So now it smells in here...(OPEN) <Fungus's Room>

((ooc: Hope you don't mind me puttin' myself as your neighbor in the boy's hall. )

The small white cat with black spots here and there had been sunbathing, thank you. Early morning, late autumn sunbathing: the best kind. Its coat was just beginning to thicken for the coming winter, and the mild breeze from the West caused its fur to foof out warmly to combat the slight chill. All four of its paws were neatly tucked up under its warm belly, and its black tail was wrapped snuggly around its body. Its baby blue eyes were half-lidded in sheer contentment. Half-lidded in sheer contentment, that is, until its corneas were slapped by the sight of a naked teenager he did not know. A naked, wet teenager he did not know.

Well. That was something he didn't want to see every morning. The small white cat with black spots here and there was, of course, Calley. His own room was a mere five feet behind him, back along the thin decorative ledge that ran just below the windows on the second floor. His window was open and waiting on his post-basking return.

Resonant thud!

...Oh open window, how tempting thou art. How ever so much more tempting than an all-naked half-wet teenager who'd just disappeared from his flashity-flash window to his own floor. But he was someone Calley hadn't met, and that had been a pretty resonant thud.

With a flick of its tail, the small white cat with black spots here and there stood, and silently padded along the ledge to the next window over. It peered in. And then it did something that was somewhat uncat-like. Its mouth opened.

"You okay, in there?" It yowlingly inquired, through the glass of the window.

It was a Mansion cat, after all. Talking was practically to be expected.

>> "Um, hello. I'm fine."

The spotty teen had a slightly dazzed look to his eyes. Not an uncommon reaction, when presented with a feline of such distinguished spots, and careful grooming.

>> "Who are you? And, why are you talking. Cats don't generally do that, do they?"

Oh, this was too fun. "In reverse order:" the small cat decreed; "they do speak, quite frequently. However, I--in particular--am not talking. I am simply a cat, sitting on your window sill. I have white fur with black spots, and that is name enough for any cat. You seem to have a similar color scheme--I approve. However," the small cat licked the back of one paw, and began to delicately groom behind one ear; "I regret to inform you that during your recent tumble, your head received quite the knock. I, the cat, exist; me, my voice, is merely a by-product of that head injury."

Finishing with the first ear, the cat licked the back of its other paw, and moved on to the second. Its blue eyes briefly flashed back to the teenager. "Other questions?"

The teen had still not put on clothing. Calley refused to identify himself as the man's neighbor, until he did. It was asking too much for him to simply tell the teen that rule, however.

"And what is your name?" The cat continued, quite conversationally.

>> "My name is for me to know and the voices in my head to never find out. However, you may call me Fungus. Why were you on the windowsill? It's sort of cold out there."

"Cold?" The little cat scoffed, rising to its round paws for the purposes of regally arching its back. "It hasn't even snowed yet! This is a perfectly pleasant day," it decreed, sitting down again, its black tail curled around its paws, "and I shan't have you sullying its name. Cold. Pish, posh, and pfft."

Speaking of pish, posh, and pfft: the other teen was finally getting dressed. Good for him. He was looking more and more like a model citizen with each article of clothing he pulled on. Or, at the least, less and less like a trench coat flasher sans trench coat. The cat did not miss the fact that the other teen not only carried a Swiss army knife, but apparently slept with it was well, but the only acknowledgement that little quirk got was a slight flick of one ear, as if to chase off a fly. Interesting that he slept with it and carried it in his clothes, but did not think to bring it into the shower with him. Paranoia was hardly paranoia if it wasn't taken to extremes. Truly, the little white cat with black spots here and there was mildly disappointed. Was it merely a keepsake, then? Another of its ears flicked, towards the appetizing sound of birdsong from outside the window.

>> "You hungry, Mr. Cat Who Has Still Not Told Me His Name?"

The cat's head turned back towards the teenager, now clothed, and looking less like an anatomy textbook because of it. Without preamble, the cat arched off of the windowsill, and landed lightly on the floor inside of the room. "Perhaps. What do Fungi eat? Personally, I am in the mood for something that used to fly." His tail and head were held at effortless heights as he padded to the side of the other teen, though with a delicately maintained four feet of distance between them. The cat had gotten sight of the damage done to that desk as he leapt. Really, there was no need to draw overly close.

Its blue eyes blinked carelessly up at the teen, from several feet below his eyelevel. "You may call me Lord Calley the First. I will permit you to open the door for me, as we venture forth on this quest for food."

>> "Your Grace. The Dining hall be... somewhere through this door. I don't know where the kitchen is."

The little cat strode out of the newly opened door, every step invested with confidence. As for the door opening itself: he did not thank the man. Having doors opened for them was the rightful privilege of any Felis domesticus. The bow and the flourish, however, earned Fungus an approving rumble of a purr.

"Worry not, Second Retainer. We know the way to where this kitchen is. Many a time have we walked it, at all hours of the night and day and mid-morning." We also knew how to speak in the royal we. The cat paused just outside of the door; its tail gave a small, inconsequential flick towards the room next door. "We live there. Our power tends to be shifting." The cat again took up the pace, leading them unerringly towards the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen: a banquet in refrigerator-and-cabinet form, stocked and paid for by someone else. Truly a wonderful place. "What is yours?"

>> "Well, I rot all organic things on my touch. Wood, cotton, silk, fruit, vegetables, flesh, it all turns to stinky brown mush. The energy from the process is absorbed into my body, and I can use it for many things."

The small white cat's ears kept up a backwards tilt as it lead the way towards the kitchen, listening to the man. "Curiouser and curiouser," it commented with neutral curiosity, as the teen described his powers. And by that Alice's Adventures in Wonderland quote, he clearly meant 'creepy and creepier'. People--especially people at the Mansion--liked to go on and on about how no power was inherently bad. That power, though, definitely didn't qualify as inherently good. It sure explained the desk, though. And probably why Spotty was wearing gloves. Inorganic gloves, the cat assumed.

Incoming.

Hand.

Imminent.

The cat had been maintaining its four foot buffer between them from the first it had hoped off of that windowsill. The man's gait changed subtly as he leaned down; the cat's ears flicked fully back, his head turning. One baby blue eye saw an incoming hand, imminent.

Unlike most people at the Mansion, Calley didn't believe that every mutant that came through these doors was just a big fluffy teddy bear waiting for a hug. The guy had just finished explaining how his powers rotted organic materials at a touch. Last Calley had checked, cats qualified as organic. Incoming hand imminent?

SPRINT.

Calley was halfway down the hall before that hand got anywhere near him, and turning around with ears laid back and small head held parallel to the floor. The hair along his spine and tail was half way to standing.

"Lord Calley the First," he hissed, lowly; "did not give you permission to touch him." He also hadn't given Fungus permission to turn him into--what was it?--a 'brown mush'. A 'stinky brown mush'.

"What are you playing at?" The cat demanded, its claws unsheathed as it braced itself lightly against the floor, ready to sprint or attack. "Are you with the Order? 'Cause I don't remember inviting them back for another attack." Calley didn't recognize Fungus by sight or smell or name, but that didn't mean anything--it had been months since he'd done more than casually visit the Sanctuary. Factions got new members. New members got new orders. And they'd already had one break-in by the Order recently, with painful results.

Breakfast could wait.

>> "What? What's the Order? I just wanted to show you this."

The cat's eyes flashed to follow the movement of the teenager's hand, though its head remained perfectly still. The discharge of energy did not particularly set it at ease. Nor did the reverberations that could be felt, albeit slightly, even this far down the hall.

>> "So little energy it's completely harmless."

"You wanted to show me that," the cat said, its voice a careful monotone; "on my flesh." Slowly, it eased its feet out of the braced-for-battle position and into a more normal stand. "You might want to be more careful with things like that, around here. If you pleasantly explain to someone that your power is to make organic things turn to mush, they might not be too thrilled at you trying to do any sort of 'demonstration' on their flesh in the next heartbeat." The little white cat turned, with a summoning flick of its black tail. It started walking again, towards the kitchen.

"If that little flash-and-reverb of yours is completely harmless," he asked, with somewhat less amusement than before; "what does it do? And can you not affect living flesh--is that why I shouldn't have been worried?"

They had come to the main flight of stairs: the cat bounded down them one at a time in a rapidly controlled tumble of flashing feet and claws. The kitchen was just down the hall to the left now, the smells wafting from it pointing it out clearly.

He would still eat breakfast with the teen. But he'd be leaving a nice nine foot buffer between them, until his fur settled again.

>> "It's been longer than I thought since I've been around people."

The cat's ears caught that self-mumble, but a flick was all the sign of it; it was something he tucked away, to address later.

>> "As to what it does, it can cause intense pain, and possible permanent nerve damage. However, that is only if I discharge a large amount of energy. I can control the amount of energy that is given off, so that I can choose whether to cause a slight muscle twinge or crippling pain. Sorry..."

He was beginning to believe that no harm would have come of the touch: but really, there was a little too much potential for harm, there. Yeah. Yeah, Calley was the sort of mutant that discriminated against his own: some mutants were just dangerous. He wouldn't be letting Fungus stroke his own fine fur anytime soon. Maybe after he knew the spotty guy better. Maybe not even then.

As they reached the kitchen, though, all was truly forgiven as the beautifully wafting smells rushed in through his pink nose, into his olfactory chamber; the signals tripped over themselves in their hurry to reach his olfactory bulb, at which point his brain began to salivate. The saliva in his own mouth was a mere by-product of that.

"And here we reach," the small cat declared, strutting through the open doorway, "the kitchen itself. A hallowed chamber: please approach it with all due reverence. It is, after all," he continued walking up, to a certain holy rectangle; "the Shrine of the Refrigerator."