Redone! I'm redoing the story along with the sequel chapter by chapter. After a really long hiatus, I think I've finally conquered my writer's block. I'm also working to to make Blaise less Mary-sue like, as that is NOT what I was aiming for. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and loved my stories, for this is dedicated to you guys.

As for whether I own Cats, I do not. The story plot and Blaise are mine, though.

What's this, Pollicles?

Blaise cursed at herself as she glanced up at the time, while shaking back her shoulder length brown hair. It was nearing five o'clock in the evening, which meant she had an hour before her shift ended. She had about two hours of work still to be done before she could even clock out. Blaise wasn't even counting the fact that she'd be stuck with all the clean up. Her boss, Mr. Carmichael, didn't like anyone running behind, and Blaise wasn't about to admit that she had slacked off for half the day. It was Friday, she was tired, and wanted nothing more than to go home. Of course, with her luck, it wouldn't be for another three or four hours.

She took another sip of coffee and sat back down at her small desk. Focusing her eyes on the near-dying work computer, Blaise noticed, not for the first time, that the screen had a greenish tint. There was also the slightest hint of static. Plus, there was that obnoxious humming the computer itself made....Blaise couldn't resist: she let out a loud groan at the thought of typing up several more customer reports, then sending them to all of her managers, then to the printer, for filing them all.. That alone would take over an hour, maybe even two. Then there was the cleaning of the stupid break room. As unofficial secretary, it was her job to clean it every night, which included wiping off the tables, sweeping the floor, emptying out the coffee pot, cleaning the counters, cleaning out the fridge and taking out the trash. It was a pain in the ass! Usually, on a good night, it took Blaise an hour to do it all. On a night that was dragging, it would take her probably at least an hour and a half. With a irritated grunt, she began to work, and tried her best to tune out the din of her co-workers as they talked about their plans for the weekend. Hers, of course, was to go home and do absolutely nothing. Perhaps she would sit in front of her television with a pint of ice cream and a pizza. But that was later. For now, Blaise would have to focus on her stupid job.

Cleaning out the break room had taken a lot longer than she had planned. Of course, Blaise had dragged her feet on it. She had entertained herself by taste testing some of the leftover food in the fridge and pretending she was a food critic. After about an hour of that, Blaise had rushed to get everything done. The entire room had long since grown quiet and seemingly darker, despite the fact that all the lights were still on, save for the kitchen light, now. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she walked back to her desk, where her computer was still on. Reaching down, she shut it off (That alone took about five minutes.) and made a half assed attempt to clean up her area. She was finally done for the weekend. Checking the time once more, she saw that it was nearing nine o'clock. She should have been off by six. It was late, and she still had to walk home. It was not going to be a short saunter through the park, Blaise had to walk over a bridge, and she lived just past a crime-ridden area of town. Walking through that this late at night wasn't something Blaise was looking forward to. Shutting off all the lights, Blaise locked the main door behind her. The night was slightly eerie, and for a Friday night, it was strangely quiet. There were small groups of people milling about, but that was about it.

"At least I have overtime. Hopefully," Blaise mumbled to herself. It was best not to think about the night as she walked.

Looking at the sky on her way home, she could see that the moon looked mysterious. She was glad she was nearing home. About a block up, she could see the familiar junkyard. Blaise shivered, despite the fact it was a warm night. "I'm tired," She told herself, trying not to look at it; there was always the possibility of a crazed criminal hiding out, waiting to ambush unsuspecting women. Blaise looked around her as she drew her book bag closer to her, just in case. She looked apprehensively at the junkyard as she walked by it.

"Just turn the corner and you have two blocks to go," Blaise whispered. That place always gave her the creeps, even during the day. At most, Blaise always saw a few cats, and there never seemed to be any evidence of humans occupying the place, but then again, Blaise never stuck around long enough to check. Taking a deep breath, she started walking faster.

From behind her though, was a sound that caused her heart to almost leap into her throat. At first it sounded like footsteps, but then began sounding like growling. Blaise was certain that she was going to get mugged now. Stopping, she closed her eyes and silently repeated the same mantra. "Please don't kill me, please don't kill me." She turned around slowly, and opened her eyes. It was only a few dogs. Blaise would have laughed, if not for the fact that these dogs were obviously stray, and quite possibly feral. "Good, doggy. Nice doggy," Blaise whispered, reaching out a shaking hand. The dog's eyes were wild, and she could see its fangs, even though it was dark. She took a step back, but as soon as she did, the dogs took a step closer to her. Blaise could now see it was salivating. Blaise blinked several times, and licked her lips. She was frightened, and now she wished desperately for another human to be out.

"You don't want to hurt me," Blaise whispered, pulling her hand back. The head dog took another step toward her, and Blaise could almost swear the dog was leering at her. It let out a growl. It was vicious, almost demonic sounding. Blaise couldn't bring herself to focus on the other two dogs, but she knew they were there. They were making yipping sounds, almost like they were laughing. The head dog turned his head and barked. The other two shut up.

"Go home, dog." It didn't sound much better from her whispered attempts to quiet the beast. Of course, this stray wasn't going to listen. It lept at her. With a startled scream, Blaise threw her book bag in front of her to block it, but it let out another bark and tore it from her hands. The act knocked over over. Reacting without thinking, Blaise jumped back up to run. No thought was given to the possibility that the dogs would chase her. Blaise wasn't even sure if she screamed. She was running back toward the junkyard. At least there, she'd be able brandish a weapon.

Before she got ten feet away, she was tackled from behind. It took all of her strength to keep from falling over. Turning around, Blaise stared at the dogs' wild eyes. Her own eyes wide, she threw up her hands in a weak attempt to fight them off. The head dog bent low, and his growls turned even more menacing. It seemed almost like it was toying with her. It lept at her again, and knocked her on her back. She weakly tried to fight the dog off, but it kept barking and growling at her. She could almost discern words from the dog, but she was in a heightened state of emotion; there was no way dogs could actually talk. Blaise let out another scream, and again wondered why no one was coming to her rescue. The dog jumped off of her, allowing her to roll over and attempt to crawl away. She was too shaken up to stand.

Blaise had forgotten that there was more than one dog in the group. As she was crawling, she felt two more bodies jump on her. It was enough force to knock her flat down, and smack her head against the pavement. Her vision blurred, and Blaise feared she was going to lose consciousness. With barely any strength left in her, Blaise rolled herself to her side. She could see the dogs approaching, and silently she prayed that she would be spared, or at least die a painless death. Before her eyes closed, she saw a flash of silver and what looked like a man jump in between her and the dogs.

"Get away, you dirty Pollicles!" The man shouted. Blaise had no idea who or what a pollicle was. She was exhausted, and in pain, and she was fighting a losing battle with consciousness. Her eyes finally slipped close, and the last memory Blaise had was a silver hand touching her forehead.