’s saw cut a hole large enough for him to shimmy through. He let the cylinder of cut concrete fall away and tumble down the rock face towards the ocean before clambering inside. Sure enough, he’d made it right under the bed with plenty of space left for him to wriggle his way out from beneath it.

There wasn’t much in the way of ascetic imagery inside. In fact, the villa’s interior was every bit as sleek and expensively decorated as any playboy’s penthouse might be. There were some very ostentatiously expensive paintings, for one thing, not to mention sculptures he swore he’d seen in a recent magazine up for auction at ten-figure sums.

It seemed, Sylvain noted, the Conduit of the Divine wasn’t quite content with that lofty title. Or with the supposed vow of poverty that entailed.

After a cursory search of the bedroom he moved into the open-plan living room and right in front of a svelte deer-man. He was dressed the same as all the other volunteers, but he was quite noticeably brandishing a pistol aimed shakily at the agent.

“Hold still!” The deer was definitely not very well trained, judging from the fact that he was holding the gun in one hand with his other out to the side, as though he fancied himself a secret agent.

Still, he’d managed to sneak up on Sylvain- that counted for something. But OSS Cent Dix-Serin could tell an amateur when he saw one. There was little chance of this being 009 out of MI6 anyway.

Sylvain put his hands up slowly.

“That’s right…” as he got closer, the deer reached up to tuck some of his long hair back behind his nervously flicking ears. “Okay, I’m gonna make you march, now. I’m taking you to the Conduit!”

For a brief moment, his finger moved away from the trigger. Sylvain’s wings spread wide open, and the deer yelped in response. The agent leapt forward with disorienting speed, yanking the gun free from the henchman’s hand and unloading it expertly.

The deer stumbled, glancing around the room and towards the front door of the villa. He was about to bolt for it, and he was just out of reach for a knockout blow.

“Shh. Wait a moment.” Sylvain said, holding one hand out in front of the deer’s face. The deer froze; his wits definitely weren’t about him, probably from the endless diet of drugs and debauchery. He was focusing on Syvain’s talons.

The bird had a hunch, and was about to follow it.

“Maybe I can convince you to forget you saw me.”

“Why would I do that?” the deer asked, apprehensively nervous.

“Well… you’d rather be down there with the others instead of guarding this place. Bathing in the Divine and all of that.”

“Yes…” the deer couldn’t hide how crestfallen he was. “But… this is an important job!”

“Very important. You deserve a reward for your loyalty. You might like a little creature comfort. A gift from the outside world.”

Sylvain turned his hand, letting the watch-face and the metal links glint in the light. The deer blinked quickly, then more slowly. He was fascinated by the watch’s diamond-like facets.

“I’ll let you have this. Would you like to have a closer look? It’s quite valuable.”

”yeah…?” The deer said, not taking his eyes off it, his breathing starting to slow.

”Yes, and quite pretty, correct?” Sylvaiin added, taking a slow step closer and moving his wrist from side to side.

“Correct…?” the deer repeated, dully, his eyes already starting to follow.

Deer in the headlights. Perhaps the constant inebriation made his mind even more plastic and malleable.

“Everything is fine. I don’t mean any harm to you.”

“No… harm…?” The deer nodded slowly. Sylvain came closer and lifted his wrist up higher. The deer’s snout followed it up at first, but gravity pulled it back down, though his eyes remained fixated on the facets of the watch. He noticed the bulge between the cervine’s legs. He was well conditioned, it seemed. And well-endowed.

“What's your name?”

”…Milo…”

“Lovely to meet you,” Sylvain intoned. “I did get a sense that ram’s a bit of a size queen. You’re rather well endowed, Milo.”

“Thank you…?”

“But I digress.” He reached up with his other hand and unlinked the chain of the watch, before letting it dangle in the air.

”Can you see your reflection in the watch-face Milo?”

“yes…” the deer murmured softly, his eyelids starting to flutter.

”And can you hear the ticking?”

It was so soft, barely audible. Milo tried to listen, confused, really straining his ears. Which warmed him up for Sylvain’s claw at his ear to deliver a sharp snap.

”Sleep, Milo, Sleep,” Sylvain commanded, his arms outstretched to catch the deer as he fell directly into the bird’s shoulder with a groan.

“That’s right. Deeply asleep, feeling so good…” The finch held him close and stabilised him, feeling his slow breath against his neck, before guiding him down slowly to his knees. He was going to let him lie down entirely, but… something stopped him when the deer’s snout was at eye level with his pelvis.

It was remarkably easy to put him under, Sylvain thought. Satisfyingly so. His rudimentary practice in mesmerism he received from that apothecary in Guam was paying unexpected dividends.

And he felt a desire to take out some of that erstwhile frustration. Who knew how long the morning mediation would go, anyway? He had time to deal with this.

He eased aside his robes and let his shaft drape over the dizzy deer’s face.

The question as to why he was doing so didn’t cross his mind. He was horny. He needed release. Milo was here, and he would do very nicely.

“Do you really want my watch in return for your silence, Milo?” Sylvain asked. “I think you would like something else. What you really want is to experience the pleasures of the flesh, ouais?”

He slid his hand down to stroke the contour of the bulge between the dizzy deer’s legs.

“I think you might like to fuck me instead. Is there a quiet space we might use?”

“Yes… in the back of the villa there’s a greenhouse where we grow all the moss. No one’s in there right now because it gets really warm at midday…”

Sylvain couldn’t believe his luck. How delightfully convenient. He could get his satisfaction and deal with the drug in one fell swoop.

”Why don’t you tell me more, Milo. How do we get there? Would you mind giving me some directions?”

Milo dizzily nuzzled into Sylvain’s shaft, his tongue lolling and lapping as he started to take

“Yes…”

It was hard not to want to fuck the deer’s mouth right then and there… but he had work to do.

“Up up, now, focus.” Sylvain dangled the watch and drew the sleepy cervine’s gaze up. Milo stumbled shakily to his feet, his neck craned to follow as he got upright.

“Let’s go, now, quickly,” Sylvain said. “We don’t want anyone finding out before we have our fun, right-?”

THUMP.

Sylvain’s head rang, and it took him a moment to catch up with himself and realise he’d been hit over the head. He’d been snuck up on a second time… sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

He collapsed to the floor, still smelling and tasting the smoke. But through it, he could see the figure approaching and looming over him. He half expected it to be the bull, or one of the burlier acolytes.

Instead, it was that rather plump and petite cowgirl, pink-haired and blushy-faced… and notably, no longer dressed in the smock from before. She wore a skin-tight, dark-red catsuit, the colour of an overripe strawberry.

The deja vu hit again, too late now… he’d seen her face in a dossier before.

“I’m very sorry you didn’t find the initial ceremony to your liking,” Fraise said, wearing a subtly contemptuous smile.

Sylvain couldn’t find a retort in his swimming head before he collapsed, unconscious.

-

The cords around O.S.S. Cent Dix-Serin were primitive, but very firm. They were particularly uncomfortable around his wings, seeing as they were bent together a little awkwardly. He was still clothed.

He was still in that living room space. Music was playing on a record player, surrounding them from several large Hi-Fi speakers. A familiar Hibernian-accented voice crooned from the speakers, surrounding the room.

“In the glitter of life

Free from all strife

You greet all your dreams with a smile…

Just follow your senses

Your mind’s defences

Won’t bring your life joy, Divine Child…”

Sylvain was pulled up to his knees by a strawberry-scented hand. There, sitting in front of him, was the Conduit himself. His physicality was completely different - for one thing, he was lounging on the couch with his hooves up. He seemed like he’d shed a couple of decades.

Sylvain noticed the sheep was wearing his watch.

Kasimir laconically puffed on a thick cigar, ashing it out on the floor.

From this distance, Sylvain could see a little blue strip of paper around the base - the colour was familiar. As was the colour of the paint daubed on the ram’s horns and hooves for that matter. But where had he seen it before…?

“What d’ya think of the song?” Owczarek sounded much younger now, not to mention far less ascetic. Gone was the soft quivering tone and the slow, arthritic movements. Now he sat and spoke with the swagger of a delinquent child. “I think the lyrics are a bit basic, but Wesley’s getting there. Isn’t that right, Wes?”

Kasimir’s leg slid off of the couch, and rested on the face of the goat who’d brushed past them so rudely earlier.

“Yes, Master…” the goat moaned, nude and undulating his hips as if bucking against a lover’s shaft. He licked and kissed at the sapphire hooves dutifully, his whole body writhing like a snake’s as he stroked at his shaft without a care in the world.

“Eventually, though, this song’ll be perfect,” The sheep added. “Ready for release… and all those sweet sweet royalties. Unless I keep it for my own private collection, of course.”

“Wesley O’Loughlin…” Sylvain murmured. Of course... that’s where he’d seen him before. He was aware that the famous singer-songwriter had been evading the spotlight for some time to work on something new. He certainly was working hard on Kasimir’s lower extremities.

“I should hardly be surprised,” Sylvain continued, fighting to get his articulation back. “I take it you get some enjoyment over having celebrities worship you, Mr. Owczarek?”

“Eh.” Kasimir said with a shrug, wafting the pungent cigar smoke into the air. “It’s a nice perk, for sure?”

He pushed his hoof against the goat’s lips, and the sluggish caprine tongue slowly worked over the hoof-toes. The goat’s dark eyes still sparkled even now; it seemed that spell was long-lasting, well conditioned into him over many, many visits.

“But… you’re not here because you’re a star-fucker, are you?” Kasimir’s head was still turned away; though it’d be impossible to tell if the sheep was even making eye contact with the finch, with his eyes still covered.

Kasimir Owczarek pushed up, pushing Wes onto his back. The goat played out on the floor, his hand lazily making its way to rub his cock.

“You’re here,” Owczarek continued, “Because you’re Interpol’s little ptak domowy. OSS Cent Dix-Serin, yeah?”

Sylvain remained quiet. He intended on letting Owczarek. Megalomaniacs loved to talk.

Owczarek ashed a bit of his cigar over Wes’ belly, letting it drift down and sprinkle over the reddish fur.

“So, you’re wondering if all those rumours and intel you’ve been gathering are true? It’s true. Being a spiritual leader gives you power and influence like you wouldn’t even believe. The things I’ve learned about the upper echelons of you decadent capitalists… not to mention the so-called ‘men of the people behind the iron curtain? The whole thing’s rotten, top to bottom. I’m more than happy to use things like this to help the Boss tear it all down, start again.”

“The Boss?” Sylvain asked.

“Oop, nearly let it slip!” Owczarek said. “Man, keeping up that ‘ohhh I’m a conduit, bathe in the divine, blah blah blah’ crap really is exhausting. It gives me loose lips when I cut loose… Let’s cut to the chase.”

“So, do you intend on turning me into another asset?” Sylvain tried to keep his calm, glancing through the room to seek an avenue of escape. His arms and wings were bound, but his legs weren’t. If he could get one good kick, or throw the cow off of him…

“No, Agent Finch. I’ve got plenty of those…” Owczarek spread his legs wide, his maleness still standing to attention. “You might be one of the best, but I’ve got plenty of the rest. You’d make a great butler, maybe a fuck-toy too… for me, or for, well - nah, let’s keep that a surprise. First, we gotta break you down like the others.”

The sheep whistled through his buck-teeth. A donkey sleep-walked into view, cradling a bowl in his hands. It was Otis. The dazed donkey stood at priapic attention, his cock throbbing and his face wearing a gently drooling smile.

“This pretty hunk of meat helped us locate you,” Owczarek said with a smirk. He blew out one last ring of cigar smoke before reaching to the bowl and throwing the moss into his mouth.

“You were going to fuck him, weren’t you? Couldn’t resist the urge to seduce some feeble minded American? You practically gave your identity away. To a reporter! You kretyn.”

As he chewed, Owczarek reached out to idly stroke Otis’ cock. Wisps of colourful vapour seemed to emit from his mouth as he spoke, like steam from a freshly drawn bath.

“This stuff’s great. I call it Wypas. Because it’s pretty wypas… that’s a bit of slang from my home country. You can figure out roughly what it means, you’re no idiot. Are you?”

The ram paused for a moment, just to let an ambiguous pause hang.

“This algae can grow in any body of water, plus it’s got incredible mind-altering properties. Seriously, this stuff gave me some of the best trips of my life. Unfortunately I used it a bit too often, and now it doesn’t do anything for me anymore. However, if I chew it, it seems to boost its strength a bit. Plus… it makes whoever tastes it do whatever I want. Turns them into a loyal zombie.”

Sylvain watched the circular motion of the sheep’s jaw, but his full attention was on his bound wrists. All the gadgets he’d hidden under the flowing clothes were confiscated, save for one thing that was more difficult to catch: a tiny file hidden just along his middle finger. He slowly stroked at his bonds, feeling fibre after fibre of the cord slowly give way.

“Alrighty.” Kasimir stood up, chewing on the moss like it was a piece of gum. “Let’s get down to it. Fraise, if you wouldn’t mind…”

Fraise gripped Sylvain’s head still, her fingers forcing his beak open. Owczarek stooped down in front of him, one of his hands sliding along the bird’s inner thigh and up under the smock towards his shaft.

In spite of everything, he was aroused. Kasimir cradled Sylvain’s package while the agent did his best not to react. Kasimir’s fingers gently rolled along it, a knowing nod following the invasive appraisal.

“Mmh… yes, not bad. Not as good as Otis there, but you’ll make for a good fuck.”

His voice dropped to that soft quivering drone again. “Are you prepared to bathe in the vibrations of the Divine, my fellow traveller?”

The ram opened his mouth as if to kiss him, the little piece of moss resting on his tongue. The ram’s steamy breath washed over him, bittersweet and floral. Sylvain could already feel his body weakening.

He remembered how blissful they all looked in that temple; how blissful Otis looked right now out of the corner of his eye. He could feel his body surging towards those lips. And the ram’s paw was gentle against his balls, carrying with it a promise of far more pleasure.

The idea of betraying his ideals and leaving his old life behind whispered to him seductively. He could taste the moss, let his mind turn to wool, and never want for anything ever again…

A fleck of moss slipped into Sylvain’s mouth, wicked from that slowly approaching tongue. The bitter taste stuck to his tongue and the effect was almost instantaneous. It brought him right back to those feelings teased at his mind in that initiation ceremony: The smoke… the sound. It was as though he was pulled back through time, only now he was feeling it one-on-one, directly in front of the ram.

Kasimir’s blue horns seemed to shine like diamonds. His breath was rainbow steam. His russet wool seemed to billow like wheat fields blown by an unseen breeze. The ram looked as entrancingly transcendent as he claimed he was. Maybe… maybe he was, Sylvain wondered.

The sheep’s lips parted a little more and the invasive tongue quested past the tip of his beak… about to send him into blissful oblivion.

Thankfully, his hands hadn’t faltered in their task. The soft snap and release of those cut bonds snapped him out of his stupor and pulled him back from the brink.

There was still a fraction of a second to react.

Just before Owczarek’s tongue touched Sylvain’s beak, the last bit of the bonds around his wrists gave way. He swung up with an elbow that cleanly connected with the sheep’s chin. Owczarek’s teeth guillotined the tip of his tongue, drawing blood as he fell back screaming invective in his mother tongue. As the sheep fell back, Sylvain reached out and grasped his thin wrist, slipping the stolen watch off it and back where it belonged on his wrist. He spat that crumb of algae from his mouth for good measure.

Fraise attempted to throttle him, but before she could get to work on his windpipe he pulled forward and sent her flying through the air, crashing against Wes’ prone body. His talons sheared the bonds around his wings, and he was fully freed.

Sylvain looked at Otis. He was staring blissfully into space without a care in the world, only faintly aware of the chaos unfolding.

He was a liability, but at the same time, Sylvain couldn’t leave him there. He felt shame for putting the reporter in this particular predicament. Sentiment made him grab the donkey by the wrist and drag him out of the room.

All he needed to do was get back down to the basement, to beat a hasty escape on one of those boats.

He still had the layout of the place in his mind’s eye, thanks to the microfilm he’d memorised on the ride in. Otis was slowing him down with his loping strides, but he refused to leave him behind.

A marten came up on them from around a corner, but a quick chop to the back of the neck sent him sprawling to the ground and left his pistol scattering across the floor.

“Let’s keep moving, one step at a time,” Sylvain said as he reached down to grab the pistol. Up ahead, more henchmen were approaching. Sylvain squeezed off a few warning shots, making the untrained men flinch and flail back.

This villa was bigger than he remembered, more labyrinthine too. This didn’t match the plans in his head…

There was no time to live in the past. He had to remain present, where he was - follow his senses, not his mind. Sylvain’s senses knew which way he was going. Even though the halls seemed to stretch on, the paths seemed to wind. He would find an escape route. For both of them.

Otis’ footfalls gradually got more sturdy and stable, and by the time they found the entrance to the greenhouse he was able to walk again. He was still in a haze, though.

The heat and humidity hit Sylvain almost immediately as they burst into the greenhouse. The sky was turning a purple amber colour; the entire day had passed by while he was out. A glass dome overlooked the ocean, positioned at the right angle to get every bit of sunlight a day could offer. They were on a walkway, and a small freight elevator and set of stairs led down to the tiled floor below. Perhaps it was a poolside lounge, once upon a time.

They could hear the sound of a constant whirring, and with it the churning of the fluid below. The moss - Wypas, the sheep had called it - flowed along long, winding racetrack-like paths, constantly agitated by machines that raked long thick paddles through them. The room was bathed in the insectoid buzz of UV lights overhead.

“So this is where they cultivate their cud,” Sylvain said.

A familiar scent reached their nostrils, causing Otis to tangibly sag again with a dazed groan.

Just the whiff of it was enough to seemingly entrance Otis again.

He set the heavy donkey down, glancing behind him and listening closely for footfalls. He slapped Otis’ sagging face a couple of times.

“Syl…vain?” Otis moaned, shaking his head.

“Stay with me, friend,” Sylvain said to the distant donkey. The bird nuzzled his beak against the donkey’s face. “Wake up. Push it out of your system. We’re almost free…”

“Yes… I’m… nngh…”

Otis was so handsome. And his dazed expression just filled Sylvain with intense lust. Now was not the time.

Especially with an assassin moving in for the kill just behind him.

Sylvain could hear her coming this time. He ducked and pulled Otis down as well, just before a high-heeled boot dented the wall behind him. Sylvain swept his leg around and Fraise leapt back to evade. As he trained his pistol on her she froze in place, her hand inches away from the Skorpion machine-gun at her hip.

Her silhouette, and the sheen of that pink bodysuit, twigged Sylvain to an old dossier he’d idly leafed through half a year previous.

“Of course… I should have recognized you earlier, Fraise Demüne. I hope Mr. Owczarek’s been paying you well.”

“That wool-brain?” Fraise scoffed. “He’s not my paymaster. And - I’m sorry - but don’t you think it’s a little gauche to discuss salaries right now? We have business to conduct.”

“Quite,” Sylvain said, slowly rising to his feet.

“I’m sorry to have to do this to you,” the cow said, before inhaling once, sharply, through her nose.

Sylvain was not afforded much time to steel himself before the cow lashed out with a vicious kick to his gun hand, sending the pistol scattering away. It left him off balance enough for a follow-up strike to the stomach. He doubled over, winded, allowing Fraise to grab him and fling him over the railing. His wings beat to slow his fall a little, just enough that he was able to tuck and roll and avoid cracking a rib on the floor. But she had the high ground.

He looked up in time to see her brandishing her gun.

There was nowhere to hide… save for one spot.

As she opened fire and sprayed hot lead across the greenhouse floor, he ran under the walkway for cover. He ignored the sting of the bullets nicking his wings as he made it underneath.

He could picture her next move; the loud clang of her hoof-steps were leading her towards the railing. He spied a wrench discarded close by, left by some careless maintenance-man most likely. He grabbed it, and reared up to throw it just as Fraise leaned in, hanging upside down from her knees with her gun trained on him.

He flung the wrench and it spun through the air towards Fraise’s face. she flinched and tried to evade it, her next spray going wide. This allowed Sylvain to beat his wings, ignoring the biting pain with each flap, and leap up to grab her around the torso and throw her off the balcony. She plummeted into the tank, splashing green algae all over the room. It took no time for her to recombobulate, climb out of the tank, and get back upright. It was good for her, too - that water moved fast and the paddles looked quite sturdy.

Fraise Demüne closed the gap between them with a graceful yet weighty leap. The cow’s face was still dead-set and professional as she rained blow after blow into the bird. She was quick, but her toned limbs hit with the force of truncheons. After blocking the first few fists and elbows, his arms stung. He couldn’t sustain his defences, each limb weaving closer and closer to his torso.

Sylvain ducked low and brought a talon around to sweep the leg. She leapt back, but Sylvain immediately lashed out with the same leg and grabbed her around the ankle, tripping her up and throwing her down. In spite of the crack of spine against tile, she leapt up in an instant and redoubled her assault. She grabbed hold of him - one arm under his thigh, the other digging into his shoulder - and flung him back-first into the wall. His wings took the brunt of it, but he fell to the ground breathless.

There was no time to regain that breath either. Sylvain rolled out of the way of a skull-shattering kick and got out from the corner beneath the walkway.

Fraise Demüne’s build and height belied her speed, flexibility, and strength. Each of her limbs had its own body count. Sylvain was not surviving this one unless he played it smart.

His talons gave him a bit more purchase on the now slick floor. If he could control the battlefield, he’d have a better chance of surviving… or at least stalling for time.

She moved in, shaking her arms in two whipcrack motions before bringing them up in front of her face. Now she planted herself and fought like a prizefighter. Sylvain had difficulty keeping up, constantly needing to reposition. His vision was swimming with his proximity to the moss, too… the scent was affecting him now. That brief taste had left him sluggish, making every punch feel like it was sailing through a cloud. Fraise’s white and pink fur seemed to breathe and ripple too, like still-drying watercolour paint sliding along a canvas.

She was beautiful.

Merde, he thought, that moss is potent…

She saw he was faltering… and there was the hint of a smile on her face now, cracking that professional veneer. His wings ached - he didn’t have much left in them. He had only one more chance of using the sky to his advantage before his wings would give out. He beat his wings to push her back and took off above her, mustering all his might to head straight for the discarded Skorpion. Sylvain swooped in quickly, only barely managing to land on it and kick it away.

“You’re as capable as P.E.A.C.O.C.K. says you are, Agent Finch,” Fraise growled. “You’re a far better fight than 009 was. But I broke him… same as I’ll break you!”

The cow took a running leap at him - an audacious move so badly-telegraphed that Sylvain was caught off guard. She grabbed him around the midsection and ran. Sylvain’s flapping did nothing to slow her down as she threw him directly against the tank. His head slammed against the rim of the raceway tank, his ears ringing and head swimming. She caught him with another blow across the face that left blood dripping from his beak. Her hands enclosed tightly around his throat and pushed him over the edge of the tank. She was trying to push him in. To drown him or at the very least force some of the fresh moss into his mouth. He felt queasy - an internal assault of fear, anticipation, and just the natural intoxicating fumes of the mixture below.

”Sorry to force this down your throat,” she growled, “but I assume you’d prefer obedience to death, unlike your British friend!”

Her downward pressing force brought him closer to the edge. Despite fighting with all his might, it wasn’t long before he felt the slick moss brush against the top of his head.

At that moment, a loud buzzer sounded and the greenhouse was suddenly bathed in red as a repetitive buzz began to reverberate through the room.

ALERT.

SELF DESTRUCT INITIATED.

PLEASE EVACUATE TO THE DESIGNATED MEETING POINT.

It was the exact same alarm Sylvain remembered from the ergot factory in Amsterdam, how strange…

He felt Fraise’s grip on his throat slacken - just a little - but her weight was still pressing into him. A glint of sunlight came in through the ceiling, shining in Sylvain’s eyes. Thinking quickly, he brought his wrist up and tilted the shining watch to direct a bright flash into the cow’s eyes. She grunted and pushed forward with even more force. Sylvain utilised that momentum with a knee to the gut, pushing up and sending her sailing into the tank once again. It was only as he did so that he noticed how close downstream they were to one of those constantly churning paddles - and that she was flying headfirst towards it.

He didn’t watch what came next, but he heard the splashing, the sound of the machinery juddering against a jamming body, a frantic, pained scream, and finally a long series of wet, grinding crunches.

“Fraise! What the HELL is going on!”

Sylvain noticed something on the floor next to him - presumably it had fallen off of the deceased cow’s belt amidst their fight. The discarded radio crackled with Kasimir’s voice. “As soon as you’ve dealt with the agent, meet me at the houseboat - Fraise?!”

Sylvain picked the radio up.

“I’m afraid your strawberry found herself in a bit of a jam.”

Owczarek cursed up a storm; Sylvain didn’t feel a need to listen in.

“Urk-”

Sylvain saw Otis huddled in the corner, standing close to a control panel of some sort. He was also very pointedly trying not to look, perhaps not doing the best job.

“I uh… found a self-destruct button,”

”Convenient,” Sylvain said with a quirked eyebrow.

“There’s a way out over here,” Otis continued, pointing his thumb at a doorway just next to him. As Sylvain caught up, the donkey passed Sylvain the pistol he’d dropped.

“Merci,” he said, his hand stroking along Otis’ snout.

“Gosh…”

They left the greenhouse behind as the tank turned from green to a yellow-ish brown.

The doorway took them down a long flight of stairs. The tunnel ahead seemed to be just carved rock, devoid of the decorations the rest of the building had to offer.

Every little shadow and shade of the stone seemed to reach out to Sylvain. He was seeing unexpected colour behind his eyes every time he blinked. It pulled at his focus and threatened to pull him into slumber. Now would be the worst time… he just had to hold on to himself a little longer. He would escape with Otis, he would sleep and detoxify, and all would be well. He had to remember that…

They came across a small cove at the bottom of that staircase, on which there was a gently bobbing houseboat ready to be unmoored from the dock. Another one of those shallow tanks full of algal bloom was close by too; big enough to fit a person inside, and small enough to get it on board.

“There’s our escape route,” Sylvain said. “Come on.”

They hurried down the steps towards the boat. Sylvain leapt aboard first; hotwiring a boat like this was like hotwiring a Peugeot. A simple enough task.

He hurried to the driver’s seat right in the middle. He slipped the file out from his palm and began to tinker with the lock, not realising the extent of tunnel vision his focus begot.

“Zostán, Agent Finch!”

Sylvain looked up from where he was. Otis had never made it on the boat. He was currently swaying in place, with that faraway dreamlike look back on his face. Smoke was whirling around his sleepy head, blown from the lips of the ram who only came up to about his chest.

Kasimir Owczarek, the Conduit, had a revolver jammed directly into the soft flesh of the donkey’s gut.

“I know killers like you don’t have much of a conscience… but I do happen to know you have some feelings for this delicious hunk of meat. You’d hate to see him die, wouldn’t you?”

Sylvain remained quiet, hunched, watching for a moment to strike. He had maybe enough time to squeeze off one shot. Aiming for Kasimir himself was too risky.

But that backup algae tank was close behind…

“So, friend, I think you ought to throw whatever weapons you’ve got overboard and allow me on. This here’s all that’s left of my supply after you contaminated the rest of it with cowgirl guts… so we’ll need to take it with us. We can start this whole commune over again, have some fun, make some money… or I just blow Otis and you away and take it all for myself. Up to you, ptak domowy.”

Sylvain stood up and aimed his pistol - directly at Otis’ head. The sheep flinched, his eyes going wide. It was the look of a coward whose bluff had just been called. But he quickly regained his composure, aiming his gun at Sylvain.

“H-hah!” the sheep bleat-laughed. “Kretyn! You shoot him, and I’ll shoot you back…!”

His grip was shaky, hoof-finger was on the trigger dangerously close to squeezing. Sylvain remained still and calm.

“You’re welcome to try,” Sylvain said, closing his left eye so his right looked directly down the sight. The threat would hopefully kick Otis’ mind back in gear…

Otis’s far off gaze began to shift again. He blinked rapidly. Yes, it was working…

“Huhn..?” Otis grunted. Kasimir’s head whipped towards him.

Sylvain was impressed by how quickly Otis’ fight-or-flight instincts flung into action; he shoulder-checked the sheep to push him away, then lashed out with a suitably strong kick. The blow sent the ram reeling back against the stone wall, his gun clattering to the floor. It went off with a report that echoed through the cavern. The bullet impacted with the tank of algae close by. A spiderweb of cracks spread along it, water bleeding through the gaping hole until it broke apart and its contents poured out. The green moss slowly sloughed off the side of the sloped rock and crept towards the cove’s sea water.

“Nie, NIE!” Owczarek scrambled towards the puddle on all fours, his hooves clacking against the stone. He tried to grab a handful, but slipped and fell on his face into the mess. The slick algae carried him right down into the spreading puddle of green across the water’s surface. He screamed with fear as he plunged over the side of the rock and into the depths.

Sylvain and Otis approached the edge carefully to watch what came next.

Kasimir sputtered and yelped each time he came up for air. The algal bloom spread around him and coated his wool with a sheen of green. He tried desperately to keep himself above the surface, but the water was saturating him, adding more and more weight by the second. As the puffy wool turned slick and compact, it hugged Kasimir’s head and seemed to part like a pair of curtains. Sylvain finally got a look into the windows of the Conduit’s eyes.

There was a deep terror in the ungulate’s blue, square-pupils, but only for a moment; his panic quite began to settle as his pupils expanded. A serene smile spread over his face while his eyes began to sparkle and his thrashing ceased. For a moment, he bobbed above the surface like a buoy, but the wet wool’s pull became too great. Kasimir Owczarek’s gently smiling snout was the last thing that could be seen as he sank under the surface. Bubbles rose from where he sank, but their appearance became more intermittent until eventually they stopped entirely and the puddle of algae collected over the undisturbed pool.

“One last bath in the Divine,” Sylvain mused. “Come along Otis. Let’s get you back to the mainland.”

The visibly shaken donkey nodded grimly before hurrying onto the boat. He couldn’t blame the poor thing’s shakiness; seeing two deaths in quick succession would have that effect.

Sylvain finished his work on the lock, hotwiring the boat and making its engines growl to life, churning up froth as it did.

A particularly loud and bright explosion illuminated the dark chamber with golden light for a moment, and the finch wasted no time in flooring it. Otis clung on tight to the nearest secure thing he could find, yelping with fear as his hair whipped in the wind.

The sun was setting, bathing the sky in an orange glow far less oppressive and dangerous than the explosive flames inside. The boat rapidly slowed, giving Otis a chance to breathe and release himself from his bonds.

Sylvain couldn’t help but smile knowingly. The poor thing. He was wrapped up in something far above his normal purview… it was lucky that he was under Syvain’s wing, so to speak.

“Look, Sylvain!” Otis was pointing over Sylvain’s shoulder at the almost cinematic scene behind them.

Sure enough, the whole complex was in flames, visibly crumbling to pieces even from where they were. The central temple had gone up like a roman candle in particular; cheaply, quickly made material tended to burn quite easily. He’d called it.

Mercifully, all those hapless tourists seemed to have swarmed on the beach, ant-like from this distance.

“So, what now…?” Otis asked. “Should we go help them?”

“I don’t think there’s a need for that,” Sylvain said, leaving the controls behind and approaching Otis. The donkey looked exhausted and sweaty, but his dark eyes glistened so beautifully in the evening night. “I think we take up plenty of space as is.”

Sylvain rubbed his beak against Otis’ lips and guided his tongue between them. The boat rocked gently as the agent pushed the reporter against a post, sliding his smock aside and reaching down to take his shaft in hand. Otis was only stiff for a moment before he relented to that kiss. Their tongues danced, their breath mingled.

Otis was an admittedly mediocre kisser, but his tongue was warm and delicious nonetheless. His scent, strangely sweet and floral in spite of their exertion, washed over Sylvain and spurred him on. He pulled at Otis’ smock and lifted it up, his claws digging into the flesh of his rump cheeks.

“G-gosh…!” Otis’ hips pressed against Sylvain’s and his eyelids fluttered. His eyes seemed to sparkle. Was he slipping again?

“Would you like to taste me elsewhere?” Sylvain purred, eye to eye with him.

“Yes, Sir…” Otis whispered.

“How very polite,” Sylvain said. “Are you still in an obedient mood? Perhaps I can indulge you. If you focus on me, and my voice, and my taste…”

Otis’ face visibly grew slacker and his jaw hung lower, his body weight pitching towards the bird.

Sylvain cooed to Otis as he guided the donkey down onto his back. He looked so dazed, so helpless, so needful.

Poor thing was going to get his heart broken… not that it would be Sylvain’s problem.

Sylvain knelt before Otis, stroking his face and guiding his waiting muzzle towards the agent’s shaft.

Otis’ mouth tasted exquisite around his cock. No… it smelt exquisite? Felt? Felt.

…Why was the boat not rocking? They were not moving, and the waves should have been pitching them just a little. But it was perfectly still.

Sylvain’s mind wandered.

Why had the architecture seemed so different? And that self-destruct siren…

And Owczarek’s mention of the Boss.

Was the ram another feather in P.E.A.C.O.C.K.’s plumage?

…That was irrelevant for now, something to save for the briefing.

For now, Sylvain and his reporter friend could spend a little time rocking the boat.

O.S.S CENT DIX-SERIN WILL RETURN

…?

-

Sylvain bucked against Otis’ face as the donkey reclined on his back.

“G..gosh…” Otis gasped as he came up for air. Sylvain’s taloned fingers stroked his face, his thumb pushing into his mouth for a moment. As soon as the thumb was removed, Otis pushed forward, wrapping his lips around the cock again, feeling the hips surge against his face. The donkey’s shaft was at attention, buried deep in something warm and tight.

Sylvain’s mind swam. Otis’ mouth around his cock tasted like a fine dessert. It smelled like an intoxicating perfume. Every sensation passed through all five senses, mingling and surprising him endlessly. And to think not too long ago he was limiting himself to experiencing the world through the distortions of logic…

Not that he was thinking. The constant novelty of new experiences, new stimulations, kept him free of that desire to think. The colour of the smoke, the music of the taste of the moss in his mouth... He was bathing in the vibrations of the Divine, along with Otis, and with each and every follower of the Conduit.

He continued to chew on the moss as it melted in his mouth, savouring its bitter bliss as it trickled from his mouth, to his nose, to his eyes, to his ears. It was the third helping the Conduit had given him after that first ‘kiss’. He looked at the Conduit, who was squatting across from him at the other end of Otis’ torso.

Otis’ own hips bucked and thrust upwards, each one pushing out a gasping bleat of pleasure from the ram, along with a firm, intense clench.

Kasimir Owczarek leaned his head back and groaned with pleasure, looking a little breathless. He reached down to stroke Otis’ chin, and watched his throat bulge with each new thrust Sylvain made.

“Cholera Jasna, where has a cock like yours been all my life…?” Owczarek said, dragging his tongue along Otis’ throat, and breathlessly pistoning his hips down against the donkey’s throbbing cock. “He’s a catch, isn’t he, ptak domowy?”

“Unnh…?” The finch was in a daze. A little giggle escaped his beak along with a little strand of saliva.

“I wonder what sort of dreams you’re having right now…” the ram mused. “Some daring escape? Maybe you blew this place up? You spies love shit like that. You’ll have to tell me all about it once the moss has finished turning your brain to mush.”

Kasimir’s room was a tangled mass of orgiastic bodies. Milo, the deer Sylvain had seduced, was kissing at the bird’s neck and whimpering as the bird stroked his needy, twitching cock. Wes, the erstwhile singer goat, was resting his head on Otis’ stomach, and was kissing and lapping at the ram’s shaft, trying to keep up as Kasimir plunged himself onto the donkey’s dick. Another of Owczarek’s acolytes, a middle-aged, grey-muzzled otter, handed him a long, sweetly-smoking cigarillo. He took a deep draught, the tip turning cherry-red, before blowing ribbons of smoke back into the otter’s mouth with a deep, tongue-twisting kiss.

He came up for air, took one last puff, and passed it down to Wes to let him have his turn. It’d reach Sylvain next, further pickling his brain. By now, the Wypas moss would have dissolved down his throat, its toxins would have settled in his brain, and his mouth would be as empty and open as his pickled mind.

Kasimir was beginning to think that, as handsome as the bird was, his experience as a top agent might come in useful after all. As for Otis, this cute thing could write some puff pieces for him, or maybe ghostwrite his next book - while giving him unending access to that thick piece of meat. He was spoiled for choice with all the horny obedient boys he’d gathered…

“Bathe in the divine, my fellow travellers,” Kasimir said, affecting that doddering guru-voice before cackling again. He bit down hard on his lip and grinned, quivering as his cock jumped and throbbed, oozing pre into the goat’s mouth. He leaned into the bird and dragged his tongue along the slack-face. Enjoying the texture of the plumage against his long tongue and seeing how the pretty ptak domowy barely reacted to the thick trails of saliva on his face.

“Sorry to bother you, Conduit.”

The ram reared up and looked over at the pink, bodysuited cow standing in the doorway of his living room. “Hey, Fraise.”

“The Boss would like to speak with you.”

“Ugh…” Kasimir rolled his eyes like a petulant child. “Tell Gerry I’m on the shitter or something, I’ll be there in five m-minutes.” He pushed his hips right down, wiggling from side to side in an attempt to get himself up to the hilt. “Hnnnh…~”

“He told me to drag you in if I had to,” Fraise said, clearly unamused.

“Kurwa Mac,” Kasimir groaned. “Alright, alright… I’ll speed it up.”

He took hold of Wes’ face and pushed him against his cock, hilting him in the mass of auburn wool as he rolled his hips in circles and pushed down even more firmly. Otis whined and moaned with each clench, gasping out unconscious ‘Gosh’s every so often.

Kasimir grabbed Sylvain by his neck with his other hand and pulled him in for a possessive kiss.

Even in his stupor, the bird showed his new guru just how his countrymen coined the term ‘French Kiss’. It even caught the ram off guard a little, and he chuckled darkly, muffled by the beak.

Milo’s muzzle dutifully moved down Kasimir’s shoulder and into the mass of wool beneath his armpit, and Kasimir lifted his arm to push him right inside and smother him in his aged scent. He clamped down tightly, and the deer whimpered and moaned, taking deep, sharp breaths as he practically came right then and there.

Otis’ thick flare throbbed harder inside him with a sudden stiffening paroxysm… he was close, too. Otis wanted to ride this beautiful prick for hours. Why’d the Boss have to get him now of all times…?

The sparkle-eyed slaves all smothered Kasimir with affection and desire as they pleasured all his favourite parts. That sense of being the centre of attention, that awareness that they were his to puppeteer and play with… it was a far cry from those early, lonely years. Being surrounded with love made him feel whole in a way he’d never felt before.

Though the cock inside him definitely helped.

He looked at Sylvain again. There was a shift in his expression. He looked even more faraway than before, his eyelids fluttering and his head lolling. There was almost nothing left of him in that head…

That delicious sight pushed Kasimir over the edge. His vision blurred, his eyes watered, his orgasm approaching far more rapidly than he’d wanted it to. Curse that inconvenient interruption…

Something strange escaped his throat as he threw his head back.

“Hhhan… gnnnnh~! Th-the Divine… speaks… th-through us all…!”

Kasimir didn’t know where that gasped missive came from. When he bleated out an orgasm, his slaves all moaned in unison. He felt Otis’ cock go tight inside him, and with that, a thick flood filling his insides with an exquisite warmth. He could see the donkey’s throat squeezing and gulping, too, and watched the most deliciously stupid expression spread over the formerly suave and collected bird’s golden face. Solid gone.

In moments like this, where the dozen or so slaves of his came in unison with him… Kasimir could almost believe he did have some deeper, divine connection. He knew better than to get high on his own supply.

As his quivering, tingling, full-bodied climax began to come to an end, his vision unblurred. He wiped his drooling face and looked up at Fraise’s expectant frown.

“Alright, alright, I’m comin…”

He slowly pulled himself up, whistling through his teeth as the donkey’s shaft flopped free, still glistening. He clenched his core and breathed.

“Hooh, okay… play nice, my fellow travellers.” I’m going to meet a good friend of yours, Sylvain!”

The bird was none the wiser, still dazed, eyes still sparkling. Owczarek gave his cheek a few demeaning slaps before turning away.

The sheep waddled stiffly out of the room as he wrapped a sarong around his waist, trying not to let too much of the donkey’s cum dribble out of him.

If Sylvain wasn’t completely lost in the cocktail of drugs, in a haze he’d likely never escape… he would have noticed the symbol on the fabric - a yellow and orange eye on a pale blue backdrop. The symbol of the leader of P.E.A.C.O.C.K.

The symbol of Sylvain De Volière’s nemesis… and soon-to-be Master.