Chapter Text
A Remnant of Dawn
Chapter One
Today was my departure day. I lay on my back in my narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling of my family’s trailer as it trembled with the vibrations of a passing aid convoy. Somewhere beneath the rusting ribs of my settlement, a generator coughed itself awake. An uneven thrum crawled through the ground and into my rundown home, ensuring none would have peace.
The lights in my room flickered to life, buzzing with tired color. Mornings in the enclave were always like this. Rolling brownouts. Random blackouts. Mechanics in the maintenance tunnels beneath our homes are fighting against nature, machines, and each other. Shifts were distributed so that only the most motivated were paid each day.
Dust descended in lazy spirals, catching the flickering lights of my less-than-humble abode. I look up at the ceiling; once white, now a mosaic of cracks and stains. Today, I leave for a new world. One that I hope is better. It has to be. The thought sat heavy on my chest. Not sharp or painful. But there, all the same.
I swung my legs over the side of my bunk. I stood, feeling the cold floor through one of only two pairs of socks that had managed to survive the constant rub of slightly oversized work boots at my daily factory shifts.
The trailer’s floor creaked with every step, as if it protested the idea of my departure. I stopped at the door of my room, listening to the familiar atmosphere of the enclave through the thin sheet metal walls that separated me from prying eyes and thieving hands. Distant shouting, the hiss of steam from ruptured pipes, the skitter of small rodents in our walls.
I had grown used to these sounds. They were the lullabies that eased me to sleep every night. The alarm that woke me each morning. My proof that, no matter how broken, humanity persevered in some form.
The mirror above the sink in my bathroom greeted me, as usual. A stubborn smear of grease that I can’t remove, and a crack that splits the reflection of my face. The thin, cheap glass had bowed over time, making my reflection look odd; long face, narrow shoulders. Hazel eyes—too tired for a twenty-two-year-old. Dirty blonde hair. It fell into my eyes on occasion, no matter what I tried.
I splashed water on my face. Lukewarm and metallic, carrying the taste of recycled… everything. I didn’t bother to shave. No one would care if the first human in Solaris City showed up with a bit of stubble. If anything, it might make me look less like they thought I was.
A ‘Dawn Flower.’
The phrase drifted through my mind like an uninvited guest. It had been brought into common usage decades ago by some anthro poet with a talent for sentimentality. Humans, once this world’s dominant species, are now reduced to fragile blossoms clinging to survival under careful cultivation. Critically endangered. Protected and preserved.
We all hated the term. But loved it as well, in a way none would admit. It implied we were fragile, but resilient. Beautiful, in a way.
“You awake, David?”
My mother’s voice carried the rasp of someone who worked too many shifts, breathing the foul air of a faulty recycling unit in the tunnels below. I turned to see her standing in the living room, leaning against a fragile wall, watching me. Her hair was pulled back in a practical knot, lined with premature silver. She was still wearing her uniform from her shift. A GAC maintenance team nurse.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I answered.
She nodded as her eyes moved past me, taking in the packed duffel bag I left outside the bathroom door. The sight seemed to steal the remaining strength from her posture.
“Well,” she said, “Coffee’s hot. As hot as it ever will get, anyway.”
I followed her to the kitchen. A short walk. I ducked beneath the strange ductwork that had partially collapsed halfway between the dining space and kitchen, even though it cleared my height. Running into it a few times before we managed to prop it up created a habit. The kettle sat on the counter beside two mismatched mugs. One is much larger than the other. We never had creamer, and I hated the bitter taste, but I always drank it anyway for the boost.
I looked down at them. One showed a faded skyline of an ancient, long-forgotten human city. The other had a paw print on it with the words ‘Pack Strong’ underneath, a relic of a GAC outreach campaign. She handed me the skyline mug.
“Thought you might prefer that one,” she sighed, “For… you know.”
Solaris City. I had seen it in videos and in brochures. Sky Piercers lined the city. We once called them Skyscrapers. The difference in vernacular is a subtle sign of how humans and anthro’s thought of the world in different ways.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth, what little there was, soak into my palms, “Thanks.”
We stood in silence, sipping coffee that tasted of burnt plastic and chicory. Outside, a burst of laughter could be heard. Someone else screamed. Life went on, messy as usual.
“I still don’t like it,” she said.
“I know.”
“They’re not human, David.”
I nearly spat coffee with a laugh, “Yeah… I know.”
“What I mean is that they’re very different from us. Average height of eight feet. Fangs and claws. Predators. All of them,” her voice was steady, but it was close to a tremble, “I don’t care what the GAC says about integration. You’ll be alone.”
“I won’t,” I said, though the image of walking the streets alone had haunted my dreams for weeks. “The integration program guarantees housing, free university, faculty assistance when needed, and so much more!”
She snorted, “Housing built for creatures who could use our entire trailer for a storage shed.”
I smiled despite our continued disagreement, “I’ll manage, mom.”
She studied my eyes, then my face. Trying to memorize it like she’d never see it again, as if I were a sailor of yore, doomed by the storms of the Atlantic. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. My mother was small, even by human standards, but her grip was surprisingly firm. She smelled of iodine and sanitizer. A scent that meant home. A scent I’d never forget.
“Just promise you’ll be careful,” she murmured, “And don’t let them decide who you are.”
“I won’t.”
The front door slammed open, making us jump as if in sync.
“You’re really doing it.”
My little sister didn’t bother to hide her scowl. Lena leaned against the frame, arms crossed. Her expression was so sharp it could cut paper. She had inherited our father’s dark hair and his talent for turning anger into a shield.
“Leaving us here,” she snapped, “Running off to play pet for animals.”
“That’s not fair,” mom interrupted.
Lena waved a hand, “Isn’t it? He gets to live in some advanced anthro city while the rest of us stay here to rot.”
“I didn’t choose to be born in this enclave,” I said quietly, “And I didn’t choose the course of history.”
“No,” she shot back, “But you are choosing to leave.”
Her words cut deep, “I’m choosing to try to make things better for all of us. Someone has to.”
She laughed, abrupt and bitter, “Don’t forget us while you sit in their laps.”
The silence that fell over our small trailer drowned out the sounds from outside.
“I’ll send messages as often as I can.”
“Don’t waste your time,” she said, turning away, “We’ll see how long they let you pretend you’re still a human and not a pet.”
The door slammed behind her, shaking the entire wall.
Mom closed her eyes then sighed before reopening them, her composure collected once more, “She’ll come around.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I set my half-full mug on the sink. The time had come. My duffel waited for me, scuffed and overstuffed with my meager possessions and a few pairs of clothes. I slung it over my shoulder, feeling comfort in its weight. Inside was my entire life, distilled into a single bag.
A faded paper photograph of my family, before it fractured. A worn journal, filled with observations, questions, dreams, and sketches. A few preserved rations, more for comfort and familiarity than necessity. Two days of clothes. That was it. Everything I had.
Mom walked with me to the edge of the enclave, past rusted and dilapidated trailers that were smashed together and long forgotten. Past alleys that smelled of foul and stagnant water, where neon lights reflected. People watched us pass. Some stared. Many turned away, as if I were a traitor they couldn’t stand to see.
At the transport platform, a shuttle waited. It was sleek and white. Impossibly clean with a surface unmarred by graffiti, bullet holes, or rust. The GAC symbol sat proudly on its side; a stylized globe encircled by paw prints. The door opened, seeming to sense my approach, and a ramp extended down to the cracked pavement.
I turned to my mom, one last time.
“I love you.”
She smiled, her eyes watery, “Go and show them what humans can do. Show them we are strong in ways they aren’t.”
I stepped onto the ramp, and the shuttle’s interior swallowed me. The seats were enormous, molded for bodies twice my size. I climbed into one and had to knot the seatbelt across my chest, pulling it tight. I felt like a child in a booster seat. My feet didn’t even touch the floor.
As the doors sealed with a hiss, the enclave fell away behind the shuttle’s glass. I watched it shrink as engines hummed, quiet and efficient. No sputtering or coughing like the ones I’d grown up with. We lifted into the air, and the sprawl of the enclave blurred into a patchwork of mismatched colors and rust, then finally into nothing as it settled in the cloud. I leaned into my seat, heart pounding. This is safe, I keep telling myself, they know what they’re doing with this technology.
I’d read that humans flew all the time before the Old World fell, but now it was reserved for those who chose to integrate or our few politicians. Somewhere between the ground and the sky, a door slid open near the front of the shuttle, and a mink stepped out. Her movements were precise and gentle. She smiled down at me, no teeth shown.
“David Stone?”
“That’s me,” I swallowed. I’d only seen a few anthros up close before. My factory’s owner, who stopped in on occasion but never said anything, and the aid convoys that would pass through the enclave.
“I’ll be your liaison for the duration of the flight,” she said, “If you have any questions about the Human Integration Project, HIP, now is a good time.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“How many of us are there?” I asked, “The brochures don’t say.”
She tapped a sleek device that fit around her wrist. It projected a small holographic display, “In this region? Thirty-eight, including you. Over the last five years.”
The numbers were small, but it proved I wasn’t alone. That others wanted change like me. The shuttle surged forward, carrying us towards a city of giants and a future I couldn’t quite imagine.
“If that’s all, I’ll let you rest. I’m sure you have a lot on your mind, little one.”
I nodded to her and watched as she disappeared through the sliding door again. I closed my eyes, letting the gentle hum of the engines drown my doubts. The enclave was behind me. The New World waited.
At some point, a subtle shift in the output of the engines made me open my eyes. I glanced out the nearby window as we broke through the clouds. I stared up at the curved ceiling of the shuttle, where seamless panels fooled my eyes into thinking it was one monolithic piece.
I wondered how long it had been since something similar to this had been built with the design intended for humans. Maybe never. The attendant returned, an electronic pad in her paws. Her claws pressed into it, and I wondered how it would hold up to them.
“It’s loaded with orientation material. It’s not required viewing, but I’d definitely recommend it. It’ll help ease you in.”
I nodded and took the datapad. I glanced over it, looking for scratches where her claws had pressed into it. Nothing. No damage. Not even a scuff. I leaned back into my headrest. Extra words could wait for a little longer. My mind screamed loud enough on its own.
The enclave was already a shrinking memory, but it clung like a tick. Images flashed through my mind’s eye. The alley where I’d gouged my knee as a kid, blood mixing with oil-slick rainwater. The market, made of makeshift stalls and rundown trailers torn into sections. The nightly fires, burning in barrels, people clustered close. Not for warmth, but for reassurance that humans still stood together.
We had survived. Even if barely. That counted… for something.
I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make me feel as if I were sitting in the wrong seat. Something far too significant for my comfort. The seat contours pressed awkwardly into thighs, clearly designed for digitigrade legs and larger frames. I swung my feet a few times and then stopped, self-conscious even though I was alone in my row.
A flicker of motion caught my eye. Across the aisle and two rows behind me, an anthro reclined. A bear, judging by the muzzle and massive stature. He wore business attire, the jacket loose across his chest. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and steady.
I wondered what he dreamed of. Did he think of the war the way humans do? As a thing that had stolen our dominance, to never be returned? Or was it just history, a little bit of myth layered with honor and necessity?
The Dawn Flower War had ended ninety years ago, but its shadow still stretched over humanity. I’d learned about it the way all human kids did in the enclaves. Fragmented lessons and stories that changed depending on who told them. We were told that humanity had overreached and clung too tightly to control as the world changed around us. We were told the anthros had risen against us in response, unified by necessity. Predator species forming alliances where none had existed before. It was brutal, fast, and final.
What we weren’t told was how it felt to be on the losing side of evolution.
The datapad chimed in my hands, grabbing my attention. I activated it by pressing a finger into the screen. It bloomed to life, displaying the GAC seal before transitioning into a welcome message.
‘Welcome to the Human Integration Project.’
The words were followed by the image of a human silhouette standing among towering anthro forms, all smiling and facing forward. It transited to a slate of text. I scrolled and skimmed the sections on rights, responsibilities and accommodations. Reasonable assistance. Cultural sensitivity. Mutual respect. The language was carefully chosen, polished to a degree that made it hard to see where the lines could be drawn.
A notification popped up in the top right corner. As soon as my eyes noticed it, it reacted, turning into a large pop-up.
‘Assigned City: Solaris.’
‘Assigned Institution: Apex University.’
‘Assigned Housing: Pack Dormitories.’
A Pack Dormitory. The phrase sent a shiver up my spine, despite the shuttle’s temperate climate. I knew, intellectually, that packs were the foundation upon which anthro society had formed and functioned. I’d read reports. The brochures had briefly covered it. Packs weren’t just family units. They were social units, support structures, and identity.
For humans, family has always been… loosely defined. Fragile, even. Something you could lose to distance, ideology, or bitterness. I wondered what it would mean to be folded into something so tightly knit. Whether I would even fit into the picture, or if I’d just be an accessory. Something fragile and protected to be displayed in a show of possession and pride.
A Dawn Flower. Carefully cultivated.
I closed the datapad and set it in my lap, drumming my fingers against its smooth surface. My reflection stared back up at me from the darkened screen, distorted by the curve, but less so than I was used to back home in the bathroom mirror. I looked small. Not physically, though that was true compared to this New World, but… metaphorically. Like I was just a footnote at the end of a massive scientific journal.
“First time out of an enclave?”
The voice came from above me. I looked up at the mink attendant, who stood next to my seat. Her ears flicked, betraying her curiosity.
“Yeah,” I admitted, “Is it that obvious?”
She smiled, a gentle curve to her muzzle that didn’t show fangs, “Humans are rare. And you keep checking the window like you expect the world to fall away.”
I glanced at the window. Outside, the sky stretched, endless and blue. No smog or the distant glow of industrial factory fires. It felt like a projection.
“Yeah… I guess I do,” I answered.
Her head tilted, “You’ll get used to it. Solaris can be overwhelming, even for an anthro. But Apex has good support systems, and the GAC has nothing but humanity’s best interests at heart. Your pack assignment was… thoughtfully made, as well.”
“Thoughtfully,” I echoed her, “That’s reassuring.”
Her tail flicked, followed by her ears, “You’re not the first human to feel the way you do. You’re just the first in this particular city.”
Her words were significant, even if simple.
“But not the first overall,” I said.
“No,” she confirmed, “Thirty-seven before you from this region. They’re scattered across different cities and institutions. Quiet pioneers.”
That phrase brought warmth to my chest. I imagined them, faceless but very real, stepping into places not made for them, carrying our species’ hope whether they wanted to or not.
“Do you ever hear from them?” I asked, “I mean… how have things gone for them?”
“Sometimes,” she straightened her posture, “Some thrive. Some struggle. A few have returned to their enclaves. Integration is a unique path for each human and their pack.”
I absorbed what she said. There was a degree of comfort in knowing that failure was an option. That I could return home and that choosing to leave didn’t mean permanent exile.
“Well,” she added, “If you need anything during the rest of the flight, let me know.”
“Thanks,” I said with a small smile, “Really.”
She moved on, paws silent against the floor. I leaned back again, letting my head fall against the back of the seat. The shuttle shifted as its course adjusted, banking towards the distant horizon. My stomach fluttered, equal parts nerves and anticipation.
I thought of my father, then. Not because I wanted to, but because absence has a way of calling for your attention. He’d left when I was twelve, slipping out of our families’ lives like dust falls through cracked fingers. No goodbye or explanation. Just a note that said he needed more than we could offer.
I used to hate him for it. For choosing himself over us. But now, strapped into a seat and bound for a city of our giants, I wondered if I could understand his decision better. Time stretched, and the shuttle’s interior lights dimmed, simulating a twilight. I closed my eyes, but sleep refused to greet me. My thoughts kept circling back to the same questions.
Would they see me as a person? Or a project? A pet? Would I be able to walk down a street without feeling like prey? Would I ever stop feeling like I’d wandered into someone else’s world and left my map behind?
I flexed my fingers, staring at them. Small. Human. Dexterous but unarmed. They could thread needles smaller than an anthro could hold. Coax delicate machines back to life in tiny spaces. They weren’t useless, just… different.
The war had taught the world that strength was to be valued above all else. Height. Fangs. Claws. But survival came in many forms.
The shuttle chimed, announcing we had entered Solaris airspace. I felt my chest tighten and my stomach lighten. My breath caught as I looked out the window, the parting clouds revealing glimpses of something vast and complex below. Not entirely, not yet.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, trying to ground myself. Somewhere down there was Apex University. A dorm where my new pack awaited me. A future that didn’t include rusted trailers and power outages every day.
Somewhere down there, I would stop being a resident of a human enclave and become something new. A student. An experiment. A symbol. A human among giants.
The engines shifted in pitch as the shuttle began its descent. I squeezed the armrests as tightly as I could, but the material didn’t budge despite feeling soft. Whatever waited for me below… There was no turning back now.
The enclave was behind me, sealed away with the grime, dirt, and crime. Ahead lay a world that didn’t need me, but maybe could make room for me. As the city rose to meet us, steel and light climbing towards the sky, I whispered a quiet promise to myself.
I would not vanish.
I would not fail.
I would bloom. Even here.
I watched as curves of elevated highways came into view. Then clusters of towers that caught the sun and threw it back in blinding sheets of light. The whole city came into view. It sprawled out and up at once, an organism made of steel and glass and stone. Sky Piercers rose in jagged ranks, their profiles uneven and like that of mountains I had only seen at great distance.
Bridges arced between the Sky Pierces like ribs, thick and purposeful, carrying traffic at multiple levels. Far below, streets pulsed with the life blood of the city. Anthro’s moved in dense currents that flowed through plazas and grand streets.
I’d seen some footage. Everyone had. Carefully curated snapshots are shown in GAC briefings and public broadcasts. None of it was prepared for the scale. Solaris wasn’t big. It was beyond massive.
The shuttle banked, aligning towards a landing platform perched halfway up a tower. As we descended, details became clear. Windows the size of billboards. Doors that looked like vault entrances. Terraces layered with flora, engineered forests clinging to the sides of buildings, their roots anchored in reinforced soil beds, coexist alongside the lifeless steel, glass, and concrete.
Predator architecture, mom would have said. Designed to dominate, not negotiate. My stomach fluttered again, harder this time. Around me, anthro passengers stirred, stretching limbs and popping shoulders as if waking from a nap rather than entering a massive megacity.
A pair of felines exchanged low murmurs, tails flicking lazily behind them. The bear I had seen earlier rolled his neck, popping it several times. I was the only one still sitting, gripping the armrests like a lifesaver. The shuttle touched down with a muted thud, far smoother than any ground transport suspension back at the enclave.
A chime announced our arrival. Doors slid open and sound rushed in. Solaris city breathed. It wasn’t any one kind of noise, but a layer of many. The low hum of traffic below. The thud of heavy footfalls on walkways. Voices, deep and resonant, carrying over distances humans’ voices couldn’t hope to compete with. Wind soared through it all, whistling around towers, carrying scents that made my nose itch.
Clean air, I realized. Or, cleaner than I was used to. Underneath the metal, a slight ozone was something green and alive. The mink attendant stepped next to me, “Welcome to Solaris City,” she smiled.
I stood, nearly falling forward as my center of gravity reminded me I had been sitting in a seat not designed for my frame for hours. I caught myself on the armrests, face burning with embarrassment.
“Careful,” she said gently, her voice soft, “The scale will take time to get used to.”
“So I’ve heard,” I muttered.
I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and followed the next set of anthros that passed my seat. As we stepped out and off the ramp, I felt strange. The floor felt wrong. The natural stride of those around had forced me to keep a pace that was uncomfortable and awkward. More than a power walk, but not quite a jog.
I slowed, letting the crowd part around me. That was when I felt it. Attention. It didn’t feel hostile. Not overtly. But it was focused. Heard turned. Ears angled. Noses lifted to scent me. Expressions shifted subtly as they processed what I was.
A human. Not on a screen. Not in an enclave. Here.
I kept my gaze forward, shoulders squared, doing my best to project a confidence I didn’t feel. Each step echoed loudly in my ears, my boots sounding thin and foreign against the reinforced platform.
We entered the terminal, a vast open space that made the enclave’s largest communal hall feel like a storage unit. The ceiling soared overhead, crisscrossed with beams as thick as tree trunks. Displays hung overhead, their text and symbols scaled for eyes much higher above the ground than my own.
I craned my neck, searching for directions. The letters blurred together. A pair of canids passed close by, their conversation rumbling through me. One of them glanced down at me, amber eyes widening.
“Well, I’ll be,” she murmured to her companion, “Didn’t think I’d ever see one.”
Her companion sniffed at the air, “Smells… fragile.”
Heat crept up my neck. I pretended to not hear them as I weaved my way toward the edge of the terminal, where the crowd thinned. My heart hammered as adrenaline spiked. My instincts screamed at me to find cover, higher ground, or anything that wasn’t center stage to a predator thoroughfare.
Apex University transport was supposed to meet me here. That was what the datapad had said. I scanned the area as anxiety tightened in my chest. Then I saw the sign.
‘GAC Human Integration Project Liaison.’
The letters were mercifully at a comfortable reading height, mounted on a thick pillar near an exit. Standing beside it was an anthro whose silhouette alone made me stop. She was tall. They all were. But her more so. Her ears brushed the bottom edge of the sign. Gray fur rippled over a powerful form. Her posture seemed relaxed to me, but alert. A wolf.
Her eyes found me not long after I saw her. There was no mistaking me for anyone else. She studied me for a long moment, her gaze steady, assessing. Not like curiosity. Like responsibility.
She stepped towards me, “You’re David,” she said. Her voice was deep and calm. It carried efficiently over the ambient noise.
“Yes,” I answered, forcing my voice to stay level, “That’s me.”
She nodded once, “I’m Officer Hale. GAC Peacekeeper detail. I’ll be escorting you to Apex.”
Relief and something else surged through my chest. Gratitude. Or resignation to my new reality.
“Thank you.”
She gestured a paw for me to follow and set off towards the exit with long, confident strides. I hurried after her, half-walking, half-jogging to keep pace. Each step reminded me just how much effort it took to exist at this scale.
Outside, the city hit me in full. The platform overlooked a dizzying drop, layers of stress, and rails spiraling downward. Vehicles moved along them like schools of metallic fish; their smooth motion was purposeful and deliberate. Above us, aerial traffic traced invisible lanes, casting shadows that raced across the walkways.
The wind was stronger here, tugging at my jacket, carrying thousands of overlapping scents. Fur. Metal. Food. Something sharp and chemical.
Officer Hale paused, glancing over her shoulder at me, “You all right?”
“Just… adjusting,” I said, which felt like the understatement of my life.
She tilted her head. Her ears flicked, and her eyes softened, “You’ll want to stay close. Solaris isn’t dangerous, but it isn’t built for someone of your size.”
I fought the urge to point out that nowhere was built for humans anymore. We boarded a ground transport, its interior cavernous. The steps were steep, each one nearly reaching my knees. I climbed carefully, wary of Hale’s eyes following my movement, ready to intervene if I fell.
The seats were arranged in clusters, designed for packs traveling together. Hale took one without comment, and I chose the spot closest to the aisle, where I could brace myself against a metal bar.
As the transport lurched into motion, Solaris City streamed past the windows. I drank it in. Markets are busy with anthros of every shape, fur color, and pattern. Stalls piled high with goods scaled to their sizes. Public plazas spread wide, open spaces where packs lounged together, bodies pressed close in formations that spoke of trust and belonging. Pups and kits and other anthro children raced around, their laughter echoing in my mind.
No humans. Not one. The realization settled over me slowly, and then hit all at once. In the enclave, we were everywhere. Here in this city of millions, I was a single anomaly. My chest tightened.
“Officer Hale?”
“Yes?”
“Do any humans come through Solaris? Even temporarily?”
Her ears flicked back, “No,” she answered, “You’re the first HIP case here. That’s why the detail is… thorough.”
I nodded, staring back out the windows. The city seemed to watch me in return, its towering structures indifferent to my presence.
Apex University finally came into view, perched on a plateau carved into the city’s upper tiers. Its buildings were older than the surrounding Sky Piercers, their stonework bearing marks of time and renovation. Massive banners hung from the highest facades, displaying the University’s crest. A stylized paw clutching a flame.
The transport slowed, pulling into an expansive courtyard paved with smooth stone. Students crossed the space in clusters, their conversations blending into a low and constant rumble.
Officer Hale rose, and I followed, heart pounding anew.
“This is where I leave you,” she said once we disembarked, “Orientation staff will take over from here.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She studied me for a moment, her gaze softer than the first time, “You’re brave,” she said simply, “That counts for something.”
Before I could respond, she turned and strode away, disappearing into a crowd. I stood there alone, duffel hanging from my shoulder, surrounded by the unknown. Every instinct I had told me I didn’t belong.
And yet, as I took my first steps toward Apex University, I felt something beneath the fear. A thin but stubborn thread of resolve, stretching forward into the unknown. I was here. And I intend to stay.
The courtyard swallowed sound in a way the terminal hadn’t. Stone dampened the padding of bare digitigrade paws, turning the thunder of movement into something lower. The air here was cooler, shaded by the surrounding university buildings, their walls rising like cliffs on all sides. I stood at the edge of the courtyard, focusing on slowing my breathing.
It didn’t help. Students flowed around me in wide arcs, their bodies instinctively giving me space without quite understanding why. Packs moved as cohesive units, members brushing shoulders, tails flocking in signals I couldn’t read. Their conversations rolled past me in deep, textured voices that vibrated in my chest with strange, animal-like tones mixed beneath the words. Purrs, growls, chuffs.
No one bumped into me, which almost made it worse. I had never felt so visible while simultaneously feeling so insignificant. Apex University was older than the city that now cradled it, at least, many portions of it. That much was obvious even to someone who had never set foot outside of an enclave before today.
The stonework bore scars of age and repair, sections of original construction reinforced with newer alloys and composites. The architecture favored height and open plans, towering arches framing entrances wide enough to accommodate a dozen students abreast.
The main doors loomed ahead, each one easily ten feet tall, reinforced oak and dark metal. They were propped open, but even so, crossing the threshold felt tremendous in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
I hesitated. This was it. The point of no return. Once I walked through these doors, I wasn’t just visiting. I was inserting myself into this institution and a pack. Its systems. Its daily rhythms. I adjusted my grip on my bag and forced myself forward. The arch passed overhead. Inside, the space expanded again. A grand atrium stretched upward through multiple levels.
Balconies ringed the walls, each one lined with students who leaned against railings, their laughter and conversations cascading down like water. Light poured in from skylights far above, catching motes of dust and fur, turning them into drifting constellations.
I stopped just inside, overwhelmed once more. The floor beneath my shoes was polished, cold, and unyielding. Inlaid into it was the university crest, large enough that I could have lain flat on it and not covered a quarter of it. I stood on the edge of it, afraid my footwear would scuff it compared to paw pads.
A few students noticed me. Not just in passing, but really noticed. A cheetah paused mid-stride, ears flicking forward, eyes widening. A pair of wolves on the far side of the atrium went quiet, their conversation trailing off as their gazes studied me. A massive tiger leaned closer to his companion, murmuring something I couldn’t hear.
Their looks weren’t cruel. They were curious, assessing, laced with disbelief. My shoulders tightened. I fumbled for the datapad I was given and activated it with my palmprint. The screen lit up, displaying a map of the atrium with pulsing markers that I could follow.
‘HIP Orientation: Level One, East Wing.’
Of course, it was quite the distance. I scanned the space, trying to orient myself. Despite the map, I was feeling more lost than ever. The atrium radiated corridors like the spokes of a wheel, each tall and wide, indistinguishable at a glance. Signs hung overhead, but the letter was scaled for those above my height. I squinted, craning my neck until it ached.
“Lost?”
The voice came from above and to my right. I flinched before I could stop myself, heart jumping from my ribs. A fox leaned against a railing next to the closest balcony, one arm draped over the edge. He looked… amused. Sharp eyes glinted as he observed me.
“I… I’m just navigating,” I said, trying to force a calm tone.
He chuckled softly, “The first day is a maze for everyone. Though I must admit, you are a new variable.”
I resisted the urge to rub my neck, “Yeah.”
He tilted his head, ears angling to focus on me, “You’re the human, right?”
The human.
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said, “Orientation’s that way.” He pointed down one of the corridors, his claw tracing an arc in the air, “Follow the banners with the blue flame.”
“Thanks,” I said, sincerity in my voice despite my fear.
He dipped his head casually, “Good luck, Dawn Flower.”
The term prickled against my skin as he turned away. I exhaled slowly, then set off in the direction I needed to go. The corridor stretched ahead, its ceiling high enough to disperse sound. My footsteps echoed faintly, blending with the ambient noise bleeding from adjacent halls. As I walked, I became aware of my body in this ample space. The way my shoulders barely cleared the lower edges of wall fixtures. The way the benches that lined the corridor came up high enough that my feet would dangle.
I paused, muscles trembling, and hoisted myself onto a bench to rest. I laughed under my breath. Short and humorless. So, this is what it feels like, I mused. To be… different.
In the enclave, things had been broken, neglected, jury-rigged. Here, everything worked exactly as intended. And that intent never included me.
Students passed, most looking at me as they did. Others deliberately looked anywhere but at me. A few slowed, driven by curiosity, but none approached. I was an anomaly best observed from a distance, like a rare mammal behind glass.
I hopped down and continued on, following the blue flame banners deeper into the building. The corridor opened into a smaller atrium, this one much more quiet. Its walls were lined with officers and administrative spaces. The smell changed, too. Metallic tang gave way to something more sterile. Cleaning agents and disinfectant. Papers. The ozone of electronics.
I checked my datapad. Close. A cluster of anthros stood near the far wall, deep in conversation. As I approached, their voices lowered, then stopped altogether. One of them, a lynx with tufted ears and keen eyes, turned their body to me.
“David Stone,” she said, not asking.
“That’s me,” I nodded.
“Good,” she replied, “We were beginning to wonder if you got lost.”
A ripple of low chuckles passed through the group.
“I’m Dr. Vess,” she continued, “Counselor for Apex University. We’ll be overseeing your initial integration.”
The others introduced themselves. A cheetah administrator with sleek movements and sharp eyes. A dhole assessor, wiry and restless, his gaze never still. They loomed, even while seated. Their presence filled the space.
“Before we begin,” Dr. Vess said, “We’d like to ensure you’re comfortable.”
I glanced around. The only available chair was, of course, designed for an anthro. Its seat was deep and high. I sighed, “I’ll manage.”
She considered for a moment, then nodded, “Very well.”
As they led me to an office door, I caught my reflection in a glass panel. Small. Alone. But my eyes were steady. Whatever they saw when they looked at me, I refused to let it be fear alone. I followed them inside. The hydraulics closed the door with a soft hiss. And with that, my old world was another step behind me.
The room was too clean. Not sterile - not exactly. It didn’t smell like Mom’s uniform. There were no harsh chemical scents or a sense of medical severity. Everything was soft. Warm colored panels lined the walls. Plants spilled over from recessed planters, engineered to thrive indoors. The lighting came from a soft glow at the edges of the floor and ceiling.
Efficient. Comfortable. Cold and distant. Not like the comforting and familiar buzz of an enclave bulb that threw yellowing light. A thing that had far exceeded its life expectancy. I stood just inside the doorway, unsure where to stand or sit.
“Please,” said the cheetah administrator, gesturing with a flick of his tail, “Sit.”
The chair he had gestured to was positioned opposite theirs, close to the center of the room. It was smaller than the others and clearly modified. Lower to the ground. Smaller back. Almost human-sized. Almost.
Someone had thought this through. That should be reassuring, but it made me feel cataloged. I crossed the space and sat, my shoes planting firmly on the floor for once. The chair fit me well enough, though the armrests were still too wide and long, forcing my elbows out at an angle. Even their accommodations were a reminder of the scale of the New World.
Dr. Vess folded her hands, tufted ears aimed forward in what I suspect was an expression meant to convey attentiveness. The dhole perched on the edge of his seat, seeming coiled tight. The cheetah leaned back and draped an arm over an armrest casually, his gaze sharp and appraising.
“This is your initial Human Integration Project assessment,” Dr. Vess began, “Nothing invasive. No surprises. The goal is to ensure your safety and compatibility with our University and the city at large.”
Compatibility.
“With what? I asked before my mind could stop my mouth.
Her ears twitched, an expression that she didn’t expect an interruption so early into her prepared speech, “With your assigned pack, academic workload, and the city’s infrastructure,” she answered with ease, “We aim to minimize your discomfort. To you, and others in the future.”
I nodded, “Right.”
The cheetah tapped a control embedded in the table, and a holographic interface bloomed to life, projecting data fields and scrolling text. My name hovered at the center, surrounded by categories waiting to be filled with information.
“Let’s start with basics,” he said, “Medical history. Any chronic conditions?”
I answered. Asthma as a child that resolved after air filters were fixed in my home. A broken wrist at fourteen. I experienced malnutrition, but it wasn’t severe enough to require special intervention. As I spoke, the dhole’s eyes tracked me, nostrils flaring as if scenting my words.
“Dietary requirements?” Dr. Vess asked.
“Omnivorous,” I said, “Higher carb intake that most anthros need, from what I’ve read.”
“Correct,” she smiled, “Solaris skews carnivore in diet, naturally. Accommodations can be made, however, as some species do eat each fruit and vegetable on occasion.”
That word again. Accommodations.
The questions continued, branching to other subjects. Sleep patterns. Stress response. Social preferences. My datapad chimed repeatedly as it cross-referenced my answers with my enclave records, education transcripts, and biometric scans taken during my initial HIP application months ago.
At some point, I realized it wasn’t just questions. They were mapping me.
“How do you respond to displays of dominance?” The cheetah asked, his tone clinical and detached.
I blinked, “I… what?”
“Raised voices. Physical proximity and posturing, snarls and growling,” he clarified, “There are common and accepted methods for communication among our species. Have you had exposure to it before?”
I thought of home. Of tempers flaring in tight spaces. From being overworked and perpetually just on the edge of hunger. Of the few anthro peacekeeping units towering over crowds during moments of unrest.
“I’ve experienced intimidation and being screamed at,” I answered with care, “I don’t respond well to threats, but I can adapt.”
The dhole clicked his tongue and made a soft sound somewhere between a chuckle and a growl, “He’s honest,” he said, “That’s a good start.”
The cheetah clicked his claws on the table, “Honest does not make him resilient.”
“No,” Dr. Vess added quietly, “But it’s a good point to build from.”
With little warning, the assessment shifted towards new topics. From psychological to physical. A side panel on the wall to my left slid open, revealing a compact medical scanner large enough for an anthro.
“Please step inside so that we can obtain your baseline vitals.” Dr. Vess said.
I stood despite my screaming heart and entered the standing scanner. The floor looked like glass, and the inside was cool to the touch. A panel slid halfway over the entrance, partially concealing me.
What I assumed were sensors extended, gentle and precise, as a cuff wrapped around my left arm, tightening for only a moment. A cool device touched my right temple. A temperature reading.
“Body temperature is lower than anthro averages,” the dhole observed, “Significantly.”
“I know… we’re not furnaces.”
The cheetah’s mouth twitched, revealing the glint of a fang. “Noted.”
A scanner passed over my torso. I watched data scroll past on a small screen inside the medical device. It was mapping bone density, muscle mass, nerve counts and locations, among other things, beyond my understanding. Numbers that reduced me from a person and into a metric that deviated from the norm.
“Height: five feet and eleven inches,” Dr. Vess read aloud, “Weight: One hundred fifty-five pounds.”
There was a pause. “Under ideal conditions, you would benefit from additional mass.”
“I’ve been told,” I said dryly.
This time, the dhole laughed out loud, “You’re going to hear it a lot.”
The panel slid back out of place, and I left the scanner, seating myself once more. Dr. Vess folded her paws on the table, “Now the most important part.”
The tables projected display shifted, moving from my personal data and into a series of profiles. Each expanded for a moment, then flew out of view, to be replaced by another.
“Pack assignment,” she said, “At Apex, we maintain mixed-species packs for residential and educational cohesion. We maintain packs throughout all levels of society. Humans enrolled in HIP are, by requirement, assigned to an existing pack based on metrics.”
“Existing?” I asked.
“Yes,” the cheetah answered first, “You will not be a forming member of a new pack. You are to be integrated into one. The agreements you signed stipulated this.”
His words sat heavily on my shoulders, “How much choice do I have?”
Dr. Vess rubbed the bridge of her muzzle, “Very little, but some.”
The dhole leaned forward, “You were determined to be most compatible for canid packs from your pre-assessment trials in your enclave,” he said, “They are socially flexible. Form strong group bonds, are exceedingly loyal and have lower incidents of territorial aggression vs felids and other predator species.”
The cheetah nodded, “They also typically exhibit heightened protective instincts towards members of the pack they perceive as the most vulnerable.”
Vulnerable. The formerly unspoken word that I knew would come sooner or later. My jaw tightened, but I said nothing. The display stopped scrolling through profiles until one expanded beyond the dimensions of all the previous ones.
‘Pack C-17’
Three images bled into view. All female. A gray wolf. Her posture radiated authority even through the still image. Kara, her name read. Alpha designated.
A coyote, lithe and with what looks to me a mischievous smile. Ryn.
A jackal, a tiny bit smaller than the other two but no less massive compared to me. Her ears were large. Sia.
“All predators,” I whispered.
“There is no other kind of anthro,” Dr. Vess answered.
I studied them, searching for… something. Kindness. Indifference. It was impossible to tell from their images.
“They’re all women,” I said.
“Yes,” the cheetah nodded, “Statistically speaking, all-female packs demonstrate a much higher degree of nurturing behavior and lower inter-pack aggression and posturing. Particularly towards smaller members.”
I curled my hands into fists. “And if I object to the assignment?”
Dr. Vess held my gaze, “Then we reconsider another pack. But, options are… limited. Solaris City has no other HIP candidates. No human-specific housing. Integration requires pack assignment; you will end up in one.”
I sighed, releasing the tense muscles bunched around my eyes, “Tell me about them.”
The dhole smiled, showing fangs, “They are all first years, like you. As you read in the brochure, the most common enrollment age is twenty-two, and our most common degree tracks are six-year programs. Kara is enrolled in the Leadership and Defense track. Strong pack-oriented instincts. Protective to the point of being stubborn.”
The cheetah cut in, “Ryn specializes in inter-species relations. She is highly adaptable and curious. She thrives when testing boundaries.”
My heart jumped at those words. She may be the one I need to watch out for, more so than the others.
“And Sia,” Dr. Vess added, “Is in Biology and Medicine. She’s attentive and detail-oriented. Prone to hyper-focus, in fact, according to metrics.”
I imagined them towering over me, their bodies radiating heat. I imagined their voices vibrating in my ears, their language intoned with growls and other canid mannerisms.
“When do I meet them?”
Dr. Vess glanced at the displayed time, “Today.”
My stomach flipped. A chime sounded behind us, at the door. It slid open to a uniformed GAC peacekeeper. His posture was professional, that of a soldier. “They’re waiting.”
Dr. Vess was the first to rise, but the others were quick as well. “We will escort you to the dormitory. First contact should be mediated.”
I stood as well. My legs feel unsteady. As we move towards the door, I cast one glance back. The room had taken something from me. Something I didn’t quite understand, yet. I felt lighter in a way that didn’t feel good.
Outside, the corridors felt tighter than before. We walked in silence as I did my best to keep pace. Somewhere in the distance, my new pack waited for me. Strangers that I’d spend the next six years with. Living space. Routines. Some classes. Everything.
My new family, by policy.
As we made our way through various corridors, an insistent and pestering thought kept pushing into the front of my mind. I left the enclave to be free. Now I wonder what kind of enclosure waits for me.
The residential wing sat deeper within the University’s structure, tucked away from the public-facing exterior and the lecture halls and stadiums. The architecture began to change as it kept going. The ceiling lowered, and corridors narrowed. Not a lot, but enough to notice. Stone gave way to composites and alloys. Toned panels that reflected lights in blurry, gentle hues.
“This area is restricted to residents and faculty,” Dr. Vess waved a paw, palm up, over the scene as we walked, “Pack dormitories are designed to encourage cohesion.”
Cohesion. Another word that keeps getting beaten into my mind. We passed doors marked with alphanumeric designations; each one was massive and sealed with what I thought were biometric locks. The air smells different, like cleaning supplies and metal. More… fur and lived in.
My escort slowed at the door marked ‘C-17.’
My stomach finally dropped. No longer just flips. The peacekeeper stepped forward and pushed his paw into the biolock reader. The door chimed and slid open. Cool air rolled out to meet me. Much cooler.
There was something else, too. Not unpleasant, but a layering of scents that made my head swim. Pine and earth. Dry, sun-baked stones. Something sharp and spicy threaded between it all. Alive and very personal.
I froze as every instinct screamed at me to back away. I didn’t. The dorm’s interior was marked by a high, arched ceiling and exposed beams crisscrossing like the ribs of a beast. The space was divided into zones rather than distinct rooms. A common area dominated the center, where an enormous sectional couch sank into a spherical recess.
Beyond it was a small hallway that led to what I could see were three doors. A bathroom, I know. The other two… two bedrooms, maybe? One for the alpha and the other for the two pack members. But where would I sleep?
Everything was scaled far beyond what I had lived in before. And in the middle of it all, they waited. The gray wolf rose first. She unfolded herself from the couch in a smooth, gliding motion. Her full height became more apparent when she stepped out of the pit. She was over eight feet tall. Her fur was mottled gray - darker along her shoulders. Lighter at her throat and stomach. Scars traced faint lines beneath a forearm and along one side. Old, well-healed, but still visible in the right light.
Her eyes bore into me. Amber. Sharp. Assessing. This was Kara, the alpha.
Beside her, the coyote perched on the back of the sectional, her digitigrade legs and paws dangling casually. She was more lean, her build lithe and athletic. Her fur was a mix of sandy brown and dull gold. Her ears constantly swiveled as she scented the air. Her gaze was bright and deep blue. Unabashed. Curious. She was Ryn.
The jackal reclined in a mountain of pillows, half-sitting and half-sprawled. She was the smallest, but still close to eight feet, and massive compared to a human. Her fur was a mix of tan and black. Her eyes were dark brown and expressive. Wide and searching. She tilted her head as she watched me, and her nostrils flared subtly. She was Sia.
None spoke. Yet. I stood there, a human, intruding in their space. I clutched my duffel bag as a shield. The silence was thick. Dr. Vess cleared her throat, an almost purr-like quality to it, “This is David Stone. He will be integrating with you as part of the Human Integration Project.”
Kara’s gaze never left my eyes.
“So,” she finally said, her voice low and steady, carrying a faint rumble that I felt more than heard, “You’re the Dawn Flower.”
That term. I nodded, slow but sure, “Yes. I am.”
Ryn’s grin widened until what I’d guess was nearly every fang showed, “He’s so much smaller than the footage we got made him look.”
Heat rushed to my face as my heart fluttered.
Sia nudged her shoulder, “Ryn.”
“What?” The coyote asked, “It’s not an insult. Just an observation.”
Kara stepped closer. Just one step. The distance between us closed then, abruptly. Her presence was overwhelming. She smelled faintly of warm pine and something iron-warm beneath it. She radiated heat like a furnace. She leaned down towards me, bringing her eyes level with mine.
I fought the surge to strike out or retreat. Instincts were a bitch, even for humans.
“Do you understand pack rules?” She asked, a slight tilt to her head.
“I… I understand some of it,” I answered, “I’m still learning.”
Her gaze shifted to Dr. Vess and then back to me, “You’ll learn fast by living them.”
Dr. Vess bowed her head, a slight dip, “We’ll leave you to adjust. Orientation begins tomorrow. Peacekeeper patrols and campus security are aware of the integration.”
I looked over at the soldier. He nodded once, then disappeared into the corridor. The faculty followed, disappearing behind the door as it slid shut with a finality that screamed out to me.
I stood alone among them. Ryn hopped down from the couch, her pads dampening the impact into a whisper-quiet thump. Her steps were light and near soundless, beyond the gentle click of her claws on the floor. Despite her size, she moved with a grace that cemented what she was. An apex predator.
She sniffed the air around my head, and then my shoulders and bag.
“Smells like rust, old plastic,” she said thoughtfully, “And fear.”
“I’m standing right here,” I murmured.
She laughs, a bright, yipping sound, “Good. You’re already talking back. I like that.”
Sia rose more carefully, stretching in a way that made her joints pop. She approached from the other side. Her movements were precise as well, but felt more… deliberate. Unlike Ryn, she didn’t crowd me. She stopped several feet away and studied my face.
“Are you cold?” She asked.
It caught me off guard. I shook my head, “I… uh. No. Not right now.”
She frowned slightly, “Your temperature is low.”
“That’s normal,” I said, “For humans.”
Her ears flicked, “We can adjust the climate settings if you need.”
Kara straightened, rising to her full height, “Later, if necessary. First, boundaries.”
She gestured towards the pit, “Put your things there, for now.”
I nodded, dropping my duffel near the sectional. I looked around, then down the hall, “I see three doors. I assume one is the bathroom. The other two are rooms? Where will I sleep?”
Ryn chuffs, but Kara answers, “One pack room. The second is a maintenance closet.”
I blinked, “I… I’m sorry?”
Ryn grinned, “Told you that would hang him up.”
“I thought,” I said carefully, trying to control my tone, “That there would be… a separate space. Or a bed that would fit me.”
Kara’s lips pulled back a hair. Not a snarl, but something close. My pulse spiked as she spoke, “The pack sleeps together. Always.”
“I’m not-” I stopped, and swallowed, “I’m not used to that.”
Sia stepped forward, her voice soft, “We know, but isolation is dangerous for you and unhealthy for all.”
“For me,” I echoed.
“Yes,” she said simply, “For you.”
The weight of their eyes pressed in on me. They weren’t being cruel. It was just the way things were for them. For all who lived in this society. A worldview where closeness was the same as safety. Separation was a risk.
“Follow,” Kara ordered.
I fell in behind her, and the others were behind me. She pushed the pack room door open, and an even colder waft of air hit me. I looked at the huge bed, recessed like the common room’s pit. Dozens of pillows, furs layered thick. The pillows were the size of my entire torso. It looked less like a bed and more like a den.
“I need a minute,” I said.
Kara looked down at me, studying. She nodded once, “You have it.”
I moved back towards my duffel bag, unzipping it with a trembling hand. The contents grounded me. My journal. The photo. Old, but decent clothes. Behind me, I felt rather than heard the pack moving, murmuring softly among themselves.
“He’s shaking,” Ryn said.
“He’s scared,” Sia confirmed.
“He’s human,” Kara said, as if that settled everything.
When I turned to face them, Kara gestured towards the sectional, “Sit. I won’t have you standing all night.”
I climbed onto the couch, awkwardly sitting on a massive cushion. My feet dangled from the floor, even in the pit. Ryn plopped down beside me, and I nearly sank into her as the cushions compensated for her weight.
“So,” she said, voice bright and airy, “You gonna bolt when we sleep?”
“No,” I answered, “Probably not.”
“Good,” she smiled, “I hate chasing.”
Despite the tension in my chest, a small laugh escaped me. As night settled, the dorm’s lights automatically dimmed. The city’s distant hum filtered in through a reinforced window, muted but present.
We sat in silence. I flipped through my journal several times, trying to find familiarity in an alien place.
“Time,” Kara said as she stood and stepped out of the pit.
My chest tightened, catching my breath. I hesitated only for a moment before sliding off the couch and following. The floor was cool beneath my now bare feet. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable.
I climbed onto the edge of the giant bed, careful and stiff in my movements, unsure of where to put myself. Their fur was soft. Softer than any blanket I’d ever had. Kara crawled in next, closer to the center. She lay on her side, looking over at me.
“Come,” she ordered. Not harsh, but final.
“I…”
“The smallest and most vulnerable of the pack sleeps in the middle. Protection. Cohesion.”
I bit down, pushing my teeth together, then nodded. I crawled towards the center and lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling. Then they settled around me. Kara lay to my left, her body a wall of heat. It was nice in the cool temperature. Ryn pressed in on my opposite side, one of her arms and paws draping loosely over my waist. Sia curled in front of me, her tail brushing against my legs.
The warmth was enveloping and complete. My heart raced as every nerve screamed at the proximity and touch. I could feel their breathing, the subtle shifts of dense muscle under soft fur. Their scents wrapped around me. Pine, spice, sun-warmed earth. It blended into something heady, but pleasant.
“Breathe,” Sia whispered.
I did. Slowly, reluctantly, my muscles began to release their tension. The fear didn’t vanish, but it softened, dulled by their warmth and soft contact and the undeniable fact that they weren’t letting go.
I stared at the ceiling, awake long after the pack’s breathing deepened into gentle and consistent patterns. This wasn’t the enclave. This wasn’t freedom in the way I had imagined it. But as sleep finally crept in, heavy and absolute, one thought lingered. Quiet. Resilient.
For the first time since leaving home, I wasn’t alone.