When Thomas held his fake Fire Marshal ID to the security guard he did not expect the man to be an expert on fake IDs. “What do you mean fake? I’m the Fire Marshal and I demand you let me in to make my inspection,” Thomas insisted. He had dressed down for the day, a simple outfit with a badge, ID and ball cap with the towns Fire Marshal logo.

“No, no, look, you got the glue wrong, and the hologram’s color is off two shades. This is a fake. Who are you?” The rent-a-cop was a tall stocky man in a beige and brown uniform. His badge read Peterson.

Thomas scowled at the man, indecisive for only a moment. He went for his gun. The other man went faster. Thomas did not expect the rent-a-cop to be a former Navy Seal. With his own gun only halfway drawn, Thomas was looking down the barrel of a beretta 9mm. “So, you’re quick.” Thomas muttered. “I’ll give you that. So, um, don’t shoot me.”

“Ha!” the man barked. “You’re not too slow yourself. Ranger?”

“101st,” Thomas answered, his pistol still and unmoving. “Served in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Somalia. You?”

“Seal. Two tours Iraq, one Afghanistan, and then a few other things that I’m not supposed to talk about. Why you breaking into this place?”

Thomas considered a slew of lies, but with a gun pointed at his face, he chose to go with the truth. “Asset recovery. Twenty two years ago someone stole twenty paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum I’ve been tracking the pieces. The trail leads here. I just need to look around.”

Peterson lowered his gun slightly, the barrel aimed at Thomas’s chest rather than his face. “You talking about that robbery where they got the Storm on the Sea of the Galilee painting by Rembrandt, right?”

Thomas was shocked for a third time. “You know paintings?”

“Before I joined the Navy I wanted to be an artist. Rembrandt inspires my soul.”

“So, you’re an art aficionado, a former Navy SEAL, and an expert on IDs?” Thomas shook his head, nearly disgusted. “What are you doing as a Rent a cop?”

“They pay me forty bucks an hour to sit here and study.”

“What are you studying?”

“Pre med. I want to join Doctors without Borders and help children in war torn countries.”

Now Thomas was disgusted. He put his gun away. “Mine was loaded with rubber bullets by the way, didn’t come here to kill anyone, just look around. You weren’t supposed to spot my fake ID. I spent a thousand bucks for it too, don’t think I’ll get a refund. Mind lowering the gun?

Peterson didn’t lower the gun. “Where’s your real ID?”

Thomas slowly handed him his wallet, not so much nervous as embarrassed. Right at the top it had his license to carried a concealed weapon, his bounty hunter ID and several of his business cards.

Peterson lowered his gun, but didn’t holster it. “Listen, you really think that painting is still in the warehouse?”

“Well, no, but my trail ends at the back of your warehouse. If I don’t get in, the trail stays dead.”

“Well, this really is about the paintings?”

Thomas pulled out a full color copy he’d had in his back pocket, and showed him the small notebook he had full of notes regarding the several paintings. “After the robbery the paintings all got split up and scattered to the wind. I’m tracking the big fish. Rembrandt’s painting needs to be restored to the world.” Thomas smiled, trying to manipulate the guy’s love of art might work better than cold steel. Mainly he wanted the money.

“How about we make a deal. You have money right? And if you find it, you get a big payday right?”

Aha. Thomas grinned. The bribe. Finally this knight in shining armor was returned to earth. “How much you want? Ten thousand?”

Peterson grinned back. “I want you to donate twenty-five thousand dollars to Make-A-Wish. Do that, and I’ll forget I saw you, let you knock me out and take a look until I wake up, at which point I call the cops right off.”

“Seriously. What were you? A boy scout?’

“Eagle scout by age 16.”

Thomas was speechless. This guy was really pissing him off. “Fine. Deal.” A short scuffle later, and one solid thump to the head, Thomas was dragging Peterson’s body into the corner. He looked over his shoulder out the front window. There were several other warehouses and storage facilities, but it was getting dark, and he didn’t think anyone saw him. He snatched the keycard from the guard, slid it in the door, and went searching.

And it was about this time in our story friends where your average, friendly, neighborhood WereCat just happened to be passing by. (dunnnnDuuunnDUNnnnnn!)

No. Curiosity hadn't dragged the cat here, nor was this the usual way that Sara walked home. It was a short cut over the fences and through the storage houses the WereCat's feet did fly... Or something like that. Aannnyways.

Sara had just rounded her way past one warehouse, tiptoeing lightly, when she couldn't help but look in this window. The day before, Sara had had a conversation with this guard about an investigation she was launching on her own business. A group had started trafficking wiman through her storage areas and she had intended on spreading the word in an attempt to make things right, should the group start utilizing other facilities. Gilt driven and feeling stupid. Sara supposed that was what one got for always doing her business with shadier individuals.

The guard had seemed friendly enough so Sara took it as either, he was not prestigious against mutants, or he really loved cats. but now he was knocked out on the floor and Sara didn't know why. She only knew that she wished to do something about that.

So with a flick of her tail, she ducked back away from the window. Her back pressed against the wall for a moment. One hand ran through her long hair in an attempt to tame it down, rather than letting it look wind beaten. Satisfied with what little cooperation she could get from her appearance, Sara opened the door and walked inside.

"Hello?"

Sara pretended to call out to the empty place where the guard had been standing.

It'd been more than twenty years since the painting had been in the warehouse. He'd been tracking the painting on and off for two months. Three men and two women had stolen the paintings, he'd watched the whole thing happen. He'd seen two of them enter the warehouse in the dead of night with the Sea of Galilee painting boxed up, now, twenty years apart, he spied on them as they walked through the building to a locked door. 

In the present the warehouse had long rows of steel shelves holding crates. He'd passed two employees moving some crates, to what pedestrian end he didn't care. He'd flashed his ID, they'd moved on. Now he was at the far end facing a simple wooden door, no one within eyesight. 

Thomas had just bent down and pulled out his lock picking tools when he heard the woman calling. He scowled over his shoulder, he couldn't see her yet but it wouldn't be long. He needed to get through the door. If his memory and sense of direction served him well, there was a window for egress in the room on the other side of the door. 

upon following her nose past the front, where Peterson had been stashed, Sara ran into her first inconvenience. and she'd called them to the front where, if they looked hard enough, there was no Peterson. And if they looked harder yet, they'd find him stashed away unconscious. Peachy..... And since she just happened to look like a big two legged cat, she'd probably get the blame. Just peachy keen....

Her ears twitched as she listened to foot steps approaching. Sara chose one row of shelves to scoot through only to balk to a stop just before the last large box. One guard's shoulder was just appearing around the corner and Sara felt around the edge of the box, behind her, for a hiding place. The box was tall and broad, but the line of boxes next to it were short. It didn't take much for Sara to hop over the shorter boxes and duck behind the larger one, just as the employee walked by. Her amber eyes peeking over the edge to make sure that he didn't turn back too fast, nor that he heard her.

OK. So hiding was a good idea right now. Sara pulled herself to the next highest shelf, then hop scotched her way to the next row. Moving this way was harder to track by smell, but curiosity had more than enough drive in Sara to bypass the difficulty. She finally followed the smell to the owner. Peering over a box that was on a shelf behind him, she just watched him for a minute with her arms pulled close so she could lean on her elbows.

"In most cases, people don't need lock picks to get into their own boxes." Sara mused. As long as she was here, Why not annoyingly state the obvious.

Thomas thought he heard something, but when he turned around he saw nothing, so he went back to the lock, which was actually an expensive model proving difficult.

> "In most cases, people don't need lock picks to get into their own boxes."

Just as he got the lock undone he heard the woman speak. He turned back and realized he hadn't looked up enough before. His face curdled as he mistook her for a hired mutant guard. He replaced the look with a broad smile, hoping the mutant was use to ugly looks and wouldn't think much of it. Hired mutant muscle was often expensive and always more dangerous than it was worth. He certainly wasn't interested in fighting his way through her.

Might be, he decided, he could still talk and smile his way out. He flashed his badge. "Listen up, as the Fire Marshal I have authority to access any room in this facility. It's a misdemeanor to interfere in my inspection. Your boss was supposed to have had some guard, Peterson, taking me around with his keys, but Peterson took off claiming that he was being paged. I don't buy it. You go tell him, and your boss, I have more important things to do than wait around at their pleasure. I've already spotted a dozen fire hazards." 

He opened the door and stepped through and swung the door shut as quickly as he could. A strong offense was the best defense, and he hoped his rant would at least confuse the guard for a moment. He began looking around and back. Best case, he had moments not minutes; worst case, seconds

Even with the bad look that she had received from the would be fire marshal, Sara smiled. pointed teeth looking less than absolutely friendly and her tail twitching like a house cat's tail about ready to pounce some lint. Before Sara could really ask any other questions, the 'would be fire marshal' shut the door and locked it.

Yeah. Sara was buying this. Riiiiight.

Sara knew that common sense should have had her turning the other cheek, and walking away, but part of her wanted to hear more of the man's story. That and he presented her with a minor challenge when he locked the door before she could walk through it. The thief in her definitely egged her on. With a twitch of her right ear, and a flick of her tail, she hopped lightly off of the shelf where she had been perched, and assessed the lock.

Sara produced a bobby pin from her back pocket. It had been being used to hold together a couple of business cards from her own clients. The cards were replaced back in her pocket. The bobby pin, coupled with the hook of her thumb claw on her other hand allowed her to pick the lock, almost as fast as someone who had an actual key. the dexterity of her claw aiding in the speedy lock picking. And she was through the door. Bobby pin shoved back in her pocket. The door was shut and locked behind her again.

"Hmmm. I just passed Peterson up front." Sara mused. she just had to watch and see how this guy reacted to that little tidbit of information. Sara allowed his own imagination to decide weather Sara was telling the truth, or weather Peterson had regained conciseness. "Could you tell me the fire hazards? I hate working in such a dangerous environment."

Once in the room, took a look around. This was no abandoned warehouse and the office was furnished with exquisite taste. The wall was painted off white with dark wood trim. An oversized mahogany desk took up most of the center of the room. One wall held file cabinets, classy wooden ones, the other a wall-length aquarium.

Thomas took a seat behind the desk, and looked back.

Twenty years previous.
Two men in jeans and jackets carried the painting into the office, it wasn’t so nicely decorated back then. Plain white walls no trim, a simple wooden desk and several family photos. After locking the painting in a large floor safe that use to sit in the corner of the room, they left and locked the door.

He was so focused on the past he didn’t notice her open the door and enter the room until she was already talking.

"Hmmm. I just passed Peterson up front. Could you tell me the fire hazards? I hate working in such a dangerous environment."

Thomas said nothing for a moment. This wasn’t working. Stalling had failed. He needed a few more minutes to see where the painting went. He pulled his gun smoothly with one hand and brought it to aim at her chest, his face curled upwards in a snarl. It was loaded with only rubber bullets, but this close they could knock most people down. Whether it would hurt a mutant, he didn’t know. He considered telling the mutant he was trying to reposes stolen goods, but decided if he’d hired mutant muscle, she knew full well and didn’t care. “Let’s keep this simple. You are going to sit down, and I’m going to walk out. Sit.”

When she first entered the room and said what she had to say, the man looked like he was mentally in another dimension. Sara could have been nice and wait for him to fall back into reality, but no. he had to go and pull a gun on her.

Sara had to admit. When it came to drawing a gun, the man wasn't terrible. Not the fastest that Sara had seen in the past but those speeds in the past had been related to one's mutation. Sara's eyes narrowed on the barrel of the gun for a moment, then turned to look back into the eyes of the gun's owner. "I don't do tricks." Sara's mutation also provided her with a rapid healing ability. Even with out her wearing a bullet proof vest, the gun pointed at her chest didn't hold a great deal of a threat in her eyes. Just a possible great deal of pain that would piss her off and hurt like hell for a few moment.

Sara moved to grab the gun out of his hand. she intended to grab it from the top, then twist it free. If the gun didn't come free from his hand, and she did grab it, she gave it a tug towards herself, facing the barrel to the side where if it fired, it would hit either the wall or a chair. "Next time you have a chance to shoot me, you do it."

> "I don't do tricks."

Thomas saw little or less fear in her eyes, but he showed none either. “You should learn little kitty.” When she came, she came a lot faster than he’d anticipated, which was the way of things. She’d turned a bit as she lunged forward and he squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. Then she was on him. Her hand was around his twisting and crushing his wrist; she wasn’t just faster, she was stronger too. He continued pulling the trigger sending four more bullets out and into the wall and chair while before she wrenched it from his hand. Training sent his other hand to his other gun, the one not loaded with rubber bullets.

> "Next time you have a chance to shoot me, you do it."

He was still sitting and space was needed. He brought both his feet up, kicked hard against the desk flipping it over towards her, and sending his chair back fast to slam against the floor before rolling back to his feet. His gun was up and aimed, this time at her shoulder. Blood was pouring from a large gash on the back of his left wrist, he wasn’t sure when she’d cut him, or if his own struggling had done it, and he didn’t care. He hadn’t come here intent on murder, and she hadn’t tried to kill him yet, but maiming her wouldn’t ruin his day either. He squeezed twice more. “As you said.”

“You should learn little kitty.”

Sara's right ear twitched in annoyance. Man how she hated bad cat references. She'd heard so many of them and few people could come up with one that was truly original. The rubber bullets hitting her had hurt and provided a decent enough distraction that he'd had a chance to kick against the desk and get away from her. The desk was only a desk though and when it flipped towards Sara, she merely hopped on top of it'd turning edge, perched enough to get a decent foot hold, and followed her attacker. Somewhere in the process of landing and pursuing Thomas, his gun was dismantled, from the barrel, and both pieces were tossed to opposite sides of the room.

There was a split second realization where Sara saw the man's gun raised, and realized he'd taken her advice as her ears flattened against the back of her head at the sharp bark of the gun, and two bullets dug their way, biting into her left shoulder. Sara's jaw set tight against the pain and she'd been knocked slightly off balance. Instead of a head on assault, she'd opted for grabbing a near by wooden chair and flinging it at Thomas hoping to buy herself enough time to recover.

“As you said.”

Sara and her big mouth. Her eyes flashed in Thomas's direction and she glared at him. He really shot her! REALLY!?!!! Her right hand moved protectively over her left shoulder, and with a growl of pain, she'd used the dexterous hook of her claw to pull out one of the bullets before her body could heal it inside her where it would feel like a stone under her skin. "As long as you're doing what I tell you, I don't suppose that I could convince you to start tap dancing." Before Sara removed the second one, that was much harder to remove, and came out with a fresh clot, she started pacing a circle around her opponent. The flesh that had been exposed on her shoulder already closing and starting to knit it's self back together. Sara hated getting shot. For the official record, getting shot hurt! but the ond thing that she enjoyed about her mutation was the healing ability.

The chair came quick, hard, and well aimed. The leg came right at his face, he lifted his outstretched arm and felt the the chair hit hard. The force pushed his hand back cracking hard against his forehead. For a second he felt dizzy, the blood from his left wrist smearing his face. The chair’s cross beams on the legs splintered against his arm, the rest of the chair bounced upward. He caught the chair with his left hand and brought it down as shield. His right hand, still holding the gun rested against his new shield and aimed for the girls face.

“Tap dance? Really? We have to do the witty repertoire?” He shifted his aim from one of her eyes to the other, then back again. Then he replied with a humorous remark wherein he turned her pussy cat mutation, three priests and a seventeenth century architecture into a very vulgar joke regarding a woman’s nether regions and exactly how she could tap dance thereupon; the exact wording of which would make mothers blanch and most small children cry.

His gun still aimed for her face, but the shield rested on his leg, his arm slashed and pummeled too weak to hold it up and steady. Blood continued dripping from his arm, pooling beneath. It wasn’t life threatening yet, but he really needed to wrap it to stop the bleeding. With that thought in his head, he realized her bullet wounds were healing before eyes. The injustice of it was infuriating. She was faster, stronger, had knives for fingers and a healing factor to boot. He took stock of his situation, and decided it was dire. He had one flash bang grenade in his pocket, and another hidden in his ever-present briefcase. The briefcase was on the floor several feet away from her, but perhaps close enough to give him an advantage. The window was behind him, giving him egress and he had one more gun on him, the 38 milimeter in his ankle holster. Up close and personal, against a woman who healed, that might be the only thing that could knock her down for long.

Behind her, luckily for himself, he was able to watch the past play out. As much past as there was to watch, it was hard to focus in on only the one time he needed. Vaguely, without detail, he could see that hundreds of paintings had gone and come from that safe, and in the wall. He saw the safe in the past, it was no longer there, it had been replaced and move to the opposite side of the wall hidden behind a Thomas Kinkade. Plebeians liked the man’s paintings because they didn’t know what real art was. It was amusing to know that a Thomas Kinkade was the decoy to true value. He continued scanning the past in the hours after they put the Rembrandt in it to see who took it out, and when.

The attack with the chair seemed effective enough and even broke some of the legs. OUCH! Then he held the chair out in front of him like a shield and Sara smirked at him. He looked like one of those lion tamers in cartoons who thought that they knew what they were doing. Sara sized up the chair. She was pretty sure that she could break through it with one hit. Maybe two if the man wasn't holding it firm enough. The problem rested in the fact that it would slow her down and her opponent already had a gun aimed at her head. Sara could get shot in any other part of her body and heal. Her head? That one was still up in the air. It had only happened once, but she'd still nearly died.

Then he had to make that joke.... "Three priests.... Really?" Sara's right ear twitched in annoyance and the fleshy area of her nse darkened as she blushed from embarrassment and anger. "It's amazing that thunder and lightening doesn't strike you down where you stand." Perhaps Sara should do that in the so called lord's place. It might make her feel better.

Sara's eyes focused on the gun that held aimed for her face. then she let her eyes focus on his eyes. He looked like he was watching something behind her so intently she actually turned around to see what it could be. But there was nothing. Not even the possible approaching footsteps of the other warehouse workers. Wow that door was really well insulated. She suddenly got the same feeling that she used to get when around Tarrin. A mutant who could see ghosts and talk to them. Creepy

The smell of blood drew Sara's attention to the man's wrist and she took stock of that information as well. For the moment, Mild curiosity got the better of Sara. "What is it that you see?"

> "It's amazing that thunder and lightening doesn't strike you down where you stand."

“Yeah, I’ve been told that before,” Thomas admitted.

> "What is it that you see?"

His eyes squinted for a moment in annoyance, the blood loss and pain was making him sloppy. He’d slipped up and nearly given his game away. He was trying to stall to see the face of the man who eventually took the painting, and knew full well she was trying to stall to fully heal. His knuckles were growing numb and white, the pool of blood under his arm growing larger.


“What I see?” he stalled. “I see a feral mutant working for a boss that better be paying her really well,” he lowered his gun slightly and flashed her a grin. “Any chance you want a pay raise? Whatever you’re being paid now, I’ll double it. I like spending money sister, look at this gun’s handle.” He shifted the gun a moment showing off the custom engraved gold handle. “I’ve given you lead, you’ve taken some blood. Now let me give you gold and we can both end this day better off.”

The smell of blood was growing more dense. Sara knew when she'd scratched the man, but she hadn't intended on drawing blood. She'd just been reacting to the gun. It was entirely his fault that he was bleeding so badly. In fact he wouldn't be bleeding at all. Yup. Entirely his fault.

The next string of dialogue caught Sara off guard. He thought that she was an employee? Her mind darted back to the last few events as to why he'd think that she worked here. She was sort of also sneaking around an area where only employees and guided clients were allowed. So what if she decided to let the belief stick. As long as he believed that she was earning money for this crap that he was putting her through, she might as well use that to her advantage. Sara allowed a smirk to slide across her face. "Everyone is looking for a pay raise but I doubt I'm still in your price range." She challenged.

Sara tilted her head to the side as she admired the gold gun. Even if it was only gold plated or gold in color, it was shiny. "Well in that case I suppose it's in my best interest to keep my newest paycheck alive." Sara lied. No. Even if she had been an employed security guard for this particular storage house, she knew better than to completely trust an offer made by another thief. That didn't mean that playing along for a short time wasn't fun.

Slowly Sara raised one hand in a sort of halt gesture. Hoping that for the time, this showed that the two of them were at peace. Her other hand reached for her pocket where her thumb and index finger daintily pinched the corner of a bandanna and slowly pulled it out of her pocket. "With all of that cash, I hope that you invested in a portable first aid kit." Sara tossed the clean bandanna over to the man.

He let the bandana hit the ground. He was holding a gun in one hand, a shield with in other, and wasn't about to put either one down. The gun he kept aimed down, for this was an unexpected turn of events. She took his offer. It was a serious offer, but he hadn't expected her to take it, certainly not that quickly. Was she really willing to work for him, or was it just a ploy? He could see the past, but it was the future that he needed. 

"Yeah, I do have a first aid kit. It's in my briefcase, the one a few feet from you on the ground." Thomas returned her smile with his own, this one very much real. He'd just finally spotted the face of the man who had bought the painting many years previous. He could leave now.

Out of curiosity, he looked to the wall safe. It was only a few hours since someone had opened it. There were four paintings inside and he recognized three of them as stolen. The combined bounties would net him close to half a million dollars. It'd be his biggest haul of the year. A banner day all around. He looked back to the cat woman and the bloody pool under his arm. Almost a banner day. 

"Here's the deal, I'm gonna open that safe and take what's in it. All you have to do is nothing. And tomorrow you visit my office and pick up your first pay check. Mind handing me my briefcase?" He'd custom modified his briefcase himself, building a flash bang grenade into the exterior leather and a remote control for it hidden in a pack of cigarettes he kept in his inner jacket pocket. The suitcase held ammo, bags to carry larger paintings, some electric safe hacking tools and plastic hand zips. There wasn't a first aid kit.  His offer stood, but he didn't trust anyone, let alone one that had drawn first blood. The moment she got close enough to that case he'd blow it in her face, tie her up, and get the hell out of there. He'd still pay her the next day of course. Slowly he reached to slip his gun into his jacket holster, inches from the remote switch.