This is a story about the POI gang and how different things might be if their souls walked next to them as animals. No real knowledge of "His Dark Materials" required. However, a basic read up on daemons through a wiki page would be highly encouraged.

For full effect, feel free to Google or Wiki the animals and names given to the daemons. Also, the common name used may differ from how Finch refers to the animals - for example a character may have a Hummingbird while Finch will see it as Ocreatus underwoodii, which looks much different than a Typical hummingbird. If you come across the Latin names, copy and paste it to delve further.

Whispers of the Soul

Octopus

Contrary to his name, Harold Wren's daemon was not a bird. However, Harold Octopus did not a name make. It was a shock when Zipporah settled as Thaumoctopus Mimicus, in common, Mimic Octopus. All their life, she had taken the shape of birds. There was a flashy Peahen when he was being particularly vain, the mild mannered Waxwing when he wanted other children to like him, or the constant Grey Parrot when they were in school, hungry for knowledge and always, always testing the limits of whatever technology was in front of them. Even Zipporah's name meant "little bird", an obvious prophecy for their future. When she stopped changing shape, most people who saw Harold assumed she settled as a dusky raven, sharp witted with haunting elegance. Of course, if one cared to speak to Harold or Zipporah at that time they'd know neither preferred the form.

It was nice but it wasn't right.

That being said, it was still quite a shock when Zipporah changed into a banded octopus in the middle of a jog, her tentacles wrapping around Harold's neck for stability. Everything happened just as he got to that Runner's High, by far the best part of his morning. There was the sound of his breath, his shoes on pavement, and solitude. Just he and his daemon existed then, calm and free to wander through complex thought without falter.

Harold had been thinking, planning how he would make code dance when he got home and something shifted in his chest – it stuttered as his knees gave out and Zipporah was heavier and spread out like a hand over his back but it felt good. Oh this was perfect. Another jogger slowed and asked if he was alright but Harold waved him off. Both Zipporah and Harold breathed for the first time, like they had only now learned full use of their lungs. Yes. Yes, this was what they were. He pulled up from the squat he'd been in and reached for her. Zipporah crawled into his hands as best she could, adjusting to her new arms and top heavy structure.

"I like this one," she told him. Harold's feathery grin matched the excitement in her voice.

"Me too. This is the best." Her tentacles coiled around his wrist, new suckers testing his skin as she watched him with unblinking eyes.

Zipporah didn't have feathers anymore. She didn't have talons, or feet to speak of or even eye-lids. She wasn't capable that silly head tilt that she made when amused with him. So radical was her change that she'd gone from warm blooded to cold, airborne to aquatic. Harold had never heard of someone changing species so late in life unless caused but extreme stress; horrible things like war or rape and a number of other traumas. Certainly nothing comically mundane as an early morning jog. Harold and Zipporah were almost sixteen, two years later than when most children settled. All of their life they had been birds, always birds. Harold would have panicked if he didn't feel so wonderful with his daemon's new and final form. A Cephalopod. Huh.

"I do still have a beak," she reminded, and nipped at him with her mouth part. Wincing, he peeled her off his hand and scrutinized the red welt she'd left. With this tiny reminder of what they used to be, Harold found he didn't mind everything else so much anymore.

Almost delirious when they got home, Zipporah guided him to the bathroom where he dumped her in the tub for water. She wasn't a real octopus so she didn't need a constant supply of warm marine water. At least he hoped. Zipporah splashed around for a while, playing with her new limbs and the colors she could change them before Harold joined her. He had been jogging, after all.

"This is going to change a lot of things, isn't it," she said. Zipporah's voice was murky from being waterlogged but still kind as it had been when she was a canary. For this, Harold was grateful. Kindness was something of a rarity in his life. He was happy with wherever it came from, even if it was just his own daemon.

"No. Not everything," he replied, but it was useless to lie to her. Instead they focused on their new understanding of themselves and Harold tried to recall everything he knew about octopi.

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Dog

All quiet in the Carter house, Joss put a hand to the door separating herself and her sleeping son. Taylor had a big day, between the giddiness of Mom coming home at last, and preparation for his father's funeral. Joss didn't blame the child for tinkering out. She was about ready to fall asleep on her feet, too. If it wasn't for the boy's grandmother, Joss didn't know how she would have gotten through it. She knew Home would have a different pace than Iraq but Joss felt like she needed to relearn how to walk.

Thinking of Taylor, tax from the day's weary pain drained from her system, leaving Joss warm and exhausted in the way of a marathon opposed to a march. Her years in military service made that a clear distinction. Marathons came with a sense of victory that wasn't guaranteed in the military. Victor, Joss' Doberman Pincher daemon whined, so unlike his typical stoic regality.

"Wanna say goodnight?" she teased him. Victor's eyebrows pinched together like a pensive whippet.

"You are exceptionally cruel," he told her, matter of fact. Joss rolled her eyes. Back to usual. Victor's voice and stance were ridged as an iron pres. Joss stood in a powder blue robe from the wrong end of the '90s and heavier bags under her eyes than the ones she brought home from her last tour. Daemons had several ways of coping through the horrors of war. Some allowed their person to hide them from it all, others reveled in the blood. Victor was a minority daemon who came out of war more serious than his person, bearing the brunt of their pain so Joss wouldn't have to.

It didn't happen overnight, but when Joss looked at a picture of herself before, she realized Victor lost his ears and tail. They had been warned it would happen, of course. Dog daemons that went through military service tended to emulate their animal counter parts – for fighting dogs this meant docked tails and cut ears for the breed standard. Until their service, Victors looked like every other natural Doberman; floppy eared with a whip tail. Any Doberman bred for show or work had their tails docked and ears cut in their puppy years. Victor's withered to the appropriate size through their service. Looking back at the time table, it started after Joss' first kill.

"So, do you want say goodnight?" she prompted again. Some men came back from service with their daemons so close to their chest it was like they never wanted to touch ground again. Joss and Victor had separated. It wasn't anything like Intercision, thank goodness, but their link had most definitely been muted. Victor took the pain and sorrow for himself and remained the grounding force so Joss could smile and love. With such a rift between their emotions, Joss had trouble guessing what her daemon wanted from her. Sometimes she wondered if he was still hers.

What strips were left of his ears fell flat against his head and Victor's trained gaze washed down to his paws.

"What if I am a bad parent?"

Joss kneeled beside her daemon and wrapped her arms around him. He'd allowed her to hold him close like this when they were young, when thunder like gunfire cast jagged shadows over their room and Joss was scared. His warmth and steady heart lulled her back to sleep. All through the war, through mortar fire and soul sickening events, Victor was her guide and grounding force. Now it was her turn.

"It's impossible for you to be a bad parent because we are in this together. There are two of us, Vic. It's time we stop acting like we're different. We've got a kid to take care of now."

Victor remained still as Joss rubbed his back. His dour eyes looked miserable as she stood and opened the door. Taylor lay in bed, his daemon favoring the shape of a wombat as they slept, Taylor's arms wrapped tight over her bulky frame. Victor followed Joss into the room, hesitant as a mouse. Once they got to the bed, he leaned his head over and pressed his muzzle to the wombat. She made a mewling sigh and Taylor strained to open an eye. Joss sat and ran a hand over his forehead before kissing her boy.

"Hey, baby," she cooed. "It's just me. You can go back to sleep."

Taylor mumbled something more and grabbed her hand. His wombat twisted about and wrapped a paw around Victor's muzzle. Smiling, Joss knew she and Victor would work things out.

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Iguana

Lionel supposed he should have known better when his partner put the shovel in his hands. For weeks now, Cornell had been acting squirrely, odd for a man with an Army Ant daemon. Cornell was meticulous, always straightening every detail and stressing to Lionel that one could never be too careful, especially in their precinct. IA found dirt Cops every time they turned over a stone. Lionel laughed it off, of course. So his superior was crazy about doing things 'by the book'. It didn't bother Lionel much. Sure, he and his iguana, Nadia liked to take things slow but he understood other personalities worked at different paces than them. At the end of the day they did good work as police. Maybe not as good as those jocks and their dog daemons but Lionel was proud of their work.

Then Cornell disappeared for an entire day after saying, "Don't say anything to anyone!"

Nadia looked up at him, large gray eyes blinking. Cornell left in such a rush that Lionel hadn't the time to ask what not to say anything about. Close to his punch-out time, Lionel worried something happened to his partner, maybe a criminal seeking revenge or the man got caught playing detective while chasing down a scent. Nadia asked him to wait a day before going to the Chief, hopeful that everything would work out in the end. They were trying to be loyal. Lionel knew it wasn't supposed to be their trait, Nadia a reptile, but he was determined that they wouldn't become just another dirty cop. On the other hand, they didn't want to be a rat, either. It just wasn't in their blood.

He scratched a nail behind Nadia's jaw, the iguana closing her eyes as she sighed. Lionel decided to listen to his daemon. It was what you were supposed to do, after all, to listen when your daemon told you to do something.

Cornell reappeared the next day, just as Lionel was making his way to the Chief. He was so relieved that he wouldn't have to stumble over an excuse to why he hadn't mentioned something wrong, earlier, that Lionel missed the dry panic in Cornell's expression or the way his ant, Ophelia kept clenching her mandibles. They looked horrible.

"Where the hell were yuh? I was this close - this close to calling in SWAT for yuh." Lionel squished his pointer finger and thumb together to show Cornell just how serious he was as he squinted at the man. Nadia hurried along the linoleum floor and stared up at Cornell with her dopy grin. They were happy to see him. Cornell ran quick fingers through his hair and smiled, but the edges were tight.

"I need some help." Lionel's demure changed and he scooped up Nadia.

"What kinda help?"

Cornell didn't say a word as they drove out to the woods. Lionel kept pestering, an uneasy knot growing in his gut. Cornell's knuckles whitened with his grip on the wheel. Nadia lay her head on Lionel's lap. Her claws dug into his coat. It was March but the air was still too cold for her tropical temperament. Frustrated, Lionel worked the heater and pointed the fans at Nadia to warm her up.

Lionel must have asked thirty questions on their way into the woods. All of them were answered when Cornell pressed the shovel into his hands and led Lionel to an overturned log. A body hid amongst the moss, slugs already gathered about his mouth. Two garnet bullet wounds punctured his chest, police uniform stained. Cornell was absolutely still, Ophelia poised on his shoulder, ready to strike.

"What the hell," Lionel gaped, both hands on top of his head as he tried to understand. The shovel fell forgotten and Nadia hurried to get out of the way. Lionel turned to Cornell and his partner's brows were tight.

"I need your help, Fusco."

"No kiddin'."

Lionel reached for Nadia and scooped her up, slung on one arm with her nose wedged by his underarm. She didn't want to see this. They already understood what was happening, even if Lionel wanted to deny it.

"You shot a Cop?"

"No! No I shot a no good rat," Cornell spat. Ophelia thrashed her mandibles. "He was puttin' drugs in my car to frame me of pinching evidence instead of him. It was either him or me, so I chose me."

Happy for any excuse to look away from the corpse, Lionel studied his partner. The story didn't feel right. The story didn't feel right . . . but his partner had always had his back. Cornell and Ophelia were with him from day one, rough around the edges but dedicated to building them up. He'd helped Lionel overcome the stereotypes with a reptile daemon. Lizards and insects weren't exactly respected as police. It was common rumor that every reptile daemon meant a dirty Cop. Lionel was no dirty Cop. Maybe a little less privileged or educated than others but he was good police.

"Why didn' yuh just report 'em?"

"Are even listening? I shot him while he was puttin' drugs in my car. That's not exactly self-defense. Not any that The Law will appreciate, anyhow." Cornell heeled his eye with a palm and cursed. "I need your help. Fusco, you gotta help me."

Dogs were loyal. Reptiles were dirty cops. Chewing his lip, Lionel stared at the corpse again. If he left Cornell alone he was ditching his partner. If he helped he'd be dirty. More than anything, Lionel wanted to be a good, honest man. The stigma of an iguana was a powerful thing. Iguanas were fat and lazy. Lionel wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be loyal.

"Just this once, okay? I ain't bailin' yuh out a' second time." Lionel helped Nadia to the ground and picked up the shovel. Cornell gave him a slap on the shoulder and a rusty 'thank you'. Lionel waved him off; sure it would be a onetime thing.

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Wolf

By nature, John was quiet. The CIA didn't need to waste time honing it in him. He just was. John said no more than a handful of words through the day, less on mission. Whatever rasps could be pried from him were quadrupled in importance because of it. Kara joked that half the time she and her Serval daemon Larcan had a better chance getting a volleyball to talk than John and his Maned Wolf. Morna, John's daemon, said less than the man himself. When a person was quiet, sometimes their daemon made up for it. They chatted and blurted and gossiped till other daemons had to kindly say "Shut the hell up!" Then there were ones like John and his daemon, comfortable going an entire day without a word but between the two.

Kara had never heard Morna speak. She grunted now and again, barked when needed on mission, and growled fiacre enough to make the hairs on Larcan stand on end. Even when emotions from undercover work boiled over and John and Kara fucked against a wall (it could never and would never be called 'making love' – that was what John did with Jessica), Morna didn't make a noise. Larcan would nuzzle the bigger animal, nip her ears and carry on a one-sided conversation but Morna stayed resolute in her muteness. If John opened up more about their past, Kara wouldn't have been able to blame the daemon.

John awoke to Morna licking the underside of his jaw, her rough tongue scarping his skin and some of the dirt that had collected there. Groaning, he squinted at her and ran numb fingers through her matted, rutty fur. Her ears tipped down and a whine issued from her chest, skin around her neck vibrating John's fingers. Closing his eyes again, John patched together his thoughts.

Cold. Dizzy. China. Kara betrayed them – no. The CIA betrayed them.

Morna whimpered at that and John wrapped both arms around her, pulling the large dog against his wounded chest to hold the both of them together. They were alone again. It happened all through their life, friends and family distancing themselves from them because of what they were. Morna was called a Maned Wolf, but she wasn't a wolf and she wasn't a fox or a dog. The species she came from was something left over from an extinction event. Just by looking at Morna, a person knew something was off about John. Wolves were an ancient sort of daemon, befitting of war and struggle. It was no animal for a modern setting. Dog daemons could tell there was something wrong with Morna and others had the sense to be weary.

All their life, they wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Well, alone with one other person. Maned Wolves did not travel in packs but they were never completely alone. He shared his life with Jessica and had done so with Kara. As long as they had one person to stabilize them, they were without fear or regret. Now John was slammed by both.

Morna cried and pressed her nose into the crook of his shoulder, trying to be close as possible. John had heard stories of people with their souls inside their chest. It felt like Morna was trying to do just that.

"Morna, Morna please. My wound." Where Kara shot him in the back. It went clean through but he was still bleeding. The dog-that-wasn't rolled off and licked his cheek. John struggled upright and Morna helped his balance, leaning against his legs as he steadied himself.

"We'll be okay," he told his daemon, scratching behind an ear. He winced as the muscle around his wound pulled. John grabbed Morna tight and allowed his daemon to lead him out of the ditch they'd been in. "We can go back to Jessica. We can see her. It's okay, we're free now."

Morna gruffed and John started to smile. They lost Kara and Mark and the Agency but they were free now. They would survive. Jessica and her Golden Retriever would make sure of it. They always knew how to sooth John and Morna, knew all the tricks and between-the-lines dialogue. Kara's Serval and John's Maned Wolf were both predators of grasslands but there was nothing quite like a dog daemon meeting with (almost) another of their kind. Things would be perfect again, like they were before The Towers. John was so sure of it now there wasn't a doubt. His chest lightened and Morna's steps were steadier.

"We've got a long road ahead of us but we'll be alright," he promised. Morna believed him.