Things had not gone well, the snow was coming down thick and fast, and the man known as Lord Djibril was ready to blow a gasket.
Or would have been, if he'd had the strength.
Blowing a gasket was somewhat harder to do if one didn't even have enough strength to pull oneself off a dumpster.
He didn't even want to think what condition his clothes were in.
And that....wailing.
It went on and on, and stopped only to start again... Damn it, if he became permanently hearing-impaired...
And it went on and on and on....
Damn it, damn the universe, damn operations that go off the deep end on one, damn...
He looked, then. And stared.
...Something was moving.
Waaaaaaaaaa
The people who worked for Section Chief Djibril knew better then to ask him idiotic questions.
But still...
"Take care of it."
"...Sir?"
"Just take care of it! Don't they have people to take care of those things?"
The filthy thing had just kept wailing and wailing and...
"Well, if it's a rat, we could just throw it out, but..."
"It's a kitten, silly."
A woman from the secretarial pool mumbled.
"And it's not even weaned, probably. Maybe you should just call the Veterinarian section and have it put to sleep, sir? Taking care of unweaned kittens are a awful pain, and half the time they die anyway. And that one looks sick to begin with."
Djibril stared. What?
"...Though we could try to feed it with cat-milk and stuff like that if you'd like, sir."
He looked at - the thing. The thing didn't look back, as its eyes were all covered with mucus and worse.
"...Mr Djibril?"
"...Do...that."
"...Alright, sir. Get the vets and some cat-milk - it needs to be fed every two hours or something, I think. ...Do any of you have something to carry it in?"
"Here" The woman waved a chicken sandwich box.
"OK, here goes..."
Djibril stared. And nearly choked.
Alright. So it was a cat.
Whatever his other five senses told him it was.
There was no way a sick human baby was going to fit inside a chicken sandwitch box.
Inside the box was a cat. A very young, not to mention sick, kitten, to put things more precisely.
At least, that was what everybody said...
...As did his camcorder.
He rubbed his eyes and groaned. He had enough to deal with without this, this...
To the naked eye : Sick little baby which looked like a half-dead broken doll in medibox.
On the camcorder : Sick little kitten which looked like a drowned rat in medibox.
...Oh, for...
If the veterinarian's assistant on night watch wondered just why "The Boss" was pointing a camcorder at a half-dead kitten in the dead of the night, he at least wasn't asking. Which was good, from Djibril's point of view.
More dead bodies weren't what he wanted to handle, at this point.
He couldn't seem to keep from wandering down to the 3rd floor in the middle of the night, just to look at the - thing.
Or maybe it was just that he was hoping against hope that one day he'd see what everybody else seemed to be seeing.
"We're pumping it full of antibiotics, but its not gaining weight as much as we'll like, sir."
Ahhhh? Brownhaired and nondiscriptant...Oh, it was the veterinarian's assistant he'd seem here before. Just why was the man trying to talk to him, here? Did he look like he was in the mood for talking?
"...Is that so?"
"Yessir. It's time to feed her now, so..."
So it was a female.
"Gotta feed her, and massage her too, cause kit's this size can't pee or do their business if they aren't massaged. Wasn't quite sure how to do that, though... Had to look it up on the net, actually..."
Djibril stared. Just what kind of training were they giving vet's assistants nowadays, anyway? And just how did the idiots think they could get away with treating his - his cat-thing so shabbily?
The VA kept on talking while he warmed milk out of cans and started dribbling it down the little thing's throat. It - she - choked at one point.
"Sorry, kitty..."
No wonder it was underweight. Djibril sat down and sighed.
"You wanna try holding her, sir? Here."
...It would have been nice if the VA had said that before just. Plopping. It. Down. Towl and all.
He looked at the thing on his lap, petrified. It scrinched back through red-rimmed gooey eyes...and flopped.
- The man must have a death wish. Yes, that must be it.
He did not discover how right he was to much later, but by that time, it had ceased to matter. To him, at least.
He awoke to the weight of something warm and furry and slight on his chest.
"...Shannon? The cat has...."
...No, no Shannon. He'd arranged the brown-haired VA's funeral himself. It was damn inconvenient of that man to just die on him like that, though he hadn't done it on purpose, Djibril supposed...
"...Achoo...Echooo..."
" - Gesundheit?"
(*"...Mama..."*)
"I am not your mother, you idiot feline. Now go back to sleep."
Djibril tried to roll over without crushing the thing, and froze.
It talks?
Once upon a time, the man called Lord Djibril reflected, he could actually eat breakfast without something small with runny eyes who wore an oversized T-shirt jumping into his lap.
It seemed like a very long time ago.
(*...Foood ...fooooood..*)
The little girl in the oversized T-shirt snorted, rubbing runny eyes.
"Stop that, you."
He wiped her face with his napkin. At least most of her eyes were visible, now.
"I am eating omelets and cheese, neither which are good for cats."
Or whatever she was, for that matter. He supposed, that is.
"And onions. Onions are poisonous to cats and dogs, do you know that?"
She sniffed.
(*Fooooodddddd.....*)
"You have a one-track mind, child."
Well, to be sure. There wasn't much room in such a little brain, was there now?
Assuming she was actually a cat, that is.
He took his trusty camcorder and pointed it at his lap, just to be sure.
Slightly bigger then before black kitten with runny eyes, right.
(*...Mamafeedmeee...*)
"I am not your mother, as you should be able to tell by now. No fur, no claws, not female. All right?"
She kneded his knees anyway.
(*Mamamamamamamamaa*)
Djibril sighed.
"You are being fed on a schedule, foolish thing. - Later, later."
Cats and cat-things seemed to be notoriously bad at understanding "later", alas.
(*...Omelet?...*)
Djibril started. It wanted an omelet?
"...Omelet?"
(*Omelet!*)
"...Very well, I will make you an small omelet later, without onions or garlic or things that are not good for cats. - Later."
(*...Yay!*)
The child curled up in his lap. He tried not to think of how she managed to fit there.
Good. Now he could eat.
"He's...what?"
"Talking to his cat, sir. ...He picked a kitten out of a dumpster, some months ago, I believe?"
Muruta Azrael stared. And snorted.
And laughed.
Ahh, well. Perhaps it was all to the best.
It's not like he really wanted to go on a purging spree, after all...And that particular "cousin" was seeming less and less of a credible threat to his authority, frankly.
Yes. Things were going just fine.
"Say. ...Is he actually going to cook his cat an omelet?"
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(Posted Fri, 26 May 2006 16:53)
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