I had a problem. The problem was two fold. Fold one: I was looking at a calendar. Fold two: I couldn’t remember where my pants were.

My tail twitched. A tail, yes—because I was catting. Catting: not a word, but a verb none the less. I was catting because I was a human who currently looked like a cat. Hence, catting. Though human might be a stretch. I’m a mutant. A mutant who... cats.

The calendar. The calendar had a nefarious plot going with the rest of the world purely to confuse me. I’d checked around town. The scrolling billboards around Times Square were in on this plot. So was the date-stamp on that one girl’s text message from Fred. I don’t know what a girl would see in a guy named Fred. He’s... Fred. Flintstones, anyone? Anyone?

My pants. I didn’t know where they were, because I didn’t know where I’d left them, because I hadn’t worn them in two years. At least, that’s what the calendar was trying to convince me of. Nefarious bastard. There was no way that I’d spent two years catting and I hadn’t noticed. I’d been disowned, what, in March? Yeah. It was May now; the calendar agreed with me that far. But that “2007” couldn’t be right, because it was clearly 2005. A guy can’t just misplace two years, never mind if he’s catting or not. Darn calendar was out to get me. I gave it a little love tap with my claws.

“Hey-! Scat, you!” The hot-dog vendor yelled, wadding up a mustard-smeared napkin and dropping it on my head. Nice guy, really; he could have dropped the metal napkin holder. I gave him a courteous flick of my tail, and strutted away.

Think Calley, think. Chances aren’t good—however much evidence there is to the contrary—that the calendars are out to get you. And years are harder to misplace than pants. So just... think. That’s what your stupid brain is for. It’ll make Darwin cry if you don’t use it.

I got disowned in March. Yes. I left home three days later, and hopped on a bus to New York because I had an extra twenty bucks and it seemed like a good idea. That was still March. Right. Then I slept in an alleyway next to that friendly hobo. And when I woke up, the hobo was petting me and crooning “good kitty, good kitty, you won’t leave Old Larry—” That was still March; yes. And rather normal—I haven’t woken up as a human since I hit puberty. Talk about hair growing in weird new places. I don’t always cat, actually—I’ve got a whole list of verbs for what I might be on any given morning. But I’d been working very hard on being a cat every morning back then—baby steps—and my hard work was really starting to pay off. God that hobo knew how to pet a cat. I wonder what he’s doing now. Focus, Calley, focus: after the hobo. After the hobo... I figured staying a cat was easier. Mostly because I didn’t want to change into a naked young man while the hobo was petting me. That’s one mystery solved: I left my pants with the hobo.

Where the hell is that hobo, any way?

Okay, back to the calendar. It was definitely still March and definitely still 2005 when I donated my clothing and my backpack with my food and my blanket to the needy. Great. Then it was April, then it was May—much like it is now—and then... Oh, crap. Then it was summer. And then it was winter. And I seem to recall that it was winter again a few months ago. And not the same winter, either. So unless the seasons are plotting against me, too, that means... yep, two years.

Stupid smart-ass calendar.

So I’ve been a cat for two years. So what? I’m doing fine. In fact, I’m strolling through Central Park right now like I own the place. A fifteen year old kid couldn’t do this half as good. Scratch that: seventeen. Fifteen plus two makes me seventeen. I jump onto a park bench, and curl up so my tail is wrapped comfortably around my legs and under my chin.

...If anyone needed proof that mutants weren’t human, this was it: I’m a seventeen year old boy who’s more interested in keeping his fur fastidiously clean than I am in girls. Girls... God, I’m never going to date, am I? Not unless I get into bestialit—eww. Just eww.

The sun feels nice on my fur. When I’m catting I’m mostly white with black here and there. Central Park is an awesome place for catting—free food being dropped everywhere by tourists, mice freely available for a kitty tired of fried food, and plenty of space to run in case Animal Control sticks their nose into things. Central Park... Central Park... I yawn. There’s something I’m forgetting about Central Park.

“...a brawl in the middle of Central Park, that’s what. Took down a lot of the old-growth trees... It looks like a blizzard went through. I swear to God, it’s like they’re not even trying to hide anymore.”

Ah, right. Some lovely mutants who are much less discrete than my own furry self tore up a part of it. I look around lazily. That sun feels really nice. Wherever they tore up, it wasn’t right here. And I doubt they’re still around, so... I yawn again. Right. If someone starts going all mutant over my part of the park, then I’ll leave. Otherwise... cat nap!

I dreamt dreams of pants.

(((ooc: If anybody wants to pet the kitty, feel free. *grin* And I promise I’ll keep things shorter from now on. Intros, you know?)))

Central Park. It had always been a great place to just go and be by yourself so you could think and relax. It was a nice little place to escape to and the more secluded areas were usually peaceful and quiet. Well, they were up until the little incident with the mutants a short while ago. It was obvious that a fight had broken out, as some investigators had speculated, though it didn't sound as if it was any normal brawl, otherwise the ones involved may not have made such a scene. And here Isabel had thought that most mutants would rather remain inconspicuous, much like herself. That's right, even Isabel was a mutant, though she really didn't mind all that much. Better that than a human, anyways

Humph, humans. True that not all of them were so bad, Isabel had met a select few that had actually been nice and civil to her, but most of them were just a big pain in the ass, especially when it came down to the anti-mutant groups. Hm, that reminded her, she would have to drop back by the Sanctuary again sometime soon. She'd been away from there a while now and she kind of missed it. She could be a lot of trouble to others when she got that itch to move about rather than staying in one place for any extended amount of time, but then again, she'd made a commitment to Mr. King, the owner of the Sanctuary, as well as a few others there. She'd have to stop up and disappearing like she had a tendency to do if she ever wanted to keep anyone's good favor. And besides that, by now she kind of missed Syn and the others.

Giving a small sigh Isabel slowed to a stop, letting her gaze wander around her surroundings, trying to regain her bearings. She really needed to stop drifting off into thought like that while she was walking. She usually ended up getting herself hopelessly lost when she did that. Not a whole lot of fun, getting lost in the city. She quirked a brow when her gaze fell on a little ball of black and white puff perched on a park bench. Well would you look at that, a cat lazing about right out in the open. Well, a cat really wasn't anything all that special, New York was full of stray animals, though this one looked to be a little more well groomed than others she'd run across. Heh, prideful little creatures, cat's were.

Casually she sauntered over to the bench, crouching down in front of it before reaching a hand out to scratch behind the dozing feline's ear with one of her fingers. "Hello, kitten. Enjoying our day out in the sun, are we?" she inquired, speaking to the cat as if it were a person. Hey, they couldn't all like it when you used that baby talk gibberish with them, could they? Go ahead and show them a little dignity. Do unto others, eh?

I woke up to one of my favorite sensations in the world: a cute girl scratching behind my ears. And she was articulate! I started up a rumbling purr just for her. You would be amazed how many people are reduced to gibbering idiots around animals. Animals, and babies.

“Merrow,” I said, pushing my head up under her hand in true happy-cat style. “Merrow,” of course, meant, “Sunshine is gorgeous and so are you—would you scratch my other ear too?” I blinked at her lazily. The love of my fur was wearing a dress—rather rare these days. Was she waiting for her date? What really got me, though, was the bow—she actually had a bow in her hair. It had to be at least half my size, too. It was... it was...

Too tempting...

I couldn’t help it, I swear: my paws moved on their own. I started batting at it like a moron. But hey, morons have fun, right?

Purr.

Well would you look at that, this feline was actually very pleasant. It was normal for Isabel to to run into the hissing, spitting, tail all puffed up kind of strays. One with a good disposition was a treat. Perhaps this cat was someone's pet who'd gone out for a stroll and was used to being pet by people. Isabel had half expected that she'd end up scaring it out of one of it's nine lives by coming out of nowhere while it was sleeping.

An amused smile curved her lips upward as the cat started purring and gave a meow. She happily obliged to the feline's wishes as it pushed its head into her hand, now using all four of her fingers to scratch behind its ears and the back of its neck before moving to scratch beneath its chin, able to feel its throat vibrating with its purrs. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you as well. My name's Isabel by the way," she greeted, continuing to pet the little black and white ball of fur until it's paws went after her bow. "Oh, geeze!" she muttered, falling back on her rear, one hand reflexively moving up to cover the bow, the cat's sudden movement having startled the hell out of her. Why did they always do that to people? Striking at them when the least expected it. And they were so damn fast, too!

Giving a slight sigh, she regained her composure and got up off the ground, brushing the dirt off of her backside and taking a seat on the bench next to the feline, making sure to give it plenty of room. "You crazy cat," she said, a grin now finding its way across her features. "Alright then, you want to play?" she inquired, reaching up to undo the bow in her hair, pulling it off of her head and holding the large ribbon out toward the cat, offering it a toy to play with.

When her tousche hit the ground I got ready to run. That dramatic of a reaction definitely isn’t uncommon when a stray cat attacks your head—at least, I imagine it isn’t; I swear I don’t make this a habit—but when someone tips over and it’s a little critter’s fault, they’re usually not too forgiving about it. At least she isn’t a guy. Human males as a whole just freak me out—almost enough to make me glad I’m a mutant. You know those stories of jerks who tie firecrackers to a poor kitties’ tail? Four words: not an urban legend.

Aaaand she’s getting up. Aaaand she’s sitting on the bench, with breathing room between us. Okay. Maybe I got lucky and she’s a cat lover down to the deepest core of her forgiving soul. “You crazy cat,” she says with a grin. Aaaand ready to sprint—

"Alright then, you want to play?"

What’s she doing?

Is she-?

—Oh please God if you love me she’s doing what I think she’s—

Oh hells yes!

BOW! Bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow-!

I stop my lunge forward, and pause a moment as this fiendish plot against my remaining dignity unfolds. Yes, Calley, you genius, there’s a bow. Yes, it’s—she twitched it! she twitched it she twitched it she—FOCUS! Think: what’s more important to you—your last scrap of dignity as teenage boy, or playing with a piece of—

Who am I kidding? Teenage boys don’t have dignity.

BOW!

I pounce, and quickly get myself tangled up in sheer ribbony joy. Before I know it, I’m on my back, doing that if-I-kick-it-enough-it-will-DIE move. This is definitely a new low. I just wish every new low made me this happy.

Isabel couldn't help but laugh as the cat finally made up its mind on whether or not to go along with the game, her grin growing a bit wider in her amusement as she watched it kicking at the fabric. She kept one end firmly held between her thumb and pointer finger, tugging at it now and then while the cat played with it. Well now, it looks like Isabel has just made a new friend.

"You certainly are easy to please," she said, amusement evident in her tone as she pulled the ribbon out form around one of the cat's paws, not wanting it to get too tangled up, careful that she didn't get caught too roughly by any of its claws. Looks like she'd need to get a new one of those hair accessories, judging from a few holes that had already been punctured in the fabric by aforementioned claws as well as teeth. It was still wearable, yes, it was just a bit more beat up looking than before. Oh well, it was her own fault and it wasn't like she couldn't scrounge up enough cash to buy a new one and they weren't exactly all that hard to find. Maybe she even had one left back at the Sanctuary. Hm, she'd have to look around to see if she did.

"Heh, sometimes I wish my life could be as simple as yours seems to be," she sighed, giving the ribbon another light tug, her smile still in place. "All you need is to be scratched behind the ears and find a bit of fabric to play with. I bet the only thing better is finding a nice sunny windowsill to lounge in, or perhaps a bowl of milk or a can of tuna to fill your belly with."

—And I’m stuck. How did I mummify my forepaw? When did I mummify my forepaw? Why is kicking at the ribbon not unmummifying my forepaw? Why am I too amused to care?

"You certainly are easy to please," my joyful playmate says. Isabel, was it? I think I remember her saying something like that moments before I was entranced by her villainously wonderful bow. Speaking of villainous: she’s dewrapifiying my paw. Hey now—this is between Commodore Ribbon and I. A battle of wits, a fight to the death—speaking of which: die, ribbon!

"Heh, sometimes I wish my life could be as simple as yours seems to be," my wonderful playmate sighs. She’s still smiling, but even an idiot like me can tell something is off. She tugs at Commodore Ribbon again, but she doesn’t seem like she’s with our game anymore. "All you need is to be scratched behind the ears and find a bit of fabric to play with. I bet the only thing better is finding a nice sunny windowsill to lounge in, or perhaps a bowl of milk or a can of tuna to fill your belly with."

I give the ribbon a few more token kicks and a friendly mauling. You’ve got to take your laughs were you can—that’s my philosophy. I chew on the ribbon as I watch her face. Has someone been having a rough week? I’d love to ask her what’s wrong, but I’ll settle for doing something I saw a goose at a petting zoo do once. Geese are actually pretty intelligent creatures, if you’ve ever had the misfortune of trying to eat one.

Abandoning the ribbon—and mostly succeeding in disengaging from Commodore Ribbon’s vile entrapment, though the bastard somehow got wrapped around my tail—I climb into her lap. Slowly, of course; no need to get that “Oh, geeze!” reaction again. I stand up, put my forepaws on her shoulder, and tuck my neck around hers with a nice rumbling purr. How’s that, sweetheart? Kitty hug!

One eyebrow quirked as Isabel watched curiously while the cat climbed up into her lap, this time able to retain her calm demeanor since the feline was moving so casually. She's not afraid of cats or anything, she's actually quite fond of them, she's just easily startled sometimes is all. It wasn't like it was doing anything totally unusual, anyways. Cats like to sit in peoples' laps, it was just one of those fact of life kind of things. Her small smile brightened a little and a giggle escaped her as the cat gave her what could only be properly described as a sort of hug, it's soft fur tickling her neck a little.

"Aw, thank you, kitten. You're a gem," she cooed, running a hand down the length of its back, removing the ribbon from its tail as she did so and placing the hair accessory down beside her on the bench. How is it that animals always know what to do to cheer a person up? Isabel couldn't understand how some people considered them to be dumb, mindless beasts. That was the understatement of the year. Then again, some people thought the same things about mutants. Narrow minded fools.

Well, this cat was definitely of the intelligent nature, and so friendly as well, both of which seemed to make a good mix. "So what was on your agenda today, hm? Well, besides laying out in the sun, that is," Isabel inquired of the feline. Hey, who says you can't hold an intelligent conversation with an animal? True it may be a little one-sided, but it's a conversation none the less. "Looks like I'll be needing a trip to a clothing store sometime soon for a new bow, though I'll need to find some money first. But, I'm sure some nice couple out here would be able to help me out," she mused, letting her thoughts drift on the idea for a moment. Was Isabel a pickpocket? On some days she was, though living at the Sanctuary had greatly decreased her need to do so. She did feel a little guilty about it at times, but out here necessity overrides morality.

I know I was pushing it with that last move—at least, I’ve never seen a real cat hug a damsel in distress—but it was worth it. I get a giggle and a promotion to “gem”. I’ll just have to tone things down a bit from now on. Think cat, Calley: think normal cat. The one thing I’ve always had in my favor is that no one knows what a normal cat really acts like. They just do whatever they feel like. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been laying low as one. Still, though... no more shows of eerie intelligence, you genius. I settle down in her lap in a pet-me-because-I’m-a-normal-cat manner.

"So what was on your agenda today, hm? Well, besides laying out in the sun, that is," my happy Isabel asks. "Looks like I'll be needing a trip to a clothing store sometime soon for a new bow, though I'll need to find some money first. But, I'm sure some nice couple out here would be able to help me out." I turn a startled look up at her face—oops—before I catch myself and look back down. Normal cat, Calley, normal cat. Normal cats wouldn’t care that the nice miss just said something of questionable legal repute. I purr even louder—my kitty laugh. I like this gal. She can fend for herself. Maybe I’ll try following her home—I’ve done that before; sometimes it works, sometimes I get things thrown at me for my efforts. Once I got locked in a basement and had Animal Control escort me out. That, I assure you, was even more fun than having a dentist with warts on his hands pluck out each of your teeth individually. Still, it might be worth it to try my luck. She seems to like li’l ol’ me so far, and it would be nice to have guaranteed meals for a bit—and she looks well groomed enough that that thieving business must be going well for her. I don’t eat much. Heck, I even like that generic dry stuff—though it’s definitely an acquired taste. I skipped out on my last family as soon as it got warm enough to sleep outside. Believe-you-me, there is nothing like a running around on a chilly spring night when you’re still all wrapped up in your warm winter coat. Summer just... isn’t as pleasant. I wouldn’t mind being indoors when the heat waves start rolling in.

I look up at my potential meal ticket. Hmm... I was pushing it with that hug. Do I want to push it just a little further? ‘Cause I happen to know exactly where some tourist had his wallet misplaced to after he aimed a kick at a certain stray cat. It might be a little worse for wear—it’s been a few weeks—but the US government had abusive owners in mind when they designed their currency. My tail flicks, and sends Commodore Ribbon fluttering off the bench and to the ground. Heh heh; sucker. I killed him dead. Which, ah, probably means I owe my nice playmate a new bow.

Inspiration hits as the Commodore tastes dirt. Normal cat, eh? I can do normal cat. I hurtle off the bench in true normal cat style, and start batting at the Commodore. Bat, bat, bat—whoops, did I accidentally tangle him in those bushes across the path? Gee jolly, how negligent of normal-cat me. Does there happen to be a big brown wallet hiding in those bushes? Why, don’t ask me—I’m just a normal cat. I meow piteously over the Commodore’s sudden unwillingness to play, trying in a very normal and not overly intelligent manner to claw him out. If I look just a little smugger than I should whilst I’m doing it, well, I’m sure she won’t notice. ‘Cause I’m just a normal cat.

Genius, Calley, I applaud myself, you’re a genius. Okay. Maybe a look more than a little smug.

Isabel absentmindedly scratched at the back of the cat's ears again as it settled back down into her lap, letting her gaze flit around her surroundings, watching a few people here and there, trying to decide if their pockets would be easy to pick or not. Someone with a purse would be nice. Purses made things a little simpler. People were less apt to notice something sliding out of a purse than something sliding out of a pocket. Feeling the sudden jolt of the furry body as the feline pounced on the fallen ribbon made her turn her attention back to her current companion, watching in amusement as her poor ribbon was batted around. Heh, first dragged through the dirt and now stuck in the bushes. That piece of fabric never even stood a chance against this crazy cat. Yup, now she definitely needed a new bow.

Getting to her feet she casually crossed the pathway over to the bushes, going over to rescue the tangled ribbon from its leafy green captor, a task which the cat seemed to be having a little trouble with. "Alright, hold on just one second," she said to the feline, taking ahold of the ribbon and giving it a tug, breaking a few small twigs in the process, leaving just enough space for something to catch her attention. And hello there, what is this? Well, there was something tucked in under the bush that caught her eye. Dropping the ribbon back in front of the cat, she reached under the shrubbery to pull out whatever it was. One she'd gotten her hand on it and pulled it out, she brushed off some of the dirt and grime to find a wallet of all things sitting in her hand. Opening it up, she thumbed through the bills inside. A couple of twenties, one ten and a pair of fives, a few ones as well. Man, this was her lucky day.

Looking back down at the cat, she quirked a brow curiously at it. This was one hell of a coincidence to say the least. "You are one seriously lucky feline," she said with a little grin, getting to her feet and brushing off any dirt on her outfit. Well, she had money, now all she needed to do was make her way out of the park and find a good clothing store to browse in. Taking a few bills out of the wallet she stuffed them into a pocket in hrr skirt, putting the wallet in the pocket on the opposite side. It was wiser not to keep the money all in one place. Take the advice from a pickpocket.

Turning down the path she took up a leisurely gait, her aim being to make it out of the park, leaving the ribbon where it lie. Not like it was any use to her anymore. Looking over her shoulder at the cat, she gave a little grin. "You coming along or not, kitten?"

My whiskers fanned happily as my lovely Isabel discovered the wallet. I never doubted she would. And she’d freed Commodore Ribbon. Oh yes, I liked this girl.

A lucky feline, she called me. Heh. I would have made a wisecrack about making my own luck if I could talk—which is probably why it’s a good thing I can’t. Talking... would rather effectively crush my “normal cat” efforts. And I just know I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. A talking cat? Now that would be fun. I can see it now: a pair of star-crossed lovers meeting by moonlight... a passionate embrace... a little white and black cat asking, “Are you going to drink that wine?” Oh, the looks on their faces would almost be worth having the police called on me. Or maybe a police station: I tended to go to the NYPD every morning, ‘cause there was a nice officer there who feed me donuts and spoke about all the latest mutant gossip where a stray kitty could hear. There was a certain Detective there who, I swear, was a relative of that wallet’s cat-kicking former owner... God, just picture the look on his face: my donut-feeding officer would go on a bathroom break, leaving him alone in their office; he would be picking up the phone for one reason or another when all of the sudden, the little cat on the window sill would laugh evilly: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Detective.” That would be hilarious. ...And, probably, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And this is why it is a good thing that I’m not a talking cat.

Ack! My meal ticket is walking away! Okay, play it casually, Calley—it’s time to make your move. Deep breaths. She doesn’t look like the type to throw things at a poor kitty, anyway, even if the kitty is stalking her. It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong; you’re just following a young lady back to her home where you’re hoping to crash for a few weeks. Yeah...

Ack! She’s looking back. And... grinning? "You coming along or not, kitten?"

That was... That was... an invitation? Okay: following her would make it look like you understand her. Wait, no, a normal cat wouldn’t care—it would just do what it wanted. I was already planning to follow her, but... but now it looks like I’m coming along because she’s invited me, which is something a cat with a little too much intelligence would do, and—

Deep. Breaths. Now, meow like an idiot. “Merrow!” Good. I’m not actually sure why that was necessary, but... good. Okay, now stop over analyzing—we all know thinking isn’t our specialty—and follow the nice walking procurer of cat food.

I stalk after her like it was all my idea. Which it had been, so there. But something was bugging me... I glanced over my shoulder at the poor scrap of fabric lying in front of the bushes. Man, Commodore Ribbon—I know you’ve seen better days, but is she really just going to abandon you in the middle of Central Park? ...Truce time, my nemesis. I sprint back and grab him with my mouth. You shall live to entangle me another day, Commodore.

I catch up to my wonderful Isabel, proudly carrying my captured foe. Who is a little on the long side, and definitely trying to trip me... Commodore Ribbon, you are a worthy adversary to the very end.

Isabel gave a bit of an approving look as the cat decided that it wanted to follow her. She liked her little four legged companion thus far and so she'd kind of been hoping it would end up tagging along. She paused only a moment as the cat turned back around, waiting patiently as the ribbon was retrieved before taking up her casual pace once more. How silly of her to think the ribbon would have been so easily forgotten by simply leaving it behind. Well, at least the cat still had some use for it, and if too many holes were torn into the fabric, she could always try to do a few repairs with a needle and thread for the feline. She always had at least one spool of thread and a needle as well as some other odds and ends back in her room at the Sanctuary. You never know when things like that could come in handy.

Looking back down at her fuzzy little friend she couldn't help but chuckle a bit as she watched it following her, the silly animal trying to walk and avoid tripping on its prize at the same time. "Here, let me see that," she said, bending down to pull the ribbon gently from its grasp. "You can't be having an easy time trying to drag this thing along. I'll tell you what: I'll hold onto it for you, for safe keeping. I promise I won't lose it or leave it behind again, alright? You'll get it back, don't worry," she spoke again, stuffing the scrap of fabric into one of her pockets as she straightened her posture and started to walk again.

Spotting an exit from the park a little ways off to the right, she turned onto the walkway that would lead her to it, keeping an eye on the feline as they progressed. "Now, don't you go getting lost out here, alright?" she said, addressing the cat once again as she passed through the exit and turned out onto the street. "You just stick with me and I'll look after you." Isabel knew of a few out of the way thrift stores in the nearby area, ones that she'd visited on a few occasions already. It shouldn't take very long to find them, she just had to keep from getting herself and the cat tramped by tourists.

It takes a great force of will not to clamp my teeth down for all they are worth as, once again, my lovely Isabel’s hands come between me and Commodore Ribbon’s duel. “Here, let me see that”, she says. Yeah, well, here—let me see you let two gentlemen fight their own battle. Sure he’s tripping me up with every step, but I’ve got him in a neck hold like you wouldn’t believe. This is just him being stubborn and refusing to accept his capture; it’s my pride as a feline to break him out of it by dragging him along the concrete into submission.

...It’s at this point that I start to wonder if, maybe, spending two years catting was beginning to mess with my mind. Just a little. I let go of the stupid ribbon, but I can’t help but watch with rapt attention to see what she does with it. “You'll get it back, don't worry.” Into a pocket, eh? Hmph. I suppose that’s acceptable. For now.

She leads me out of Central Park. "Now, don't you go getting lost out here, alright?" Heh. I’m really amused that she keeps talking like I can understand her—it’s sort of nice to be treated like a person. Granted that I’m a small furry person who’s not expected to speak back, but still, that’s better than how my last few meal tickets treated me. Starting from around October of last year and working our way forward, I’ve been dubbed “Whiskies” (very creative; certainly didn’t read that one off of a can), “Tidy Cat” (or off of a litter bag. Just because a guy likes to stay well-groomed enough to put real cats to shame doesn’t mean you should make fun.), “Mrs. Norris” (I don’t know who this Harry Potter is, but the guy can shove it. Seriously. I’m a Mister, thank you.), “Spot” (Do I look like a dog?), “Ratty” (don’t get the wrong idea—that was after my run-in with the firecracker boys, and I wasn’t exactly in top form), and “Snoggles”. “Snoggles” being, of course, the family I ditched as soon as it got warm enough. If you look at the supreme dignity those names bestowed upon me, you can get a good grasp of what sort of “person” they treated me like. Yeah. A mentally deficient one. And those “Tidy Cat” people didn’t change my litter box nearly enough. To recap: being talked to like this is a nice change. My dear Isabel, I think we may just get along. And “Kitten” isn’t all that bad, as names go, if that’s what she wants to call me.

I follow closely to her legs as we waltz over New York’s infamously sardined sidewalks. This activity, my friends, is a small-animal hazard. It’s why I usually nap in Central Park and reserve my city prowling to late nights and early mornings. The tourists are the worst—they’ll be walking straight, like they’re normal human beings, and then they’ll pull the Veer ‘n’ Stare maneuver. Since they’re usually looking up during this maneuver, it’s an especially hazardous moment for an individual who’s less than knee-high. I’ve got to be on my toes if I don’t want a broken spine. It’s like driving a moped on a four-lane highway full of semis driven by drunken escaped convicts. And every time they see something shiny on the side of the road, they slam on the brakes.

Somehow—probably by practically gluing myself to the back of her skirt—I manage to reach our destination without any new bruises blossoming under my fur. I look into the window of the place: a thrift store, by all appearances. Not a big surprise; I can’t picture most of the designer stores in town carrying anything like what my Isabel is wearing. Don’t get me wrong; I think her clothes are adorable. But you definitely wouldn’t see them in a magazine under “this summer’s latest fashions”. A thrift store makes much, much more sense for my unique new acquaintance.

...Are those...? I stand up, placing my paws on the cold glass window to peer. Oh... Oh, they are. Pants. Racks and racks of pants. Khaki pants, jeans pants, cargo pants, camouflage army-surplus pants—several awe-inspiring racks of pants. They’re just... so beautiful. I miss my pants.

I jump up onto the narrow ledge of the window, safely away from all but the most erratic of feet. Stores are no place for kitties. Not unless kitties are bored out of their minds and up for a little mischief, and pretty confident of their escape route. Since I’m not exactly trying to escape, I’ll just park myself right here. I stretch myself out and crack my jaws in a yawn, hoping my Isabel will get the hint: go ahead and shop. I’ll be right here when you get back.

I do hope she’s quick, though—this is a little too out-in-the-open for my tastes.

Once she'd made sure that her feline friend was well enough out of the way to at least avoid being trampled, Isabel pushed open the door to the thrift shop, looking up in slight distraction as a small bell attached to the door frame jingled, signaling to whomever worked there of a potential customer. Giving a small nod to the woman behind the counter and politely declining the offer to help her find anything, she made her way toward the clothing to browse through the accessories. She didn't want to keep the cat waiting around for too long, especially since there could be some animal-hating people wandering about on the streets. The city was a rough place to be, Isabel knew that very well. Besides, she'd told the cat that she'd look after it so long as it stuck around with her. And she couldn't very well go back on her word, now could she?

Picking up a few different strips of cloth, she casually examined the potential hair accessories, trying to decide on colors and making sure the fabric they were made of would be acceptable for long term use. And knowing Isabel, they'd probably end up exposed to some abuse as well, though probably nothing as severe as a playful feline. Throwing one of the ribbons back to where she'd gotten it from, she kept a pair of them in her hand, one a pale green color, the other a charcoal grey. Pausing only a brief moment on her way to the register, she also grabbed another little something off the table. Just a treat for her furball of a companion. Sort of a way to repay the cat for indirectly helping her to discover the wallet that was now resting securely in her pocket. Quickly she went on her way to pay the woman at the register, uttering a quiet thanks as she received the small brown paper bag her items had been placed in and heading for the door, tying the green ribbon into her hair as she went.

"Alright then, ready to get going?" she inquired once she'd exited the shop, looking down at the cat perched in the window. She gave an absentminded little gesture for it to follow as she began making her way back down the street. She kept closer to the sides of the buildings this time, leaving enough room for the feline to walk between her and the bricks if it so chose. She figured it might be a little safer for the cat that way, since it would reduce the number of gawking, zigzagging tourists that could step on the small body. "You can come stay with me in the Sanctuary if you'd like. I've been living there for a little while now and it's really nice. It's a sort of haven for mutants, though I'm not sure if they have a no pet policy or not. But, it shouldn't be that big of a problem since half the people there look at least partially animalistic anyways," she said, talking to the cat once again like it was completely normal. She didn't particularly care if it made her appear a little odd. She wasn't exatly normal in the first place. Not like it would make any huge difference what some stranger thought of her, anyways. "It's plenty big so there's lots of room for you to walk around and explore, and they've got a kitchen there that's open 24/7 for whenever you get hungry. You can sleep in my room if you'd like. I don't have a roommate, so we won't have to worry about that. I think you'll like it there."

My Isabel was even quicker than I could hope—she was in and out before more than two little girls had tried to molest my fur. The second one had mint ice cream oozing all over her hands. It’s going to take at least a half-hour of grooming before I feel clean again.

I hadn’t watched what my Isabel had bought—taking my eyes off the street to watch the perfectly harmless window at my back hadn’t seemed the best idea. But there’s a spiffin’ new green bow on her head and she’s carrying a small paper bag: I guess she acquired spares. My tail twitches. Excellent—I’ve officially paid her back for the damage I maybe sort of caused to her last hair accessory. And she’s probably got change still, too, unless her new ribbons are made of gold. Or endangered animals. I wonder how much an extinct animal ribbon would cost?

"Alright then, ready to get going?" She asks me, giving a little gesture for me to follow. I am more than happy to hop down off the windowsill and continue trailing after her. This time, she’s walking right near the buildings, leaving only a cat-sized gap: I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose or not, but I fill that gap happily enough. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship. I might even spend the whole summer with her before I ditch out. Autumn is my favorite season—it’s like Spring without the shedding. "You can come stay with me in the Sanctuary if you'd like,” my Isabel is saying. I flick my ears towards her. The Sanctuary? The name sounds familiar. Where’ve I heard it before? “I've been living there for a little while now and it's really nice. It's a sort of haven for mutants, though I'm not sure if they have a no pet policy or not. But, it shouldn't be that big of a problem since half the people there look at least partially animalistic—”

Something in my brain goes “click”. It’s an audible click that leaves my ears ringing and drowns out whatever else she’s saying. The Sanctuary. I remember the name. I’ve heard it before, many times, on the lips of my generous Detective Cassandra—the wonderful police woman at the NYPD who feeds me donuts and specifically requests to be put on mutant cases.

The place opened last year. At its official unveiling to the public, more than a dozen police men and women who had been routinely stationed around the scene for crowd control, and others who had responded to their calls for help, had been brutally murdered. The killers had been three people: two of them clearly mutants, and one strongly suspected of being a mutant given the company she kept. Witnesses had been surprisingly consistent in their descriptions. A boy who could turn into a freaking dinosaur. A young woman in dark clothing who fought well. And another young woman who could make weapons out of her own bones, not to mention shoot them out of her skin—a young woman wearing, quite noticeably, a large bow on her head.

That’s funny, I thought, The Commodore didn’t taste like blood.

It’s not the most useful thought I’ve had in my life.

Sound returns. I’m still walking. The young woman in her new green bow is still talking: “—and they've got a kitchen there that's open 24/7 for whenever you get hungry. You can sleep in my room if you'd like. I don't have a roommate, so we won't have to worry about that. I think you'll like it there.” Sound returns with the knowledge that I’m sandwiched between a brick walk and a murder of a mutant. Not just any murder, either: a cop killer who doesn’t mind doing things in public.

Crap.

crap crap crap crap crap crap—

Shut up, Calley. She thinks you’re a cat. Just keep walking like nothing is the matter.

Some witnesses place the three as running off after hapless victims and disappearing from the public eye; one particularly zealous woman swears before God that the devil himself opened up a black staircase and personally welcomed them down into Hell. Others say the mutants entered into the Sanctuary. The public relations people at the Sanctuary expressed their deepest sympathies and helpfully turned over multiple video tapes showing that, from several different angles and either in black-and-white or color, with or without audio, the three never entered the building. Detective Cassandra doesn’t like the idea of cop killers that can just get away clean—neither does the rest of the NYPD, for that matter. She likes to vent her anger at the Sanctuary for not managing to catch where the killers actually did go on their excessive video surveillance network.

There’s a very good reason all those videos managed to miss that key event. A third of it is walking next to me. To be more specific: I’m following a third of it home. To the Sanctuary. To some kind of mutant nest that shelters mass murderers and expresses its heartfelt sympathy to the police force and the families of those who were killed while it casually wipes its video records.

Those jerks. I like Detective Cassandra. They lied to her face. And, if I’m remembering correctly, they helped finance the funerals and sent a representative to each and every one—how much do you want to bet that little action rolled in the good press?

Her dress brushes against me. I feel like hours of grooming won’t make me clean again.

I’m going to Sanctuary. She thinks I’m a cat and she likes me. Okay. Probably, she’s not likely to murder me at the moment. Sure.

Why am I going to Sanctuary? Because I like a roof over my head. Because she seems sane, despite evidence to the contrary. Because maybe I could do something—give an anonymous call down to Detective Cassandra and tell her everything I’ve found out just now and more. Because maybe I’ll tell the NYPD diddily squat about what I know, since they’re just as likely to throw me in jail as they are a mutant who’s actually dangerous—that is, if they don’t just have me “resist arrest” and sent me on an unfortunate trip to the coroner’s office. Because I’m walking that way and I like my Isabel and maybe catting for two years is enough and pants are wonderful and I obviously can’t avoid other mutants for the rest of my life and this cop killer in her cute green bow is my ticket to meeting others like me. Because while everyone thinks I'm a cat, I'm safe. Because she has Commodore Ribbon held hostage in her pocket.

My head hurts. I’m going to the Sanctuary.

(((ooc: I took a little liberty with how Sanctuary would have publicly responded to the police officer massacre back in the “The Sanctuary [Recruiting Bad Guys]” thread; I figure they’d want to get back into the police department’s good graces, exonerate themselves from any blame or suspicion, and look good for the press—hence, some kind of public announcement, “full cooperation” with the police, helping the families with the funerals, and—icing on the cake—sending someone to personally attend the funerals. If I shouldn’t be taking liberties... someone, tell me!)))