Dorian and Julian on Recruiting Station Row
	By Kayla A. “Qit el-Remel” Green

	A cat walks past a building which is divided into four separate office spaces.  She thinks back to the test she took last week.
	If she’d actually studied for it, she wonders, would her score have been higher?
	And would that necessarily have been a good thing?

	The uniformed cinnamon bear threw the door to his office open practically in Dorian Rapaport’s face, causing the twenty-one-year-old cat ‘morph to jump.
	Regaining her composure, Dorian spun to face the soldier.
	“Hey, are you Dorian Rapaport?”  the bear asked.  At Dorian’s less than enthusiastic affirmative, he continued:  “You should sign up with us!”
	“Don’t listen to that guy,”  a cheetah ‘morph advised the cat.  Although the cheetah was in civilian clothes, his T-shirt read AIM HIGH across the chest.  “I’m sure we’re much more suitable.”
	Dorian dodged both of them--only to nearly smack into a timber wolf in khaki and blue who seemed to materialize in front of her.  The wolf looked at his competition and snickered.
	“Listen to ‘em brag,”  he said to Dorian.  “Don’t they know we’re the best choice?”
	“C’mon, we need a cat of your caliber!”  a golden retriever barked, darting between Dorian and the wolf.  The wolf scowled; why were his prospects always being snagged by that damn sailor?
	Dorian, however, was far from snagged.
	Damn recruiters, she thought, and made a dash for it. 
	The sand cat hybrid had managed to snag a prime job as a security guard not too long out of college.  She’d considered the military as an option--she’d always liked to travel, after all--and had taken the vocational aptitude exam.  In fact, a co-worker of the overly enthusiastic golden retriever had arranged it for her.  But the more she thought about it, the less appealing the idea became.  
	Admittedly, she’d already completed a training program nearly as intense and possibly more strenuous than anything the recruiters could offer her--for all that it wasn’t exactly something she could put on a résumé, since who’d believe where she’d been trained?  But if, by some fluke, the military didn’t work for her, she doubted she could get her job back any too easily...
	Dorian’s reverie was suddenly shattered:  Still moving at a steady jog, she crashed into something solid.  Something solid and at least half again her own mass which responded to her “What the...?” with a “Whoa!”
	The cat jerked her head up and found herself looking into a pair of startled topaz eyes.
	The sinewy young male caracal was about a foot taller than she was herself.  His fur was a glossy mahogany with white markings; his expressive tufted ears were black.  He seemed to be dressed somewhat conservatively--pale blue button-up shirt and dark trousers--but Dorian was paying more attention to his attractive, strong-featured face than to his clothing.
	“Sorry...”  the caracal stammered, trying to help Dorian regain her balance.  “Wasn’t watching where I was going...neither were you, but that’s beside the point...”
	Dorian realized that her impression of his outfit had been wrong.  It wasn’t Urban Yuppie Chic, it was a military uniform.  With gold bars on the shoulder pieces.
	So that was it, huh?  Another damn recruiter, this one some cocky junior officer trying to impress the prospects with his cute face and his rank.  This flyboy was getting one ear-chewing of his own and one for that damned cheetah on Recruiting Station Row.
	“DAMMIT!”  Dorian snarled.  “Does seeing someone start running away from R.S. Row like a maniac mean absolutely nothing to you guys? I...am...not...joining...the...frigging...military!  I thought I told you damn recruiters that already.  You just don’t give up, do you?
	The caracal’s eyes widened.  “Wait a second...”
	“What the hell do you want?  Because if it’s for me to sign a damn contract, forget it.”
	The caracal swiped nervously at his ear.  “I’m not a recruiter.  My name is Julian Orr, and I just got out of OCS.  This was my recruiting station, and I’m coming by to see if they’ll send a “hello and thank you”  to my recruiter.”  He paused and took a breath.  “I have no vested interest in you signing any sort of contract.”
	Dorian relaxed.  She’d admittedly tried to put Lieutenant Tassel Ears on the defensive, but not that much.
	“I’m Dorian Rapaport.  I took the aptitude test last week, and pulled a hell of a score.”  It had been above the ninetieth percentile.  “Now, they’re all after me.  I’ve got an associate degree and a halfway-decent job as a security guard, and don’t really need any more career strings pulled.”  She thought back--not far enough back--to a certain cop-in-training.  “Anyway, I’ve heard that doing something drastic when you’re depressed over your personal life is a dumb idea.”
	Julian pulled a wry face.  “That's how they got me to sign up; bugged me about my scores.  I told them ROTC or nothing.”  He pronounced the acronym “rotcee,” Dorian noticed.  “And--forgive me for prying, but what did you mean about doing something drastic over your personal life?”
	Dorian thought of a jaguarundi known as Flint again, and sighed.  She might as well tell Julian.  “Joining the military right after my fiancé and I broke our engagement would probably be a dumb idea.”
	“You dumped him, right?”  Julian said quietly.  “Because, if not, I’d say he’s the dumb one.”
	Dorian looked at him, startled.  The compliment had been completely unexpected.  “Thank you.  I don’t know what else to say.”
	“Well, what would you say to...damn!  However I ask this, it’s going to sound awkward...you probably don’t want to even date casually this soon after ending a serious relationship, but...I wouldn’t mind getting to know you better.  So what would you say to a movie this weekend?”
	“I’d say, ‘Hello, movie.  Don’t you just love Saturdays?’” 
	Julian choked back a laugh.  “Was that a yes?” 
	“Yes, it was.”