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Rehabilitation Process
© 2022 by Walter Reimer
Follow up to Servant
Thumbnail art by
baroncoon, color by 
Major Matt Mason
Inhale . . . nin, min, tin . . . exhale . . .
Slowly, Kifan g’Shal relaxed, recalling where he was, what he was doing, and why.
And why he should not kill the store clerk who had told him that his order was not ready yet.
The vir said pleasantly, “I’m very sorry, sir, that you are being inconvenienced. Would you like to wait while we prepare your order?” She gestured to one side. “We have a waiting area, and if you’d like something to eat or drink, we can accommodate you.”
The retired Tracker general did a slow blink, inhaling, counting to three and exhaling again before gesturing comprehension. “I will wait, thank you.” He turned and walked over to the waiting area, settling into a comfortably padded seat. “I would like some water, please,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” the vir said with a smile.
G’Shal sank into the soft chair and cocked an eye at the young kam who had accompanied him. “Almost.”
“Yes, sir,” the kam said, “but you caught yourself. And you didn’t hurt yourself, either.”
The older male opened his hand. His fingerclaws had left little dimples in his skin, and he recalled that he had needed regen therapy the first time he had ventured out into the city, fifty-three days earlier at the start of his second year of rehabilitation.
After so many years as a Tracker, the elite thinking killers of the Empire’s military services, it had been decreed that he would spend five years in rehabilitative therapy. It was required; without learning how to cope with civilian life, there could be tragic consequences for him, his family, and anyone he encountered. His first year had been spent under close supervision as all of his memories of his Tracker service were brought back to the surface, reconnected to their emotional burdens, and examined.
He’d screamed and cried during that period, and on at least three occasions he’d had to be sedated and restrained.
But it was necessary, in order to reintegrate him into Kashlanin society.
He knew that his mate and children were waiting to welcome him home, and it gave him a goal to strive toward. Meanwhile, there was no shortage of shlani to help him.
The city was located on a world close to the Trackers’ main base, and it was carefully designed and inhabited as a rehabilitation center primarily for members of the Trackers and others in the Combined Services. Nearly everyone he met was trained to act toward him and other retired Combined Services members as a normal citizen, shopkeeper, or worker, but were all certified therapists. They would treat him as a normal shlan, even to having little inconveniences crop up that required g’Shal to interact with them.
And to not react negatively toward rudeness or any of normal life’s problems.
Today had started with a rather irritating hum in his apartment’s air-circulation system, and the maintenance staff had been late. Then, someone had jostled him on the street on the way to the store – actually jostled him, and was still alive and uninjured.
G’Shal felt proud of that.
He smiled at his minder. “I think that I am progressing.”
The kam smiled. “You are, sir.”
“Kifan.”
“Yezhef.” The younger male’s tail idly traced a glyph on the carpet, a letter G. “How do you feel?”
“Calmer, thank you. My mate will be contacting me later in the day, and I am looking forward to it.”
“Good,” Yezhef said, glancing up as the vir came forward with a glass of water for g’Shal.
“Thank you,” he said as he took it from her. He watched her walk back to her counter. “I miss my mate.”
“After this second year,” Yezhef said, “she will be permitted to come live with you here.”
“Provided I progress.”
“Yes.”
“I look forward to that,” g’Shal said. “I told the Sovereign that I would join the priesthood after my rehabilitation.”
“Aka?”
“Ulnt. As with my mate, it gives me a goal to work toward,” and his ears perked as a pair of bulky packages were placed on the counter and the shop clerk gestured to him. “And now I have dinner to look forward to as well.” He stood, walked over to the packages and checked the inventory. Yes, everything was here, so he used his padd to pay for the order, gathered up his purchases and left the store.
Yezhef was walking beside him. “Nearly four more years,” g’Shal remarked. “Yezhef?”
“Yes, Kifan?”
“What will you do after superintending my therapy for so long?”
The younger kam smiled. “I’ll be reassigned somewhere, Kifan, and after some time I may be called back here to help other Trackers.”
“Good. I think I shall miss you when I finally leave here.”
“Thank you, Kifan.”
Kifan g’Shal smiled as he walked along, the two packages acting as weights on his arms. They weren’t as heavy and bulky as powered armor, but he was still careful to not let them swing and hit anyone walking by them.
Nearly four years to go, and he would be a functioning member of society again, but for now it was a beautiful day. He accepted it for what it was, a blessing from the Deities.
He smiled as he walked along.
© 2022 by Walter Reimer
Follow up to Servant
Thumbnail art by
baroncoon, color by 
Major Matt Mason Inhale . . . nin, min, tin . . . exhale . . .
Slowly, Kifan g’Shal relaxed, recalling where he was, what he was doing, and why.
And why he should not kill the store clerk who had told him that his order was not ready yet.
The vir said pleasantly, “I’m very sorry, sir, that you are being inconvenienced. Would you like to wait while we prepare your order?” She gestured to one side. “We have a waiting area, and if you’d like something to eat or drink, we can accommodate you.”
The retired Tracker general did a slow blink, inhaling, counting to three and exhaling again before gesturing comprehension. “I will wait, thank you.” He turned and walked over to the waiting area, settling into a comfortably padded seat. “I would like some water, please,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” the vir said with a smile.
G’Shal sank into the soft chair and cocked an eye at the young kam who had accompanied him. “Almost.”
“Yes, sir,” the kam said, “but you caught yourself. And you didn’t hurt yourself, either.”
The older male opened his hand. His fingerclaws had left little dimples in his skin, and he recalled that he had needed regen therapy the first time he had ventured out into the city, fifty-three days earlier at the start of his second year of rehabilitation.
After so many years as a Tracker, the elite thinking killers of the Empire’s military services, it had been decreed that he would spend five years in rehabilitative therapy. It was required; without learning how to cope with civilian life, there could be tragic consequences for him, his family, and anyone he encountered. His first year had been spent under close supervision as all of his memories of his Tracker service were brought back to the surface, reconnected to their emotional burdens, and examined.
He’d screamed and cried during that period, and on at least three occasions he’d had to be sedated and restrained.
But it was necessary, in order to reintegrate him into Kashlanin society.
He knew that his mate and children were waiting to welcome him home, and it gave him a goal to strive toward. Meanwhile, there was no shortage of shlani to help him.
The city was located on a world close to the Trackers’ main base, and it was carefully designed and inhabited as a rehabilitation center primarily for members of the Trackers and others in the Combined Services. Nearly everyone he met was trained to act toward him and other retired Combined Services members as a normal citizen, shopkeeper, or worker, but were all certified therapists. They would treat him as a normal shlan, even to having little inconveniences crop up that required g’Shal to interact with them.
And to not react negatively toward rudeness or any of normal life’s problems.
Today had started with a rather irritating hum in his apartment’s air-circulation system, and the maintenance staff had been late. Then, someone had jostled him on the street on the way to the store – actually jostled him, and was still alive and uninjured.
G’Shal felt proud of that.
He smiled at his minder. “I think that I am progressing.”
The kam smiled. “You are, sir.”
“Kifan.”
“Yezhef.” The younger male’s tail idly traced a glyph on the carpet, a letter G. “How do you feel?”
“Calmer, thank you. My mate will be contacting me later in the day, and I am looking forward to it.”
“Good,” Yezhef said, glancing up as the vir came forward with a glass of water for g’Shal.
“Thank you,” he said as he took it from her. He watched her walk back to her counter. “I miss my mate.”
“After this second year,” Yezhef said, “she will be permitted to come live with you here.”
“Provided I progress.”
“Yes.”
“I look forward to that,” g’Shal said. “I told the Sovereign that I would join the priesthood after my rehabilitation.”
“Aka?”
“Ulnt. As with my mate, it gives me a goal to work toward,” and his ears perked as a pair of bulky packages were placed on the counter and the shop clerk gestured to him. “And now I have dinner to look forward to as well.” He stood, walked over to the packages and checked the inventory. Yes, everything was here, so he used his padd to pay for the order, gathered up his purchases and left the store.
Yezhef was walking beside him. “Nearly four more years,” g’Shal remarked. “Yezhef?”
“Yes, Kifan?”
“What will you do after superintending my therapy for so long?”
The younger kam smiled. “I’ll be reassigned somewhere, Kifan, and after some time I may be called back here to help other Trackers.”
“Good. I think I shall miss you when I finally leave here.”
“Thank you, Kifan.”
Kifan g’Shal smiled as he walked along, the two packages acting as weights on his arms. They weren’t as heavy and bulky as powered armor, but he was still careful to not let them swing and hit anyone walking by them.
Nearly four years to go, and he would be a functioning member of society again, but for now it was a beautiful day. He accepted it for what it was, a blessing from the Deities.
He smiled as he walked along.
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Alien (Other)
Size 99 x 120px
File Size 41.4 kB
Listed in Folders
A wonderful story Walt...
I remember back to when I was a child, and so many of my father's generation always had their little quirks... as children, we simply accepted them.
The principle of our high school had no legs. My history teacher was a machinegunner because he was so very big and could carry the gun. He told a humorous story once about lighting up a hay mound because a German soldier had gone there with a roll of toilet paper. They thought it was funny, until the tank under the hay started its motor. He was later taken prisoner.
Most all of them were alcoholics, including my step-mother, who had been an army nurse and in the African Campaign.
It is good that we now understand the problems of post traumatic wounds.
It is also clear that more needs to be done.
*hugs...
Vix
I remember back to when I was a child, and so many of my father's generation always had their little quirks... as children, we simply accepted them.
The principle of our high school had no legs. My history teacher was a machinegunner because he was so very big and could carry the gun. He told a humorous story once about lighting up a hay mound because a German soldier had gone there with a roll of toilet paper. They thought it was funny, until the tank under the hay started its motor. He was later taken prisoner.
Most all of them were alcoholics, including my step-mother, who had been an army nurse and in the African Campaign.
It is good that we now understand the problems of post traumatic wounds.
It is also clear that more needs to be done.
*hugs...
Vix
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