milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The front door opens a tiny crack, like it wasn't properly latched and has come ajar. A moment later a tiny nose pokes through, followed soon by a fuzzy head.

A cat, black and white with wide yellow eyes, peeks into Milliways, meowing to announce this new discovery, then slipping through the crack into the bar.

"No, no, no, no-- "

The door swings wide, pushed open by a man in a black mask, a box of kitty kibble in his hand.

He's too late, the cat makes a break for freedom and adventure, and Matt is left standing in the doorway trying to track the feline as it threads its way through the chaos of the bar.

"Damn it."

There is absolutely no way Claire is ever going to let him live this down.

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Matt grimaces, the kind of semi-impatient and annoyed expression that a bad pun deserves.

"Did you notice where it went?" he asks, trying to track the cat but, considering the size of the bar, the size of the cat, and the varied patrons of Milliways, it isn't the easiest task.

"Towards freedom, it looked like," he remarks.

He finishes his mug of tea before setting it down and getting to his feet. He's tall, thin for his height, but the floorboards shift under his great weight. He glances with little more than idle curiosity towards the crowd of tables and chairs and patrons.

"I think it just slipped under the couch. Unless that was one of the bar's other cats."

That shifting of weight and the sounds of grinding stones that accompany the man's movements are unexpected, and Matt cants his head a bit, taking new measure of the man.

"Other cats?"

Matt turns to face the couch suddenly realizing he has no idea if he could pick out Shithead from a lineup if he had to.

"Damn it."

It feels like he may be saying that a lot tonight.

"I've encountered four cats who reside here, though they are usually to be found outside," the stone man says to the masked man in black. There is a very faint measure of fondness for the felines in his tone; turns out sun-warmed stone is great for napping on, and stone fingers give good scritches. And he likes that the cats don't care one whit what he looks like. "Though perhaps the one under the couch is the one you are seeking. It did not look familiar to me."

He steps that direction with the practiced ease of one accustomed to being careful how he moves among breakable things. For all his dry solemnity of tone, he can't be much older than nineteen or so, but an athletic nineteen. The bastard sword at his side is well-used and well cared-for. "What is your cat's name, in case it deigns to answer to it?"

Because he has decided to help, for whatever reason.

Hopefully those same cats are spending the night outside; not only to avoid confusion but because Matt isn't exactly sure how Louisa's cat would react to others, being a lone apartment cat.

Matt follows, making efforts to try and locate the cat along the way. The bar is always a cacophony to his senses, overlapping conversations, mingling scents both familiar and (literally) alien, and then the big black void of the observation window on the edge of it all. He can easily navigate the din, and would have little trouble tracking a person through it, but a small animal, as quiet and prone to hiding as a cat? It's sure to be an aggravating task if they don't find it now under the couch.

The man's question is an obvious one, but it still draws a short frown from Matt.

"It belongs to a friend of a friend," he prefaces, deciding to go with the safe descriptor and short version of the convoluted story. "My friend, she uh-- she calls it 'Shithead'. Affectionately."

Matt kind of doubts the cat is going to come running to that, though.

"Ah," his tone suggests he knows that particular type of human-animal dynamic. The stone swordsman in dusty, travel-worn white keeps an eye on the masked man in black as they search on their way towards the couch. Though this person has given no sign of threat apart from the innate connotations of mask-wearing, Zelgadis finds it difficult to be completely at ease with someone whose eyes he cannot see. "I imagine it deserves the name. Let's try and flush dear little Shithead from his hiding-place."

Upon reaching the couch, Zel goes to the far side of it before kneeling down alongside. The sound of his knee meeting the floor boards is cloth-muffled stone against wood, and, however careful he is, causes the board directly below to creak slightly. He leans down, peering under the couch and fluttering the fingers of one gloved hand. "Here, kitty-kitty," oh how he hates having to say such an inane thing, but the universal call for a strange cat to come closer is just that: universal.

Matt feels a little uneasy being in Milliways like this, he's only ever warn the mask in the bar a couple of times, but there's not a whole lot to do for it unless he's willing to abandon the cat here.

There's a lot to read on this stranger, not all of it is quite making sense yet, but the sword hasn't gone unnoticed. Neither has the wariness. Matt takes the latter in stride, his current appearance probably deserves as much. And at least the man is being helpful.

The cat is less so. It doesn't decide to come out until Zel is all the way down on the ground and even then it only springs forward underneath the couch far enough to pounce on those fingers.

Hearing the small tinkling of the cat's bell, Matt perks up.

"Do you have it?"

The only good thing about one's fingers being pounced on is that it brings those fingers into close enough proximity to offer neck-scritches, yes. And ultimately close enough to hook those fingers under the cat's collar and urge the cat gently but firmly closer to the edge of the couch. It isn't ideal, but short of fishing the cat out with the flat of his sword, Zel is out of other ideas.

"C'mere, c'mere...." he insists, still crouched by the couch, offering more scritches as the cat comes within easier reach. "I think so. Black and white cat, bell on it's collar?"

Matt stands by Zel, ready to grab the cat as soon as the man has it out from underneath the couch.

"That's it." He thinks. Matt knows that at least it has a bell on its collar.

The cat is all about those scritches until its collar is snagged, then it flails a bit, twisting its head and neck back and forth until the safety clasp on the collar gives way. Free, the cat dashes out from underneath the other side of the couch, running up and over a chair and skittering underneath a table.

Matt's head turns quick to follow the cat, but the cat isn't far before Matt loses it again in the crowd.

"Damn it."

Zel makes a cross sound under his breath as he feels the collar give way - a few inches closer and he would have been able to scoop the cat up or at least get a hold on the scruff of its neck - and rises swiftly to his feet.

"After it!" he insists, vaulting the back of the couch effortlessly - though the couchframe creaks - in pursuit of the fleeing, now un-belled feline. "Otherwise it'll find a place to hide."

Let them just hope that no one chooses this time to open the door to the outside.

The man's nimbleness and agility is surprising, considering how solid and heavy he seems to be.

Not to be outdone, Matt leaps the couch, clearing it entirely as he gives chase on the cat.

The cat streaks across the bar in a black and white blur, then zips through the closing door into the kitchen.

The chimera dodges through the bar room, and hits the swinging kitchen door a few moments late - after the crash of pots and pans. He enters the room to find the surprised, squeaking kitchen rats scattering in every direction to get away from the sudden rush of feline.

"There's the pantry, the door outside, and the hall to the cellars..." Zelgadiss mutters, striding to the pantry as it is nearest and quickest to search. "Which way did it go?"

Matt follows Zel into the kitchen, pulling the doors closed behind himself. Stepping in front of one of the fleeing rats, Matt instructs, "Keep this door closed."

Better chance if they can keep the cat in this part of the bar.

Tracking the cat isn't easy with all of the commotion, so Matt tracks the commotion instead. A stockpot hits the ground and rats run around a shelf, and Matt points in their direction.

"Over there."

The rat squeaks an affirmative and runs after its fellows, squeaking directions. They form a line on the other side of the kitchen door, letting their fellows through, but keeping watch at the crack so they can brace the door against a fleeing cat if necessary.

Zelgadis leaves off the search of the barren (of cats, at least) pantry, and turns to follow Matt's direction. He sees the rats avoiding that shelf... and an open drawer that happens to sport a fuzzy tail.

"Here, kitty," he says, edging closer, not wanting to spook the cat but also not the best at sounding enticing. "There might be fresh fish and cream in it for you if you don't run away."

There might. Probably not, though.

If Matt had his way there might be a boot to the furry keister after all of the cat's antics tonight, but making that promise probably won't get the cat out of hiding.

While Zelgadis closes in, Matt considers their surroundings. On the counter is an opened box of potatoes a rat has been busy peeling. Reaching over, Matt grabs the box and dumps out the potatoes onto the counter.

"Sorry," he says to the angry rat squeak that incites.

Box in hand, Matt moves in closer behind Zelgadis.

The tail in the drawer darts back and forth a few times, then drags into the drawer and disappears from view.

Zelgadis is tempted to just shut the drawer so they can be assured the cat stays put until they have... a sack or something better for transporting a wily escape artist. But he doesn't. Not yet, anyway.

If worse comes to worst, he can shadow-snap the damn feline.

"Here, kitty-kitty," he says, despite feeling foolish doing so, and flutters his fingers at it as he creeps nearer, he and the masked man flanking the drawer in question. "Good kitty."

Gods above, why did he agree to help this stranger catch his cat, anyway?

Oh right - it was more interesting than an empty tea mug.

Edited 2018-09-20 01:10 (UTC)

Matt considers shutting the drawer as well, but as annoyed as he is at the cat, he still doesn't actually want to hurt it. So rather than risk catching a paw or tail in a closing drawer, Matt edges closer, box at the ready.

"C'mon out," he calls, sure the cat isn't going to listen to him, but he has to try at least.

A paw reaches out to try and bap at those fluttering fingers, and inside the drawer there is a, "Mrrr?"

"Come on, now," the chimera murmurs, still fluttering those stone fingers enticingly closer to the cat, as though offering ear-scritches if the cat will deign to get close enough.

There may be a sense of tension in the air, a gathered potentiality, focused on those fingers.

Something shifts, on the air or in the space they're in, and Matt tunes to it, trying to determine what exactly he's sensing.

The cat finds the possibility of scritches too tempting to resist. After a few more playful bats with its paw, the cat comes forward inside of the drawer, moving close enough to offer the top of its head to those fingers.

Barely have Zelgadis' fingers touched the feline's forehead when there is a release of the small gathering of magical energy. It is just a mild sleep spell, sending the cat gently down into a boneless pile of fur in the drawer, purring faintly. "There now," the chimera sounds pleased. "Much easier to deal with an escape artist this way."

The cat is out so fast it makes Matt's head jerk.

He listens, and the purring is a good sign that the cat's okay, but still--

"What did you do?"

Zelgadis rubs the cats ears in mild apology and to fulfill his end of the unspoken bargain, then moves to gently scoop the soundly snoozing cat up into his arms.

"A very mild sleep spell," he replies with a slight smile. "It would barely make a human drowsy, at that strength, but it is perfect for small creatures. The cat should only be out for half an hour or so."

Matt starts to lift the box he's been holding onto, but hearing the explanation and confirming with his senses that the cat is under deeply, Matt abandons the box and holds out his hands to take the cat instead.

"That's a handy trick. Don't suppose you could teach it to me?" he notes, and he's joking. Mostly.

"Quite possibly," he replies with a dry chuckle as he hands over the sleeping feline, in case the masked man is only partly joking. "If you decide you want to learn."

It's shamanistic magic, so no pacts with demons or creatures of darkness required!

Matt takes the cat carefully, holding it against his chest.

"I'll keep it in mind," he says with a chuckle, before giving the man a nod.

"Thanks. I appreciate the help." If those last words sound a touch awkward it's because Matt doesn't have a lot of practice saying them.