The fox padded through the backstreet, looking around with interest, he'd never been to a city before. He could hear crowds of people streets away, but this alley was deserted. Bins lay scattered further down, something was pillaging them, a wild cat. She hissed menacingly and he hastily trotted on, she was as welcoming as the rest of the city animals he'd met.

He had so hoped they would be able to talk.

He wandered down another back alley, avoiding some of the local dogs, and out onto a main street littered with cars. That was when he saw her.

She was walking her dog, one of those little ones that more resembled a bundle of fur with eyes, wearing a long coat tied provocatively at the waist, he'd never seen such perfection.

Keeping out of sight he watched through glazed eyes as she passed, her clothes were thick for the winter, but they showed a figure he thought magnificent. He couldn't put a paw on what part of her drove him crazy, it wasn't her short hair and brightly painted lips, it wasn't her confident walk, her slanted eyes, the dark scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. It was them all, and more. It was everything.

He'd never seen a woman like her, his rural home still had few humans, and none of them were like her.

Smitten, he followed at a distance. The strange ball of hair with a nose would occasionally pause and look back, sniffing and growling suspiciously, but he'd hidden from far more dangerous, not to mention skilled, dogs. She was humming to herself as she walked, he found himself trying to catch the tune, loving it because it came from her.

The back of her legs fascinated him as they walked, black tights clung revealingly to what he imagined were the most divine of slender legs. No vixen could match her, the coarse, ignorant girls he had grown up with, been expected to mate with, he couldn't imagine them in comparison to this woman. Idiots who could do nothing more than breed, hunt and growl, savages who had lost of the art of changing, and of true speech. Just like all the others.

She eventually stopped at a block of flats, to him as indistinguishably gray as many of the buildings in the city, and she entered. He saw her step past the broken lift in the dirty lobby to the stairs, watched her progress to the seventh floor through brashly lit windows. Opposite was another block of flats, the kind with open walkways on the front, and he raced up to the equivalent level and hopped onto the wall, in the fast falling dark of winter he watched her through her uncurtained windows as she sat and read.

It was cold all around, and he knew he should be finding somewhere to hole up for the night, to burrow in away from the deadly chill, but he couldn't stop watching. Her dog lay next to her, his head on her knee with a face that seemed permanently mournful. What did she see in a mongrel like that? An animal of no finesse, no mind or spirit.

Eventually she stood and left that room, he saw lights flicker on in the blinded bedroom for a few moments, then fade to black and she didn't reappear. He sat for another hour, hoping, and then he realised his skinny frame was shaking from the cold, his paws numb, and so he found a place nearby to sleep. He dreamt of a woman in a long gray coat, her hips swaying mesmerisingly as she walked.



He rose early the next morning, and found frost had crept over the world as he slept, and the hint of silver was always in the corner of his eye. He sat for a time, and thought about the woman, pieces of his dreams occasionally resurfacing and he allowed his thoughts to dwell on her. And he knew he had to woo her, but to do that he needed to change.

And, for the first time, he made himself look human.

He crouched over the canal and stared at his reflection in the water, the pale skinny body, the shock of red hair which he swept back with his hands, the long limbs. He liked this body, it was youthful, it held the beauty of foxes but none of their courseness. Pleased he covered it with clothes like the humans wore. He had seen many since he arrived in the city, and used those which he thought his lady would approve. Dark shoes, black trousers, a thick jumper to protect against the cold which was magnified many times without his fur, and a slim fitting wool coat which came to his knees, wrapped tightly at his waist in imitation of hers. As a last measure he made a scarf, remembering the one she had worn as he did so.



First, a diversion. Something he'd wanted to do for a long time.

He watched the hounds waiting, the ridiculously dressed men on the horses, others milling around. He watched as they released the vixen, waited for her to get so far, then pursued.

He let it happen for a while, let them get so far, watched as the vixen ran terrified and alone through the undergrowth with no real hope of escape. Then, when it had gone too far, he stepped out.

The vixen ran past him looking confused, she paused for a moment but he snapped at her to continue, then sat calmly in the face of the approaching hounds. This was going to take a lot of strength, but it would be worth it.

The baying hounds paced towards him, all snarling teeth and crazed eyes. Not too crazed however, to see something was wrong with the fox. Not only had it stopped, but it appeared to be growing.

The hunt stopped dead, their fox had gone, another was waiting in its place, and currently it was the size of a Doberman. And it kept expanding, never noticeably, but slowly, it became clear it was bigger. It was almost as if, every time they blinked, it became that little bit larger.

Then it was the size of a horse, its red fur rich against the diminished foliage, the dull brown trees all around. And then it towered over them all, and almost lazily it stood, the trees bending to accommodate its bulk.

The hounds were whining nervously, some of the horses tried to shy away, but a whip of leather from their riders made them stand firm. Then the fox lowered its narrow head, and it's eyes glared maliciously.

And he roared, the kind of cry that spelled death on the African savanna, or in the Indian jungles. And the hounds and horses nerves failed, no amount of goading would have persuaded them to stop, but none of the hunters wanted them to.

He waited until they had gone, then he let the form drop, his energy spent. A normal fox once more he lay exhausted for a few moments, then limped away in search of rest and shelter.



He found a nearby burrow, it was empty and so he sleapt. When he woke, still drained, the vixen was watching him.

'I owe you my thanks,'� she said. He was astounded to hear her speaking human words, he'd never met another fox who had retained that gift.

'You can talk?'� he asked, groggily rising. 'I was beginning to think I was the only one who still could.'�

'I can, but don't raise your hopes, I'm alone. In fact, I've never met another either.'�

'Why didn't you stop them? Surely you could have changed to fight or hide? They were on your heals.'�

Unfortunately my gifts don't match yours, I can speak other tongues, but I can't change as you can.'�

'Oh,'� he looked downcast for a moment, but he let it pass. He was still stunned to be able to communicate with that vixen, he'd never spoke in true speech to another animal before.



The vixen's life had not been particularly happy. Raised as a common breed fox, keeping her talent to herself, frustrated by her siblings and parents who neither knew nor cared about anything beyond instinct and their immediate surroundings.

She had left them at an early age, finding she preferred a solitary existence to the repressed one of her family and kind. The area of wood she lived in was free of other foxes, but not of humans.

She had been fascinated by men at first, but then she met them. She witnessed their slaughter of her kind for sport, and hated them for it. So she mostly kept away, but sometimes her fascination broke through her hatred for a short time and she would creep to the nearby farms and watch them. Wishing nothing more than she could become like them, if only for a short time.

Then, one time, they had caught her. Only the appearance of another fox, one who could not only speak, but change his form, as it was believed all foxes had once been able. She never saw him again, never knew his cold and lonely fate, but with him she produced a litter.

To her delight, her children could talk from an early age. And then gradually, they began to find they could change their form.

She never forgot that fox, who not only saved her life, but took away that crippling loneliness which had began to consume her.



He had not forgotten his lady however.

He returned to his vantage point in the buildings opposite and watched her for a number of days. She lived in her flat with her dog and a man, naturally he took an instinctive dislike to the man, who appeared limp and fat to him. Old and weathered.

The wall he was perched on stood in front of a flat owned by an elderly pair of ladies, who had squawked delightedly when they had seen him. The beautiful fox with his glorious red fur, who sat on their wall every evening.

Delighted by their new visitor, who showed no fear around humans and patiently allowed them to crow over him motherly. And so he found a regular source of food, and began to love the two impoverished ladies, who fawned over him like a lost son. He had never come across impoverished humans before, the humans where he came from were rich and content in large warm homes in the country. These city humans were a different breed.



Iffat and Arden Malik had been born emancipated and had been allowed to fall in love and marry with little trouble, but when things changed their lives had became more difficult.

When the society that had pretended to respect them showed it's true colours, they had initially been defiant. They knew they, and their love, were strong enough to survive ignorance and temporary alienation. But the ignorance hadn't left, it had prospered, and then they found they were old and alone. The friends and family they retained eventually died or became as helpless as they felt.

They eventually reached a poverty stricken existence, which was nevertheless peaceful enough. They were both afraid, and both felt angry to be forced to live in that manner. They had come from a time when they had been promised they never would, but now they were both aware they lived at the mercy of the ignorants. Should they become too visible, step too far out of line, they would pay the price. And there comes a time when you just can't be defiant anymore.

So they lived a shackled existence, in a cold, colourless city that cared for them as little as they cared for it. But they survived, as did their love, both knew there was no one for them away from the other, and that made it solid. Their small flat was always warm, always happy, but also always tinged with a touch of regret, just out of sight.

Their visitor banished that however. The time he stayed with them, before he disappeared as suddenly as he arrived, was short. One winter they found him outside their front door, his pelt a rich, luxuriant red so in contrast to the world around them. So young and alive, and they both adored him. They fussed and preened over him as though he was the son they had one day been told they weren't allowed to have.

That was their last living year, but he helped them remember a happier time, and they were happier for it.



So he helped them where he could, in small ways, things that made their lives easier. He would leave them gifts, things he found, or sometimes created. When some of the more violent youths caused problems in the area he terrified them so much they never dared return. When a confidence trickster fleeced them, their money was returned by the man, looking meek and scared, in the envelope was three times what he had taken. More importantly he used some of his strength to help them heal and invigorate themselves, and the pair found themselves in better health than they had been in years.

And all the time he watched that woman, and fell more and more in love.

He recognised she was an older human, but not old like the ladies who crooned over him, or even her flabby husband. She had a fire in her that could match a girl of any youth. And despite her grey hair, the lines on her skin, she grew ever more beautiful in his eyes.

He took to following her, silently padding in her footsteps through the shadows, observing the large building she went to some days. Other days he would follow her as far as a coach or train station, once an airport, and be able to go no further. She would be gone for days at a time, then eventually, he would see her through her window once more.



As winter began to set in, and he found the nights becoming unbearable, he took to sleeping in the ladies house, putting up with such indignities as being bathed in return for the welcome warmth. And he realised that just observing had told him all it could, he knew too little of human ways to deduce more.

And so, he transformed into that human form once more, something he had avoided doing up till that point. He was nervous, as a fox with his skills he could skulk in the shadows, it was easy to hide and survive. As a human he was visible, he had learned much about them but he was aware he still knew very little. His disguises could fool dumb animals he was a man, but could they fool other men?

He knew her name by now, and his idea was to go to that building she frequented and enquire after her, but a chance discovery stopped him from such a foolish action.

The fox could speak and read many human tongues, far more than most men, and after his time in the city he was almost fluent in the local language. And so he read the paper.

He got the newspaper from her. She was taking a bus to work one day, something she only did in bad hail, and was talking to a man he hadn't seen before. The bus was crowded and noisy and even with his sharp hearing he only made out fragments of what they said. What he did hear made him realise they were talking about an article in the paper, talking about risk. And when they stood to get off the bus, they left the paper on the seat. So of course as he followed them, he picked it up himself.

The excuse not to go into their building was relieving to him, the place looked formidable, like most buildings in that chilly city. So instead he found a bench to sit on, in a deserted snow covered park, and read the paper. He found the article they were talking of, and saw it was written by her.

Parts of it he didn't understand, what he could grasp was that this was an attack on somebody. An expose of that abuse of power and strength he knew by now that humans shared with animals, despite their lofty ideals.

So that was what she did.



He decided from then, that he would adopt a more direct approach. He was disliking more and more his skulking, what seemed perfectly natural as a fox left a guilty mark on his mind as a man.

And so one day he spoke to her.

He didn't know how to introduce himself, knew very little of the human rituals of life that teemed all around him, and so he went from a direct manner he had seen on the old women's television.

He followed her into a cafe one day, observing from across the street as a fox. Then from the alley a young man emerged, and he crossed awkwardly, entered. And seeing her ordering a lunch, he asked if she would join him, the awkwardness and nervousness nearly paralysing his tongue.

To his immense surprise she accepted, and he quickly had to create some money to buy their food.



'So young man,'� she sipped the hot coffee with relish, 'to what do I owe this honour?'�

And he realised he didn't know what to say, so he paused, his mouth gaping like a fish.

'I've seen you before, I think.'� She said, taking another drink. Very briefly, on a bus once or twice I believe. Was that you?'�

There was a pause, he nodded mutely. Why couldn't he think of anything to say?

'Ah, yes I thought so. I don't know why I noticed you, there's just something about you. I felt like I'd possibly met you before, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was your hair, you have very lovely hair do you know? Most young people don't seem to appreciate red hair any more, a shame.

'You know, normally I'd be very offput by all this, I'd usually assume in a situation like this you were someone out to attack me for my work. But those people don't usually stand and gawp like a rabbit in headlights, so I'm assuming you're not one of them. In fact I'm wondering, do you have something to tell me?'�

Another pause, and then he eventually stammered;

'I... I read your article, I really liked it. I just wanted to meet you...'�

She nodded, and the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. She reached back and adjusted the bun of her gray hair, something she seemed to do every few minutes.

'Ah, this make a slightly more pleasing situation. Not an enemy, not someone wanting to pass on half based guesses or conspiracy theories. An actual fan, not often I get one of them. Tell me, what's your name?'�

And he froze again, because he didn't have one. Foxes don't have names, they don't need them. And he'd never even considered a human one, only one name flashed through his mind, the name of what he was, which he was already used to being called by the two old ladies.

'Fox,'� he said, 'my name is Fox.'�

'Really,'� she seemed taken aback for a moment, 'what a delightful name. It suits you, Fox.'�



Alice Leetham-York had accepted some time ago both that her marriage was over, and that she could be killed at any time. She was surprised the only one of those that got to her (even from time to time) was her marriage. The first infidelity on his part had been ten years ago, she had already accepted that her fairy tale had died by then, and she thought she was numbed to them by now.

And yet, every so often, the anger and pain of the betrayal surfaced, neither could afford a divorce, financially or careerwise, and being trapped with him left her that little bit hollower every year. She didn't mind that the likelihood of her assassination grew more likely every year, as she repeatedly reflected to herself in part surprise, but she did care that she was stuck in that long dead relationship.

Unlike the death threats, the affairs and death of the marriage had been inevitable. Both she and her husband were paying the price of marrying on first love, she had been so sure she was doing the right thing, she had been headstrong, assured of her feminist convictions, she was keeping her own name after all. The only surprise was that it had lasted at all, and took as long as it did for the first affair. She didn't blame him for that, the marriage was already dead by then, she would have done the same if he hadn't first. But after so long, she despised him in her heart, and he her.

Unlike the marriage, the death threats weren't inevitable. They'd come because she was too good at what she did, and she had only thrown herself into that as a distraction to her doomed relationship. And so, when she found herself covering a low key military incident in one of the satellite states, she suddenly found herself in the dream position for any career motivated journalist, or indeed human rights exponent. She was suddenly in the position of exposing a massacre.

Officially the incident had been a low-key skirmish between terrorists and soldiers, leading to several terrorist deaths and a small victory for the local militia. The event barely even registered on an international, or even national level, all eyes were on the war in the south.

But, when she had arrived, she found a community in mourning, but tight lipped as to what. It had taken three months, but in the end she discovered the painful truth. The terrorists had existed, they had taken over forty people hostage in a local hospital. Rather than negotiate, the military evacuated the area, then bombed the hospital into rubble. Then cleared the sight, rebuilt it, and made measures to keep the local community silent.

Already used to the brutalities of occupation, the community did as they were ordered, and quietly mourned those they had lost but who now had never existed. The military had not expected any journalists to attend, however Alice's editor had needed a diversion to get her away from the office for a time, and it had seemed the perfect opportunity.

He regretted it when she returned fired with brimstone and righteous zeal, having determined to take as long as she was able to find evidence of what had happened. When a bereaved mother and wife opens up to you, it's hard not to make a promise like that.

And over the next six years she had done just that, operating in secret, digging around in places she shouldn't have her nose, finding contacts, burrowing her way into military secrets. And although you can try to do that in secret, eventually you get noticed. And so, a little at a time, she began to report some of her findings.



To his surprise she agreed to meet him again, not immediately as she was going away for a few days, but the week after. Afterwards when he remembered the conversation he winced in remembrance of some of the things he had said, painfully aware he must have seemed like some kind of simple child to her.

But she had agreed, so while he could berate himself, he was still happy. In fact he was over the moon. The two old ladies remarked how excited he seemed that night.

The next day he was full of vigour, but also shame. As the excitement of the meeting died away he reflected guiltily on his ignorance of so many human things, which must have seemed readily apparent to her. And he endeavoured to do what he could to dispel that ignorance.

So he turned to what sources of information he could. The ladies had a television, as well as books and daily newspapers. He would watch the television while they were in, entranced by whatever was on, the concept was so exotic to him. When they were asleep, or those rare times they left the flat, he would transform and read. They read the paper that Alice worked for, and occasionally he would find some she had written and he would memorise it, treasuring each word.

Eventually he exhausted the books they had and he turned elsewhere. In the form of a man he entered the city through the day and found libraries and book shops, it was easy enough to buy, he could create the money at will.

And so he learned. And, in common with almost every learner although he wasn't aware they were similarly afflicted, the more he learned, the more ignorant he felt.



It was two weeks until she returned, it was after midnight when he saw her in her flat, his heart lightened, he had been worried. He watched as she bickered with her husband for a time, they both looked tired and drawn, then she stormed to bed. After a time, when she appeared to be asleep, her husband joined her.

His heart twinged jealously when he saw that, it always did, although he knew by now they didn't love one another any more.



She met him again shortly afterwards. He followed her onto a bus one day and allowed her to see him, he was gratified when she stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder, his courage had almost failed him and he wasn't sure he could have approached her again.

They sat on the same table, at the same cramped cafe and talked. Afterwards they went for a walk over the bridge and he stayed with her until she returned to work. They talked about her work for a part of it, but she was guarded, betraying nothing that couldn't be found in any paper.

So he read, and he learned more though he never felt like he did, and occasionally he was able to meet her. But that was never enough, and he spent many evenings gazing across at her flat, watching her icy relationship with the man who shouldn't still be her husband.

But it ended one evening, when men came for her.

She was reading, sitting in her living room and going through papers, idly making notes as she did so. That ridiculous dog sleeping on the couch next to her. When the fox cocked his ear and focused, he could just make out the very distant noise of his wheezing snore, and her light breathing.

Then the dog suddenly woke, and looked agitated.

The fox frowned, and he tried to listen for what had disturbed the dog. It took several moments, but eventually he made the sound of footsteps, a lot of footsteps, in the corridor behind her flat. What did that mean?

The dog jumped from the sofa and trotted cautiously towards the door, it's floppy ears poised, sniffing suspiciously. Alice looked up for a moment, saw her dog pass into the kitchen where the flat entrance was, and called for her husband to feed him. Then she returned to her work.

The fox glanced behind him, he saw the two ladies, bustling in their own kitchen. Neither was watching him.

Taking the opportunity he jumped off the wall, away from the building. By rights he should have plummeted to his death, but he was beyond such things.

His body stretched, but the stretch didn't end, his body lengthened and contorted, the then great wings caught the air and he shrank to almost miniscule size, and in the form of a Northern Cardinal he skimmed over the air, and landed on her windowsill. He had done this before sometimes, when the urge to be closer to her was too much to bare, and he knew she had gotten used to the tiny, bright red bird that occasionally perched on her windowsill.

He could hear the men easily now, and seconds after he had landed on the windowsill there was a crash, as they shattered the door to her kitchen and entered the flat.



Alice had stood slowly at the sight of the first gun, well aware the time she was supposed to die had finally come. She had accepted this, but that doesn't stop the terror of of helplessness. Then the window shattered, and another man burst into her flat.

In his human form, the fox leapt at the attacker before he could react, and allowing strength to pulse through his arms ripped the man apart. He saw the next and leapt again, this time his teeth bared into vicious fangs and he ripped the mans throat out.

He killed five before they could react, until the turned and set his eyes on the sixth, who was shaking terror. Blood smeared across his face and body the fox bore down on him and as he did so his body grew and stretched, until the terrified man faced a hulking ogre whose brutish hands were reaching for him.

He fired the entire barrel of his handgun, but the bullets were just swallowed by the hulking form. Dropping the useless weapon he ran, the ogre crashing through the doorframe behind him, splintering it. But the man continued to run, he didn't stop until he had left the building and leapt into the waiting car. The driver took one look at his terrified face, and the splashes of blood across his clothes, and left, not even asking after the others.

The fox had not been able to follow him from the flat.

Alice entered her kitchen, not knowing or caring where her husband was hiding. She saw the ogrish figure on his knees, then the body shrank to the teenage man she knew. She saw the pain on his face first, then as he staggered to his feet again and turned, she saw the oozing bullet wounds on his chest.

'Who are you?'� she asked as she rushed forward and caught him as he fell again. He was suddenly so light she held him easily.

But he couldn't answer, he just gasped slightly as he lost his hold. The clothes around him vanished first, and she saw properly the wounds riddling his chest, and then his body diminished.

All that lay on the floor was a dead fox, young and a glorious red.

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