Horrible. But now it's morning.

As usual, you can’t sleep, not because of phantoms in the dark or ghostly knocks on the door. It’s simply because you’re in a new place… You toss, turn, change beds, and even look out the window to tire yourself. Nothing works, and only 2 hours of the night is spent in good rest.

By the time you’re ready to doze off, the sun is starting to brighten the sky. There’s no more time to waste, so you get ready to start the day. Since you and Arabella had sex the night before, you think maybe a shower might be an excellent way to start the morning.

You get dressed in your new uniform, a dark maroon color with a yellow armband to indicate you’re a contractor. A skull pin on the back of your collar with a big “C” to further demonstrate your position. The leather armor is excellent but will get hot once you’re in heat.

You almost wanted to run into Scarlet while leaving your room, but she’s not leaving yet. “Shit,” you whisper. “What if she’s already downstairs?”

The hallway is as dark and unforgiving as last night, so you almost run down the hallway towards the elevators, but you stop, recalling what comment Scarlet left behind when you took the stairs. Maybe you’ll use the elevators when you’re not alone?

The lobby is still quiet, but unlike the night before, three men are downstairs dressed in maroon uniforms and accented by yellow armbands. They spot you the same time you spot them and wave you over.

The youngest in the group extends his hand out first. “Contractor?” he says. You recognize him as the one singing on stage.

“Warren Visser,” you introduce. “Signed up yesterday.”

The others come in and shake your hand, too. There’s an older man here, probably in his mid-50s—the young man points at himself with a thumb. “Softspot,” he says. He points at the mature man. “Sevens, and then Fifth-Finger. You don’t have a title?”

“No,” you say. “Never had a reason to have one. I operate far from my stomping grounds.”

Softspot shrugs. “To each their own. You already talked to that broad? Scarlet?”

“She’s my partner,” you lift an eyebrow.

Softspot guffaws. “Lucky dog. She’s gorgeous. I think she likes my voice, you know? What are my chances? You’re not married or dating, right?”

Suddenly, Softspot’s age starts to bleed through his dialog. No Slack and Hard Print peel off and begin to do something else, leaving you with the kid. “Relax, dude. I’m not here to play 20 fuckin’ questions with you guys.”

He laughs. “Right. Sorry, sorry. My last title was Lip Work, but I thought it sounded kind of gay, so I changed it.”

“When was that?”

“About three weeks ago, probably less. Hey, have you run any gigs as a group before?”

“A few,” you say, wondering what kind of ADHD this guy has. “How long have you been a contractor?”

Softspot laughs, snapping his fingers before pointing it at you. “3 months.”

Suddenly, you wonder if you’re in safe hands. Scarlet didn’t seem enthusiastic about the crew the circus assembled, and now that you’ve spoken to one directly, you know why.

Softspot eyes dart to something behind you, and he straightens his back. “By Jesus, there she is.”

There’s a ding behind you, and you see Scarlet and the other foxgirls behind her, all wearing romper dresses. They’re washed and complimented with makeup; you hadn’t seen either shine so much. Despite being so dolled up, Scarlet looked irritated until she saw you- then all emotion was deleted from her expression.

Bounding up to you first was, of course, Gwendolion, who jumped into your arms. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her and spun slightly as her momentum carried you into a twist.

Softspot stepped slightly back. “Those are your partners, too?”

When you set Gwendolion down, she looked at Softspot and cleared her throat. “Who’s this?”

“I am a contractor,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you, though.”

Gwendolion’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Not that you could even if you wanted to,” she mumbled.

“She’s mine,” you said, grabbing and pulling her close to you so your shoulders were touching. “Her name is Gwendolion. There’s also her sister, Mikko. The oldest is Arabella.”

A long, pitched whistle comes out of Softspot's mouth. “I know, I’ve never understood the hate you get. They’re breathtakingly beautiful!” His eyes washed Gwendolion, but it seemed more out of admiration than perversion. “It’ll be a pleasure to talk and see you every morning.”

Softspot looks over at Scarlet, missing Gwendolion’s surprise. He seems much more interested in the fully human companion of your party. Arabella takes Gwendolion’s place and moves away to greet her sister.

In the meantime, Softspot tries to interact with Scarlet. She humors him at first but closes on you instead. “I like your fit,” she looks over you, her lips curved into an amused grin.

“Likewise,” you say, looking at the foxes before returning her. “Where’d you all get the dresses?”

“Gifts from management,” Arabella chimes in, denying Scarlet a chance to reply. “I guess they like their girls looking pretty. The dress has pockets, though.”

Scarlet nods, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She produces a small pistol; you can’t still see what it is, though. You gesture at it. “Is that how you carry around a piece in the meantime?”

“She’s not happy about it,” Arabella says. “She bitched about it all this morning.”

“Sure did,” Scarlet sounds annoyed. She looks at you. “You are having breakfast with us today. Your girls can’t come, though.”