Chapter Text
In the beginning, he is alone. He has no comfort, and he is cold.
There was a time when there were others. Siblings he slept beside, snuggled together for warmth. A mother too. He remembers her being warm, though he could never quite get close enough or get enough food. Too many siblings. And besides, he was the smallest.
Now, all he knows is to survive. He is good at finding food. There is plenty here in this place of metal where he has never known the sun. Trash on the streets. Sometimes, what is thrown out is good. Either way, it brings mice and rats. Those are good too. He was born to hunt.
There are other ways to get fed. It does not come naturally to him, but eventually he learns. At first, he avoids the tall ones that walk around on two legs. Some of them are mean, some of them are cruel. The big ones with deep voices he especially despises.
“Get outta here, cat! Scram!”
He had only been sniffing at some fish. Why would it be out in the open and tempting, if it were not meant for him? The booted kick landed on his side. He hurt for days. It was a lesson he never forgot. One he never entirely forgave.
Because of it, he was suspicious of the can in the alley. It was too good to be true. Almost certainly, it was a trap. It was out of the way, but a little too close to a door for his comfort. He avoided doors because that usually also meant there would be the tall ones, the people. They were always coming and going.
He stays hidden. His tail twitches. His nose twitches. Cautiously, he scans his surroundings. All is quiet. He should run away.
But the can is just there. Beckoning to him.
Without making a sound, he dashes to a new hiding spot. Just a bit closer. The alley is still empty and silent. Now he can really smell the food. It is fishy. It is good. He is a good hunter. But he has never caught anything like this.
Keeping low, he approaches. His nose touches the rim. Tentatively, he licks. It tastes even better than it smelt. He licks again. And then, he is eating.
The can is half gone, when he feels the fur stand up along his back. He is being watched. Perhaps he has been watched for some time. He is too smart to dash away immediately. Instead, he freezes, letting his eyes dart from side to side, trying to find his observer.
He surprised to find himself still alone. His instincts have never been wrong before. Though the food still calls to him, he cannot keep eating. He cannot relax until he understands the tingling up and down his spine.
It is when he is looking up, to see if he is being watched from above, that he notices the window. He crouches, flattening his ears to his head and flattening his body to the ground.
There is a face in the window. It is not a very big face. In fact, he can only see the top of it. And two eyes, peering out at him. They notice him, noticing them. A small hand raises up and moves back and forth.
He runs.
But the next day, he comes back. This time, there is no can. But there is a dish. He is not sure what is atop it, but he knows it is food. It is crunchy and dry. He likes it. Every now and then, he glances up. The eyes watch him from the window. He watches them back.
He comes back again. The eyes watch him from the window. He eats. He runs.
Then, one day, he comes to the alley, and the watcher is there. Outside. He freezes. He should run. It is a person. But it is not a very big one. And she does not move. She stays so, so carefully still. For some reason, he is not afraid.
He eats. She watches. He runs.
The next day, she speaks.
“Psps. Pspsps,” she says.
She holds out a hand. Psps? He does not know what it means. But he finds that he wants to know. He finds that, for some reason, he cannot control his curiosity about the outstretched hand. Slowly, he approaches. Gentle, so gentle, she gives him a pet.
The girl taught him that people had food. She taught him that people were not always mean or cruel. They would not always hurt him. Sometimes they fed him. Sometimes they said psps. And sometimes, if they moved slowly and patiently, he trusted enough to get close to them. Sometimes, if they pet him just right, it felt good.
He thinks he loved the girl, the first one, the one who taught him about kindness. Who taught him how to trust. Soon, though, the girl is gone. All the people leave.
There comes a day when the air grows strange. All his fur stands up. The people are frantic, the people are leaving. Others come and show them where to go. They are carried off in trucks with big wheels. He wants to flee too, but he does not know where.
All he can do is hide. There are winds. There is fire. There is a sense of wrongness all around him. The world is being torn apart. Metal burns, debris falls. He is scared. He is confused.
But eventually, it ends. Once everything is quiet, he pokes his head out. There is no metal above his head. It is the first time he sees the sky. He hisses at it for days. But it never hisses back and eventually, he gets used to it.
His world is now empty and quiet. A few buildings are left standing, but there are no people left inside. Nobody to proffer food or leave behind trash that attracted vermin.
He stays for a while. There is less food. He grows thinner. But still, he is luckier than some. There are others left behind. The ones who lived in the buildings with the people, the ones who were glossy and fat, they do not fare well. They never had to hunt for food. Some did not even have claws.
But he does. And he survives. For a time again, it is all he knows. He hunts. He eats. Cautiously, he sleeps. And when the food is gone, he moves on. And on and on.
Times passes, a lot of it, but he has no way to count to days. All he knows is eat, sleep, survive.
He does not miss the tall ones, the ones with two legs. Not really. The cans were good. He liked the dry food too. But he does not miss the loudness. The ones who moved too fast or tried to hurt him. It is an okay life, just on his own.
Sometimes, though, he thinks of the pets. Sometimes, he remembers the girl.
Eventually, he makes his way to a place where there is no metal at all. The ground is soft. There are mice to catch in the tall grasses. Water to drink that is cool and clean, that trickless and flows over rocks.
It is a different kind of place, but it is good to him for a time.
Still, it is never easy. It is a different kind of place, and it brings different kinds of dangers. There is much to eat here, and he is a predator, hunting his prey. But other times, he is prey himself. And what hunts him is strange.
There is something else out here. Animal like him, but not the same. The creatures are wrong, and the creatures are strong. He is not even certain they actually need to eat, but they hunt him all the same.
Lucky for him, he is fast. He knows better than to fight.
Sometimes, though, he cannot avoid it. His first encounter leaves him with a bendy ear and a scar along his stomach where his fur never quite grows right again. He is no longer very young. But he is scrappy. He learns from the experience, and he survives.
Still, it is hard. Life begins to wear him down. He still hunts. He still eats. He still survives. But he grows a bit thinner. His fur grows a bit more ragged. He feels tired and life offers no reprieve.
One evening, a creature corners him. It is his own fault for letting it happen. He is slipping, too rundown for his instinct to be sharp. He sees the teeth, more of them and sharper than his own. The claws he cannot defend against.
Maybe, he thinks, it is his time. It comes for everyone, he supposes. Perhaps his prey felt the same in the end. Small, outmatched and resigned.
With the first swipe of its clawed hand, he is flung against the rocks. It stuns him but does not kill him. The maneuver was not intended to. He is being played with. Tossed around a bit before he is dealt the final blow. He recognizes the intention. After all, he would know.
There is a loud noise and a flash of steel. Blood and viscera spray. As quickly as he had been cornered, the attack is over. He backs against the rocks, panting. His body hurts. He is too disoriented and in too much pain to move.
Then, there is a voice.
“Hey, little guy. You good?”
Little guy? He may be skinny. Certainly, he was no match for the monster that attacked him. But he is a predator in his own right. He has teeth and he has claws. Though he is still too weak to fight back, he flexes them now and hisses.
“Huh, alright then. Sorry for asking.”
For a long moment there is silence, but the other one is still there. He can feel him watching him, though he does not move any closer. He is one of the big ones, who usually have loud voices and frighten him. The ones he hates and avoids.
But this one is a bit different. He is strong, that much is clear. Despite his strength, he moves carefully. And he is not so loud. In fact, he is quiet. When he speaks, he does so softly. There is a patience in the way he sits and watches him, even as he bears his teeth and claws, even as he flexes his ears back and growls.
He is different, but still, he cannot quite trust or forgive him for what he is.
They sit together, a large space between them, until the fight goes out of him. He feels the fur relax against his back. His ears move to a neutral position.
He feels resigned. He feels beaten. It was not a good week for food. And now this. Though the killing blow had been avoided, he wonders if he was defeated all the same. He is not sure he will be able to get back up. To go back to the grind of fighting to survive.
“You’ve had a rough go of it, huh?”
The voice is gentle and coaxing. Without moving, he rolls his eyes up in its direction. The man has moved closer, but not too close. He is crouching, peering down at him, his head tilted.
There is a look on his face. He is not good at reading people emotions. Anger he knows. He had to know that one, in order to survive. But this look strikes him as rather cat-like. It is the same look he makes when assessing a particularly dangerous leap, one he is not sure that he should make.
The man sighs.
“I could bring you somewhere safe,” he says tentatively. “It’s dangerous out here. And you don’t look so good. Not much point in saving you just to leave you to die…”
He is not really talking to him. More so, he seems to be trying to convince himself. But then he crouches a bit lower. Gives him another assessing look.
“What do you think? Tifa will know what to do. She likes cats.”
The man grins, and again, he sees something rather feline in the expression.
“And she’s good with strays. I would know, I’m one of them.”
He is not sure if it is because this man is different – patient, quiet, and careful. Or if it is the way he feels cat adjacent. Perhaps it is the softness in his voice when he speaks of this place and this person he proposes to take him to.
Or maybe he is just so beaten down that he does not care what happens to him.
Either way, when a gloved hand slips around his middle, and other beneath his hind legs, he does not resist. He goes limp. The man places him in bag, slung against the front of his body, the top open to let in air.
“Sorry, best I can do. Hold on tight, okay?”
When they first start to move, he is too terrified to do anything. Though the bag shields him from it some, he feels the air moving against them. Fast, faster than he has ever moved. There is a loud noise coming from below, a mechanical rumbling.
After a while, his senses return to him. This is wrong. This is bad. He is trapped.
He begins to squirm. The material of the bag is thick, and he barely manages to poke his claws through to reach the warm flesh pressed against it. The body behind him tenses.
“Hey, careful now.”
The warning only panics him more. He pushes away from the body with his back legs, claws sinking past fabric and into skin. With his front legs, he strikes out wildly and at random. By chance, one manages to escape the bag. He feels his claws connect with flesh. He draws it downward, and it yields beneath his claws.
“Aaaaugh!”
He likes the startled yell. It is pained and a bit frightened. Worthy of his claws, which so far had felt somewhat disrespected. Why else would the man treat him like a kitten, picking him up and speaking to him like a baby.
He does not like, however, the way they suddenly swerve. The movement is jerky and uncontrolled. It makes him dig his claws in deeper and yowl in fear.
They stop suddenly. The chest beneath his claws is moving rapidly as the man tries to catch his breath. A heart thuds close to his ear. When a hand lands on the bag, he is certain that he is about to be tossed. Flung away, as he has been so many times before.
Instead, the hand strokes his side through the fabric. Even as his claws tense, still poking into skin, the touch is gentle.
“Easy, now.”
The voice is gentle too.
“Let me get you home without killing the both of us, okay?”
Home? It is an unfamiliar word, and there is an unfamiliar note in the man’s voice when he says it. He is not sure why, but he likes the sound of it. Despite himself, he retracts his claws from the skin. Sinks them into the side of the bag instead.
A relieved sigh sounds from above, then they are moving again.
The journey feels long, and he is still afraid. The movement makes him slightly queasy. It disorients him so much that even if he wished to lash out again, he is not sure that he would be able to. For better or for worse, he has accepted the offer whatever fate the man has in mind for him.
By the time the journey ends, he is half asleep and almost does not notice. The movement changes, from the smooth but fast motion accompanied by vibration and noise. Now he is somewhere quiet and warm, and the movement sways him back and forth a bit. He feels the hand again, stabilizing him against the solid body against his back.
A creaking sound. Sudden light. A deep, content sigh from the man. From somewhere else, a louder sound, higher pitched voices, energetic and excited.
“Cloud’s home!”
“Cloud!”
Footsteps are approaching rapidly, and he braces himself, fearing an attack. He can sense an impending collision. But the man takes a step back.
“Hey, you two. Watch out. Can you give me a hand with something?”
The footsteps stop.
“Denzel, grab one of those boxes from the garage. One of the big ones. Marlene, can you get a towel or something?”
One pair of feet dashes off. Then he hears a small, sweet voice. It reminds him of something that he cannot yet place.
“There’s an old blanket in the muck room. Will that work?” she says. “Hey, Cloud. What do you have in the bag?”
“That’s perfect. I’ll show you in a minute.”
They are moving again. The air around him is warm. It smells good, like food. The way the air would smell sometimes around the buildings in the place where he was born. The kind of building that had the best trash to scavenge through – fish bones, little bits of meat.
He feels the warmth of another body close to him, then hears another voice.
“Cloud,” is all it says.
The word is as soft as a caress. The body presses closer, but then stops. He senses movement above him, a hand reaching up to the man’s neck and face.
“What happened, are you alright? It’s been a while since you’ve come home bleeding like this.”
A sound vibrates near his ear. A low chuckle, deep in the man’s chest.
“It’s been a while since I’ve encountered such a fierce foe,” he says.
The bag shifts above him just a bit, letting in more air and light. He hears a small gasp from above, not from the man but from the other one.
“Oh. Oh, the poor little baby.”
The man tenses as she reaches a hand into the bag.
“Careful,” he warns.
But he feels no desire to lash out at the hand that touches him. It is light and comforting as it strokes between his ears. He was annoyed at the man for calling him little before. But he likes the way the woman speaks to him. Maybe he is a little baby.
“Cloud, here! We got the stuff.”
The little feet again, the higher-pitched voices. He is being lowered down. Tipped out of the bag into something soft. There are four edges around him. They contain him, but also make him feel safe. Above, three faces and three pairs of eyes peer down.
More soft gasps.
“Oh. Oh! A cat.”
“Awww, look at him.”
“Sweet thing. Look at you, sweet kitty.”
They are admiring him. It is a veneration that he has not experienced before, but the words feel right to him. Somehow, he knows, it is his due.
“Sweet kitty almost clawed my face off.” The man is speaking again, and it makes his ears flatten in annoyance. “So, watch your fingers.”
A small hand is reaching toward him, ignoring the warning. He looks up at a face, two pairs of eyes. Again, a flash of memory. Then she speaks.
“Pspsps,” she says to him.
He remembers, now, the girl. The first one. Who fed him and petted him. This one is different, her hair straight whereas the other had curls. She is a bit smaller, the eyes not as light. But the feel of her is similar. It is warm. It is safe.
The hand moves closer. He bumps his head against it. His chest is suddenly vibrating. Despite himself, he starts to purr.
More delighted gasps from above.
“Oh, oh. He likes me, Cloud. Look!”
His matted fur is being stroked carefully now. It is gentle between his ears and down his spine. He flinches as it gets too close to the scar along his flank and the hand readjusts, petting him instead up around his neck. It feels good, and he nearly closes his eyes.
“Lucky you,” the man grumps, gingerly touching his face.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” the woman says. “Look at him. His bent little ear. The scar. He’s been through a lot. You didn’t mean to hurt Cloud, did you? Did the big, scary man frighten you?”
Though she spoke to the man in a scolding tone, her voice is singsong and sweet as she directs the question to him. He had meant to hurt the man. But he would never admit that to her. He blinks up at the woman innocently, nuzzling his face into the little girl’s hand.
“Hey,” the man complains. “I’m the one who saved his life!”
The three surrounding his box ignore him. They are too engrossed in watching him as the girl continues to give him pets. The other child, the boy, curls his fingers over the edge of the box and grins down.
“I like him. He’s cool. He looks smart. Tough. Like a hunter.”
These people, they got him. Their praise feels wholly deserved. He suddenly feels the need to acknowledge them, his adoring audience of three.
“Mrrwow?” he chirps.
The effect is immediate and effective. They melt.
“Oh, Cloud,” the woman exclaims. “Did you hear that? He meowed!”
The boy is gleeful. “He answered me, Cloud! I knew he was smart.”
The little girl is practically in tears, though she is smiling. She looks up at the man.
“He’s our cat, isn’t he Cloud? You brought him home to stay, right?”
“I, uh –” the man stutters. “We probably oughta fix him up and let him go on his way. I think he’s feral, Marlene. He might not like living inside.”
The girl frowns. She makes eye contact with him, there on the soft, warm blanket. He thinks of the cold, hard world outside. The one he was tired of surviving. Where he was all alone, and nobody pet him or had a kind word.
The girl rubs his old, bent ear and he blinks lazily. He turns his head into the caress. He could get used to this, even the man. He does not want to go back to the way things were before. He likes it here, he wants to stay.
“He likes it here,” the girl protests softly. “He wants to stay.”
Somehow, he knew she would understand. Of course she does. Although they have only just met, he understands something else. He is hers, and she is his. This is his person, she is his girl. He meows at her again and she smiles.
“What do you think, Cloud?” the woman asks. “I’ve been wanting a mouser for Seventh Heaven. And you know how often Marlene has been asking for a cat.”
“I know, Tifa. It’s just that…”
The man gestures up at himself. Pinpricks of blood have seeped through his shirt. There are several long scratches, beginning to swell, starting on his neck and reaching the side of his face. The woman considers his hesitation. His girl’s hand stills on him as she looks between the two adults.
“You found him outside, all alone.”
The boy is speaking now, and all eyes turn his way.
“Just like me, right Cloud?” he asks. “You found me and brought me home. You gave me a second chance, didn’t you?”
He is swarmed, suddenly by the adults. The woman puts an arm around him and the man moves closer, reaching a hand down atop his hair. Their faces are surprised, and their eyes look a little damp.
“Denzel…” is all they manage to say.
The boy’s face peaks out over the woman’s shoulder as she wraps him in an embrace. When neither adult is looking, he makes eye contact with the girl and winks.
“Nice one,” she whispers.
Now four faces observe him from above, looking over the edge of his box. The man, who still feels like a nemesis or at least a rival, even if he did save his life. The woman, whose presence calmed him, making him feel safe. The boy, who recognized his worth even at his worst, who thought he deserved a second chance. And his girl who loved him right away.
“Fine,” the man says. “If Tifa says so, he can stay.”
The woman nods. Immediately, they jump into action.
“I can get another box! He’ll need a litterbox, right Tifa?”
The boy they dashes away.
“Skinny boy,” Marlene croons. “Tifa, do we have anything for him to eat?”
The woman reaches down to pet him too. He notes how the others look to the woman, the way she is at the center of their group. They defer to her, they talk to her with devotion and care. She is clearly the one in charge around here.
He purrs louder, rolling over to expose his stomach. The woman is too smart to touch it, but it makes her smile.
“You feel safe here, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll get you all fixed up and fed. Marlene, there’s some salmon and rice in the fridge that I put aside for Cloud. Try rinsing the spices off the salmon. You can just toss the rice.”
“Hey, wait a minute –”
The man sputters, but the girl is already gone. She dances off into another room. The woman continues petting him. She is good at it.
“Good boy, perfect boy,” she sings.
“Perfect, huh?”
The question comes from the man, who is still there, unfortunately. His arms are crossed, and he keeps his distance from the box. The woman places a soft hand on his face and pets him, just as though he were a poor, injured, and underfed cat.
“Jealous?” she teases.
“No,” he says too quickly. “Hungry. And my face hurts.”
She leans over to press her lips to a scratch, right on the edge of his jaw.
“Better?”
“Mmm, maybe. Try again?”
The woman’s hand is no longer in the box petting him, which he finds disappointing. He peaks over the edge of the box to find the man and the woman entirely occupied with one another, their faces close. As he suspected, the man is a rival. In battle, and for affection.
But he realizes, they come as a set, the man with the woman. Perhaps they all do, these people who have put him in a box and welcomed him to this place, where he feels safe and warm. If he wants to love one of them, he supposes he might as well love them all.
“Keep an eye on the cat? I’m going to see if Marlene needs help.”
The woman gets up, and the man watches her leave, his face irritatingly content and smug. If he were a cat, he would be purring too. Once she is gone, he looks back over at the box and sighs. In return, he grows low in his throat at the man, a warning to keep away.
“Guess you’re part of the family now, huh?”
Family? The word sounds good. He likes it. It distracts him so much that he forgets to growl or bite when the man reaches down to scratch him behind the ears.
“Welcome home,” he says.
He is not a young cat. He was born years ago, in a world that was cold, where he was always hungry, and comfort was scarce. Many years, he had survived on his own. But that life, his first life, was now over. A new kind of life had begun on this day.
It was a new beginning. The day he found his family, the day he came home.