Good as Gold: Part One

Disclaimer: I do not own CATS. I am merely borrowing their cute fuzzy butts.

Author's Note: Ah ha! This is the sequel to the dearly beloved (at least by me) Right as Rain. And guess what? It has multiple parts!! YAY! There have been a few changes—one, I finally realized that I was spelling Mistoffelees wrong and have changed it. Two, I just want to let everyone know that although I have seen the live version of CATS, I am using the movie to write off of because I remember it more clearly (and, with it sitting mere inches away from my VCR I can use it for reference quite easily). You'll probably notice that this story has a different feel to it than it's predecessor, and that's simply because this is more of an action, plot-filled story than my character probing of poor Munkustrap & Mistoffelees. Enjoy!

Rated: R

Contains Heterosexual and Homosexual Relationships. Proceed to Read at Your Own Risk.

-----@ Mistoffelees @-----

243 S. Boulevard, a mansion and a half, belongs to the Jemmings family. A rich, classy kind of people who believe they are better than everyone else and spend most of the time trying to live up to their claim. They throw parties almost every other night so that Mr. and Mrs. Jemmings can impress their influential corporate buddies and stay ahead in the social world of the elite. Their only child, Dorothy, attends these parties as well, even though she is merely five years old. Usually she can be seen among the waltzing couples and snotty gentlefolk sherry-drinking pushing a pink baby pram.

How cute she is, the socialites coo. How utterly adorable. How old are you dear? Five, my that makes you almost an adulta mommy, you say? Ah yes, you look like a marvelous mommy. Can I see your baby, darling?

And then, prouder than a peacock, she will hold up her baby for all to see.

Me.

With a marvelous pink petticoat and bonnet.

Yes, take pity on me.

Actually, it's not all that bad. I usually catch my needed sleep in the stroller while the humans drink and gallivant about, look on in a detached manner while being shown off to the adults, then quietly slip away when Dorothy's eyes begin to droop.

Victoria is waiting in the upper guest bedroom as usual when I make my escape. Everyone is in the ballroom and/or gardens, so no one notices the pink rocket that flies up the stairs. With a whisper the doorknob turns and the door swings open. Victoria shakes her head as I approach.

"You're so good at disappearing, Mist. Why do you always stay when you know what's in store?" she asks. "I almost think you rather like being Dorothy dressing you up like a doll."

I undo the bow around my chin and cast the bonnet on the bedroom floor. "She puts cream in my bowl on Thursdays and sometimes Mondays," I say by way of explanation.

Victoria undoes the buttons on the back of the petticoat. It's always like this—Victoria helps me out of my pink threads and then we're free to escape into the night. I could get out of this ridiculous outfit unassisted, but it's usually the only time I actually get to see Victoria, unless I venture out to the junkyard during the afternoon hours which is a rarity. I go out at night and stay till mid-morning, then come back for a meal and sleep in the pram. Victoria goes out at night and is usually back before daybreak, then sleeps until at least two.

"So where are you going tonight?" Victoria asks as I discard the repulsive petticoat.

I hesitate. I've been running off the past couple of nights without an explanation and Victoria's gotten a little irritatedand probably hurt by my silence. I rarely have much to say, but I usually give Victoria the heads up on my whereabouts. Until recently

"I'm going to go out mousing with Munkustrap tonight. I don't know where I'll be," I reply, at least halfway honest. I'll go out with Munkustrap tonight, but I doubt we'll do any mousing. The thought almost brings a smile to my face, but I hold it in.

"Mousing? you never go mousing," Victoria says as we creep down the grand staircase.

"Good time to start," I reply, shrugging.

We approach the back door of the mansion, conveniently located in the kitchen. Mitchie, our cook, usually leaves it slightly cracked open so we can paw our way out. As Victoria reaches out to open the door, it suddenly widens.

One heavy foot steps through the doorway, closely followed by another. Both are adorned by trademark white spats.

Twirling his moustache, Bustopher Jones comes into view, towering high above our heads. Immediately Victoria and I drop before him, bowing low. He smiles at Victoria's bent form and frowns at mine. A strange feeling of resentment begins to grow in the pit of my stomach and I wonder why. Feeling guilty, I struggle to squash it down.

"Good evening, Father," says Victoria. I say the same, but address Bustopher as "Sir." He is not my father, and he constantly reminds me of this everyday. I think he actually loathes me. I am the reminder that our mother loved another tom before she ever came across him. But I don't believe Bustopher Jones is as petty as that. I'm sure he hates me because of something I did long ago, but I don't remember what. He isn't the kind of cat to hold grudges without a good reason.

I love him because my mother loved him. I remember the four of us vaguely, Bustopher, Victoria, Mother, and me—we were only together for a mere three months before Mr. Jemming's backed over our dear mother in his new Lamborghini. The day she died, Bustopher stopped pretending to like me.

"Going out, love?" Bustopher Jones says. Victoria rises instantly and hugs him. He chuckles. I remain on my knees.

"Oh yes, Father!" Victoria cries, enthusiastic as always. "Plato and I are going to go dancing tonight!"

Bustopher looks displeased. "Dancing?"

"Daddy, it's perfectly all right," Victoria coos. She kisses him on the cheek. "Besides, if anything goes wrong I'll have Mistoffelees to protect me."

Inwardly I groan at Victoria's lie. Bustopher usually just ignores my presence and acts as if I was never born. However, occasionally my existence comes to light and he's reminded of his lost love's son.

Bustopher Jones growls and walks over to my bent form. "That's what I'm worried about. I don't want this freak to lose control of fingers and zap you like a bug."

Ah yes, the freak. I don't like it when he uses the truth against me. I've tried to avoid it as much as possible. Ever since I can remember I have toiled to be the perfect, high-class cat that Bustopher Jones is. I have the mannerisms; I have the gentile air. I dance like a dream and sing like a seraphim, able to charm any airheaded bloke that comes my way. I've spent millions of hours perfecting all the talents an aristocratic cat is supposed to have.

And now, I'm not so sure I want to be the next Bustopher Jones. I find that I couldn't care less about whether my speech is perfect or that I always have my fur slicked down. I'm not as affected by Bustopher's constant turned cheek. He ignores me with a passion, spits burning insults, things that always used to hurt me beyond imagination. Now I don't care. Actually, I'm feeling ratherangry.

Bustopher Jones puts his nose far up in the air. "I may tolerate your peculiarity in public, Mis" He never completes my name. To say the word "Mistoffelees," would require that he acknowledge my existence. "But I will do no such thing in the privacy of my house.

Victoria looks horrified as usual at Bustopher's scorn. I want to tell her it's not her fault. She can't help the fact that she's perfect. Instead I continue to stare at the floor, trying to keep my cheeks from pinking and ignoring Bustopher's hot breath on my neck. I wonder what would happen if I apologizedI wonder what I didI'm sorry, I am.

"No flashy antics around my daughter," Bustopher Jones continues, "You imbecile, or I will—"

"Good evening, Bustopher," cuts in a new voice. A familiar voice that makes my blood warm. Oh noI don't want him to see my humility before Bustopher!

"Munkustrap!" comes Bustopher Jones's startled voice. I force my head to stay bowed, feeling an embarrassed sweat break out across my body.

"Hope you don't mind the intrusion," Munkustrap says pleasantly enough. "I just came to pick up Mistoffelees for mousing tonight."

Bustopher Jones shakes his head. "Of course I don't mind."

Sickened, I look up for the first time. Munkustrap is smiling at Bustopher, but his eyes are cold. Bustopher is sweating, but he's keeping a polite demeanor. The leader of the Jellicle tribe might bow and salute older cats, but everyone knows where the true power lies.

Munkustrap looks to Victoria. "I believe I saw Plato loitering about the lamp post outside, looking rather lonely. Perhaps you should help him in his plight." He flashes a 1000-watt smile in my sister's direction and I take a deep breath.

Victoria blushes, throws me an apologetic look, and then runs out the door. I'm too surprised at the recent development to reassure her with a parting glance.

Munkustrap turns back to Bustopher Jones. His eyes glitter and one sharp tooth pokes out from under his top lip. I recognize the look on his face and realize that something needs to be done now. Quickly I rise to my feet.

"Goodnight, Sir," I say to Bustopher, passing by him and standing beside Munkustrap. I smile up at his cold, handsome face. "Munkustrap, can we go mousing now? I really want to learn the proper techniques."

Please, let's just go, I don't want you to see this.

Bustopher Jones sniffs at my goodbye. Munkustrap carefully blends his features back to a neutral expression and looks towards me. His body is pleasantly warm beside mine.

"Yes," He says, playing into the excuse. His eyes light up a bit as they meet mine. "You're doing everything terribly wrong."

I bite back a chuckle and Munkustrap walks through the doorway with me close behind.

Bustopher huffs behind us. "He's terrible at everything."

Munkustrap's claws come out like silver daggers and his muscles tense so hard he jerks.

In a quick move I put a hand on his back to soothe him and turn to the door. With a sharp snap of my fingers the door slams in Bustopher's face. Air rushes over my face like running water in the breeze. That was a little uncalled for.

Munkustrap walks away, his sleek back leaving the touch of my fingertips. Feeling awkward, I stand for a few moments while he paces forward. I know he's trying to get a grip on his anger. A dark part of me likes that he's so upset—the other part feels terrible. He doesn't know the whole storyI don't even know it.

Quietly I begin to follow him, trying to judge how this will turn out. Munkustrap is a hard cat to figure out. We walk for a few blocks until we've left the high end of town, more towards the alleys and the junkyard. I'm out of my depth in this harsh part of the city, so I hope Munkustrap will get himself together before other cats start showing up. Munkustrap is an alleycat through and through, and not one to mess with.

The thought of one particular alley cat runs through my head and I shudder. It's been over a month since the Jellicle Ball and Macavity hasn't made his move. I wish he would have. He's betting that I'll think he's forgotten all about me. I'll relax, I'll let down my guard for a minute or twoand then he'll be there.

Well, I will not be fooled so easily.

Thankfully, Munkustrap suddenly turns around in the middle of a dark alley. With strong, but no longer violent strides he is once again facing me. I feel slightly relieved. I wasn't too worried about my safety—I may be smallall right, pathetically tiny, but that doesn't mean I don't pack any punch.

Munkustrap stands a few inches away, close enough for the heat of our bodies to reach each other. I stare at his chest, unwilling to meet his eyes. He's temptingso very tempting.

"Is it always like that?" Munkustrap asks, voice a cross between a demand and a whisper.

"Yes," I say softly. What other way would he be? Munkustrap's paws curl.

"Have you always been treated this way?"

I blink. "What?"

"Has Bustopher Jones always been so horribly awful to you? I was standing right outside the door, I heard every cruel thing he said," Munkustrap says

"He's not horrible!" I exclaim.

"What? I've never heard him be so mean to anyone else in my life!" Munkustrap says.

"Bustopher isn't a mean cat," I say. "He loved my mother terribly, and she adored him as well. My mother wouldn't love a cat who was cruel!"

Munkustrap stares at me. "He hates you."

I feel my cheeks turn rosy. "Well, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for it."

Argh. I didn't want Munkustrap to ever truly learn of my life at home. It's an embarrassing situation that I don't even fully understand, but I know that it's probably the result of a mistake I made in the past, and as much as I would like the situation resolvedI don't want Munkustrap to fix it if it requires him to find out about my blundering ways.

"Why are you defending him?" Munkustrap asks, looking surprised.

"There's no need for you to keep insulting him!" I say, feeling angry, putting my hands on my hips. I stare up into Munkustrap's dark eyes and wish that this will blow over. I don't get to see him that often and I don't want to waste time arguing.

"You think that you deserve his cruelty, don't you?" Munkustrap says, making it sound like an accusation.

"I told you he's not cruel! And who knows, I probably would deserve it if he was!" I exclaim. Munkustrap's eyes widen and he loses his cold look. Immediately I feel guilty. I look down to the ground. "Look, I'm sorry. That was rude to yell at you."

Munkustrap reaches out and lifts my chin with a finger. "It's not your fault. He shouldn't say the things he does."

I take his wrist in both of my paws and kiss the fingers that cradle my jaw. "It's nothing to get upset over, Munkustrap. Can we please just not discuss this? Please?"

Munkustrap looks likes he's about to object to my request, but then he gives a sharp nod. His eyes remain a little harder then usual, so I know that he's not happy with the decision. If anything he looks worse.

I look around our surroundings. I've never been in this alley before and the shadows seem darker than usual. An insane notion, but I still begin to feel uneasy. I sniff the air and smell carrion. My body goes rigid.

"Munkustrap? What is this—"

"We should leave," Munkustrap cuts in, looking anxious suddenly. "Who knows where Macavity has his little demons."

Swiftly we leave the alley, four pairs of paws skittering across the pavement. Munkustrap sticks close to my side, our bodies glancing off each other occasionally. I'm growing impatient with the need to simply pounce on him and tell him to take a load off.

Soon we arrive at the gate to the junkyard, easily slipping through the metal bars that keep humans out but are no match for Jellicles. We make our way to the far back where everyone usually congregates. Strangly enough, there's no one there, save Rum Tum Tugger and a slumbering Alonzo, who is draped over the pipe.

I try not to look at Rum Tum Tugger, who is perched atop Pouncival's chair. He's quite lecherous, and usually has some raunchy comment or gesture to say to the two of us. Usually this is met with one of Munkustrap's classic eye rolls and a shake of the head. True to form, Rum Tum Tugger nods in our direction and winks at Munkustrap, then proceeds to lick his lips in a most unseemly manner.

I blush, as always. Rum Tum Tugger is so brazen!

Munkustrap brushes Rum Tum Tugger's vulgar motions off by simply ignoring him. I sigh, inwardly, and begin to worry. This is Munkustrap's way of dealing with emotions he does not find enjoyable—he clams up and broods silently. Usually it doesn't last long. I'll chalk up this extended version to all the stress the situation with Macavity.

Oror I have finally succeeded in making Munkustrap angry at me. The wrath of our unnaturally easygoing leader is cold and merciless.

Munkustrap passes through the main section of his junkyard and comes up to a far corner of the lot. There resides half of a floral print couch, and Munkustrap jumps up onto the back of it. He lies down on his side, staring out and beyond my position on the ground.

Quickly I size up the couch, then with easy movements I jump on the high cushions. I'm not as big as Munkustrap and the back of the couch is slightly beyond my physical ability. I softly settle down on the threadbare piece of furniture, resting against the arm of the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. Munkustrap seems to need some time to collect his thoughts.

Minutes pass.

Too many.

Well that's it! I hate this! I hate silence when it's not my own. II love Munkustrap so much that all I ever want to do is be with him, every single waking moment. I want to be as close to him as is physically possible.

Victoria, who is younger than me but has always acted older, once told me that when you're in love, you spend most of your time trying to be as close as you can to the cat you love. You begin to wonder, she said, if it's possible for the closeness to go beyond heated embraces, down deep on a spiritual level. You wish that your soul, your very essence, could go into your lover, therefore becoming one being—infinitely close.

A bond like that, Victoria had said, would be by far the most glorious thing in the world. She always says stuff like that. Victoria always has something, something wise, to say on the concept of lovethough she reclaims to have never been in it.

I wince as I recall another one of Victoria's sayings: Love is hard, love is painful, and it is the deadliest of all emotions.

Now I know she wasn't joking.

~*~ Munkustrap ~*~

We've all dreamed the same dream.

At one point or another everyone indulges themselves in the same, fabulous dream. For a moment you'll let yourself imagine, painfully so, that the individual of your dreams is desperately in love you. They are your perfect lover, more than adequate in every way. They soothe your soul, light a fire of passion deep within you, and let you taste the greatest happiness, the most perfect love, of your entire life.

However, it's only a taste. A bittersweet, euphoric, agonizing, beautifully painful thing cats can do to themselves. And only the most masochistic continue to do it day after day. The dream lover is forever just that—a dream lover. Someone unattainable, the embodiment of everything you secretly long to be.

But occasionally, when the cosmos decides to cut you a little slack, the Everlasting Cat looks down from his big litterbox in the sky and takes pity on your poor soul, you suddenly meet them; a cat that is your dream lover. And for reasons no one will ever be able to understand, they love you back. It doesn't make any sense to you—you, imperfect, slow, and more-or-less a blockhead—that such a divine event could have happened.

It happened to me. For some insane reason Mistoffelees loves me and I don't know why. This perfect, unspoiled, kind, quiet, mischievous, irresistible cat has decided to put up with me and my baggage? Why? I don't know, I don't know!

And now this—the dream unravels. Mistoffelees isn't some divine being who can give and give and give to fools such as myself, even if he thinks he can. My little sorcerer does not lead a perfect life, and he needs me to stop sitting around and taking all he has. I'll drain him until he dies.

Bustopher Jonescan wait. I'll nail his tail another night. No one should distort a Jellicle's perspective about himself as horridly as that cat has done to Mistoffelees. Come to think of it, he should never, ever treat another creature like that.

And if he continues after I've "discussed" the matter with himby the Everlasting Cat, I might kill him.

Shaking my head, I move my focus to the world in front of me, not my anger. My gaze drifts to a small black cat below me. Shit! Mistoffelees is asleep! Damn it, how long have I been sitting on this couch, fuming? Jeez, I should have been paying more attention!

Lightly I jump down onto the couch cushions. I can't believe what an ass I've just been! Mistoffelees is curled in a tight black ball. His paws are pressed up against his lips and his tail is draped over his hips. He looks utterly adorable.

With a soft movement I brush Mistoffelees' paws away from his face and lightly caress his white cheeks—coloring that makes it incredibly hard for him to hide his emotions. Though I think that only applies to me. He's quite good at never letting on what's on his mind to the rest of the tribe.

Mistoffelees' big brown eyes open slowly. He doesn't move or say anything, just stares back at my face.

"Hey," I say softly, crouching down low. "I'm sorry about tonight."

Mistoffelees smiles. "Bout time you came around."

I can't help it, I frown.

"I'm just kidding," Mistoffelees says in a light tone. He begins to unfold himself until he's resting against the arm of the couch.

"I know," I say. "I'm doing good."

"Good?" He questions softly, eyebrow quirked.

"Good as gold," I reply, smiling evenly.

Mistoffelees still looks unconvinced, or he's still too sleepy to bother with facial expressions. His eyes are rather puffy. I wonder how much sleep he's gotten in the past few days. With this whole Macavity thing—oh yeah, I have

I lean forward and put a paw on the arm of the couch. Slowly, almost chastely, I kiss Mistoffelees, relishing the feel and taste of his mouth. Too bad I won't be able to stay tonight.

"How much sleep have you had this past week?" I ask, briefly pulling away. Mistoffelees, instead of answering wraps an arm around my neck and pulls me against him so fiercely I all but fall onto his light frame.

Mistoffelees is intoxicating. When you kiss him, it's like drowning in a sea of wet, hot, blackness that feelswell, magical. I'd drown happily, completely at ease with death. Still, there are things I have to do tonight, and I can see the pale swirls of sunlight in the distance.

"Answer me," I say, pulling out of the kiss. Mistoffelees pouts.

"Not enough, but I'll nap tomorrow. Why does it matter?" he asks, trailing kisses down my neck and shoulders. Deliciously distracting, this angel, and he knows it.

"You look exhausted and—"

"Munkustrap!" calls out a perfectly enticing voice. I kiss Mistoffelees on the cheek and feign surprise, turning around. Mistoffelees jumps atop the couch's armwe're not a "public" couple yet, and he doesn't recognize that voice.

"Tugger?" I ask. As a reply, Rum Tum Tugger jumps up onto the couch cushion beside us. Instead of sprawling his long body all over the cushion like he usually does, Tugger stands up, towering above me. I glance at Mistoffelees, who is sitting back on his knees with an annoyed expression, then rise to my feet.

"Problem, Tugger?" I ask. Tugger grins.

"Me, have a problem?" he says with a smirk, but it quickly fades away. "Yeah, actually. I need to talk to youalone."

I nod. "Fine. I'll meet you at the gates in five."

Tugger raises an eyebrow but says nothing. With uncharacteristic silence he jumps off the couch and disappears, mane and all into the darkness. I sigh and turn around. I'm met with the vision of Mistoffelees's face inches from mine. His eyes are wide, pouting, even though his mouth is not.

"I suppose this is the last I'll see of you tonight," Mistoffelees says.

"Probably," I say softly. A black, white-tipped tail rubs against my thigh and a soft foot brushes against my calf. Only then do I glance down and realize that Mistoffelees is levitating—his whole body is a good foot off of the ground.

Returning my gaze to Mistoffelees' face, I find he's grinning in a mostseductive manner. In an effort to remove the look off his face I catch him by the waist and pull him in for a kiss. He continues to hover in the air, making him weightless in my arms. However, that doesn't keep him from holding onto my shoulders and waist as if in mortal danger. His little paws are electrifying as they draw circles across my back.

"Get some sleep. I'll see you in a few hours," I say, kissing his neck.

Mistoffelees moans in the back of his throat, and leaves a breathy "Yes," on my lips as he kisses me goodbye. I gently set him down on the cushion, feeling his full weight only for a brief second as his paws touch the surface of the couch. As I bound down to the ground I see Mistoffelees settling down to sleep out of the corner of my eye.

Immediately I'm off like a shot. Rumsy is not going to be happy with me. Passing through the main part of the junkyard as if my tail's on fire, I screech to a stop in front of Alonzo. Quickly I give him a nuzzle, waking him up.

"You're in charge, I have to leave for a moment," I say, the words running out of my mouth in a jumble. Alonzo sits up looking extremely confused, but I run off before he can say anything.

I burst out of the junkyard gates, past a reclining Rum Tum Tugger. The large tom pushes off of the brick and quickly catches up to me, sprinting on all four paws.

"Took you long enough," he says, breathing heavily as we run side by side through the dark London streets.

"Yeah, sorry bout that. I don't know what was wrong with me, I completely forgot about tonight. Thanks for coming to get me," I reply, panting along beside him.

"I know what was wrong with you—I'll give you a hint, it's quiet, it's small, and it's black," Rum Tum Tugger says as we skid through a puddle.

I grin. "There's nothing wrong with me for loving Mistoffelees."

Tugger laughs. "Yeah, I just can't figure out how you conned him into falling for you're mangy, flea-ridden arse."

"Slow down!" I say, cutting our banter short. "Only one more block."

Both of us slow down until we come to a dead stop. We take only a few seconds to catch our breath. We're deep in the middle of the slums of the city, surrounded by bars, bums, and the ever-present empty warehouses.

Rum Tum Tugger sniffs the air. "Smells like hell."

"You're not that far off," I say absently, taking in the view. One block away from where we stand beneath a broken street lamp resides Macavity's lair. It's a decrepit warehouse from the outside, the center of all kitty crime on the inside; the sight of my old home sends shivers down my spine.

"Hey Munksy, get out of the light!" Rum Tum hisses.

I duck into the dark shadows of the trashcans that align the street. Tugger shoots me a worried look, but I give him a slight smirk to reassure him.

"Okay, you keep an eye out for Macavity's rats and henchcatsI should still be able to get in there. I had as many connections as he did, and the loyalties run deep," I whisper. Except for my loyalty. Tugger takes out a velvet pouch hanging from his belt. Inside are black bits of charcoal from his owner's fireplace. He begins to rub them into my fur systematically, making me look like a muddy black tabby.

"Not to sound too dramatic or cliché," Rumsy says as he works, "But if you're not out of there in ten minutes" He trails off.

"Don't you dare come in there," I say, glaring at my friend. "I'm Macavity's brother, he's not going to hurt me anytime soon. You, he'd kill in a second for being better looking than he is."

Tugger snorts. "Whatever. Just get in there, get the scoop, and then let's book back to the junkyard."

I nod and slip away from Tugger, gently touching his shoulder as I leave. We'd been planning this infiltration since the mess at the Jellicle Ball. The lack of action on Macavity's part means something big is coming up, and I'd rather die than have anything happen to Mistoffelees. However, this also means that I have tolie, or keep my Mistoffelees in the dark about my late night actions.

I walk at an easy gait down the dark alley, almost at a swagger. I paste on the cold, fierce mask I wore through out my kithood. Macavity and I grew up on the streets, but when the going got tough, Macavity turned to crime and I retreated to the junkyard with a kit I knewnamed Rum Tum Tugger.

I reach the door of the warehouse without so much as a glance. The street is bare, which is unusual. That can only mean one thing—Macavity's spies are out and about. I feel a pit of fear lodge in my stomachI do not like being away from the junkyard when danger is lurking about, but I'm the only one who can handle my brother.

The door to the warehouse is stained a dark brown and heavy. I rap my knuckles on it four times. It opens and I am met by a huge, hulking cat surrounded by four or five rats. Hopefully the charcoal throws him off—I only need it to get in the door. If it's possible I'll wash it off once I'm inside. I dislike having carcinogens in my fur.

"How do you come?" asks the doorcat.

"With the blessing of the Mystery Cat and the hatred of Jellicles everywhere," I reply, knowing the protocol.

"Fruit?" Asks the huge tom.

"Corn," I reply. Fruit equals loot, and corn equals information, due to the fact that corn comes in ears. Macavity always thought his lingo was clever. I find it childish.

The guard steps back, the rats tittering behind him. I walk through the door with an air of violent coolness that will keep the scum inside from one, recognizing me and two, bothering me.

Macavity's warehouse is basically one large room, filled to the brim with tables, which are occupied by the most obnoxious rabble. Smoke fills the air, making it hard to see through the barely lit room. The smell of alcohol is pungent and I try not to wrinkle my nose. The second floor of the warehouse is nothing more than a balcony that overlooks the ground floor, though there are a few inconspicuous rooms that serve Macavity's needs for privacy.

In the center of the alcohol, gambling, and who knows what else, sits a large, overstuffed black armchair, Macavity's throne, for all intensive purposes. Pillows lie at the feet of the chair, undoubtedly reserved for queens barely out of their kittenhood, who wish to win favor with Macavity.

I am not surprised to find that my brother is characteristically, not at his throne. Macavity has forever had a knack for not being at the place I wish for him to be. Damn.

Which means that Macavity either has an operation in motion or a meeting is taking place at this very moment. In other words, I'm screwed. Double damn.

As I turn to leave, my mission botched, I see a flash of whiteness out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I see her—white, fluffy, the dreaded queen of the seas. She weaves through the tables as if gliding through the air. Not a single tom dares look her way; Griddlebone, despite the fact that she's easily our mother's age, is Macavity's favorite queen and everyone knows it.

Yes, Griddlebone. Growltiger's Last Stand is indeed a play, and Gus does the role with finesse as does Jellylorumbut only in the realm of the Jellicles is it fiction. Out in the world of the strays, the world of Macavity, both of the cats exist. Time has passed and they have lost their years of glory, but both are nothing to be toyed with.

Currently she's walking towards the large iron ladder that leads to the top floor. No one goes up that ladder unless it's to talk to the boss, and you'd better have an invitation. There are some nice windows up there, perfect for tossing unwanted cats through.

Hmmmethinks this dame knows something. Any bets?

Breaking away from the crowd of thugs with their bets and cigars, I rush towards Griddlebone, reaching her easily. Heads turn our direction, but if I move fast this shouldn't be a problem. I catch her just before she gets to the ladder. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and place my other arm on her belly, claws out. She freezes.

"Say anything," I whisper, "And I'll rip your guts out."

Griddlebone, as usual, doesn't yield. She rolls her eyes and huffs, voice squeaky. "I'm Macavity's girl. Everyone's watching what you do. One wrong move and they'll all come after you, whoever the hell you are."

"But you'll still be dead by the time they reach me," I reply quietly. We're both side-by-side, staring at the wall. To my right is a small back door, only a yard or two away. Without a word, we walk to it. Griddlebone is made obedient by my comment, though only momentarily.

"Open the door and smile," I tell her, making it seem like I'm nuzzling her neck.

Griddlebone nudges the door open and steps through. Grabbing her tail I follow her out. However, the instant we're outside, the door shut, she rounds on me, attacking with her claws and teeth. It's as if a blizzard of white fury has suddenly descended upon me. Caught off guard, I stumble as she slams into me, gouging my chest with her claws. With a grimace I grab her arms and we fall to the side, she clawing and biting, while I try to restrain her. We roll on the sidewalk and through a puddle, my charcoaled disguise washing away instantly.

Our battle, which up to this point has been oddly silent, is brought to an end when Griddlebone recognizes her attacker.

"Munkustrap!" she gasps, surprised enough to hesitate, allowing me to pin her to the ground.

"Bingo!" I reply, breathing heavily. "How's the life of a scumbag?"

"Go to hell," Griddlebone hisses, fluffy white fur sticking out in odd directions.

"Funny, I thought I had just come back to it," I say. "Where's Macavity?"

"Missing your brother?" Griddlebone asks with a smirk. I unsheath my claws, digging them into her forearms. Her eyes darken. "He's not here. And before you ask, I don't know where he is."

I raise my eyebrows. Griddlebone usually folds pretty easily, but this was quicker than usual. That makes me suspicious, but she looks genuinely afraid of me. Odd.

"What's he planning?" I ask. "I know he's going to try to get Mistoffelees."

Griddlebone snorts. "You're trying to save that little brat? He's as good as dead by now anyway."

"Oh really?" I ask. My voice sounds cool and strong, which is not exactly the way I'm feeling right now. Griddlebone has never taken life seriously. When someone dies, it's never much to her. She discusses massacres as easily as she does tea parties.

"Tsk, tsk, Munkustrap. You've left your junkyard unprotected just to take a roll with me. Well honey-buns, Macavity's connections run deeper then you think. The minute you left he knew, and he talked to some of his friendssome Pollicle friends, I believe," Griddlebone says with a smirk.

"You're lying through your teeth," I spit at her. I feel fear course through my veins, cold and bright, but I can't let on that she's gotten to me.

"I may very well be. But you can't afford to disbelieve me. If I were you I'd make sure your little magician hasn't been made into a nice helping of Kibbles n Bits," Griddlebone says, her grin widening.

She's quite possibly leading me into a trapbut Griddlebone rarely lies. She gets too much joy out of the horrid, sadistic truth she is usually party too. I'd rather she was leading me to my death. I'd even walk ahead of her.

Muttering a string of blue curses under my breath I rise and release Griddlebone. Before she has so much as a second to sit up and call for help, I'm out of the alleyway and running for my dear life. Rather, for the life of my tribefor Mistoffelees.

I meet up with Tugger almost immediately, tearing down the block. He must have seen me coming, for he has already started to run.

"So?" he calls out, pounding the pavement with leopard print paws.

"There's Pollicles in the junkyard!" I yell back, falling into stride with him. I've never run this fast in my life. My eyes are wide and tear as I slice through the wind.

Rum Tum Tugger pales and his mouth drops open. The smell of fear rises, along with the morning sun. The London streets brighten and blur until the junkyard comes into view.

We slam through the junkyard gates, banging our hips and shoulders as we do so. I smell the scent of a Pollicle immediately, mixed with the smell of my brother. Panic sweeps through me and I stifle it only by throwing my will power into high gear. Now is not time for Munkustrap the emotional fuckwit; it's time for Munkustrap the Protector of all Jellicles.

Tugger and I reach the center of the junkyard, skidding to a stop. With a blank expression, and a restraining paw on Tugger's arm, I take in the situation.

Standing, in the middle of our Jellicle sanctuary, my junkyard where safety is guaranteed by yours truly, is a Pollicle. A huge, hulking Doberman, saliva dripping from it's gaping jaws. It gives off a stench that is hard to describe—feral, wet and rotting, but there is something else.

I freeze; it's the smell of death, of pain. There is something wrong with this dogthis dog ispoisoned? Would my brother be that cruel, that vile?

Yes. It would make sense to the disturbed. Poison a dog so he is driven mad with pain, then release him on the Jellicles? Pollicle connections? No, Pollicle victims.

Before the Doberman crouches an exhausted looking, bloody Alonzo. His white and black fur is now more of a red than anything else, due to many gashes covering his form. But he is alive, breathing, and pissed off. Alonzo has a temper beyond comprehension, and in battle it serves him wellbut he's about to lose this fight.

To the side of the slobbering Pollicle stands Mistoffelees, arms widespread, shielding the cluster of kittens behind him, along with Bombalurina who is clutching an unconscious Demeter. His jaw is set and his eyes glitter with a resilience I've never seen. There is fear in the, definitely, but determination shines through. There is a large laceration down the front of his white chest, and I feel my heart skip.

Alonzo stares up at the dog, his eyes never leaving it even as he spits blood onto the ground before him. The powerful muscles of the Doberman ripple as he steps back, tensing for another charge.

Tugger, almost shivering with restraint, finally loses control with the threat to his fellow Tom and explodes from my side. Screaming wordlessly, he launches himself onto the back of the Pollicle.

And then all hell breaks loose.

The Doberman lunges at Alonzo, who springs up to meet those gaping jaws. Rum Tum Tugger scrambles for purchase on the dog's back, unable to attack until he finds his footing. Teeth rip black and white fur. Alonzo screams.

"Protect the kittens!" I order Mistoffelees, but in my heart I pray he stays out of the fight. With a wild hiss I charge the huge Pollicle.

Alonzo falls to the ground as the Doberman drops him, rounding on the offending Tugger. He lies silent and still, and for one awful moment I think he might be dead. I rush to the front of the dog and swipe at its large black nose, ripping a red line through it. The Pollicle screams, a deep, painful sound. As it does I bend down and carefully lift Alonzo's up. His eyes are half shut and he's dead weight in my arms, but he's breathing. The dog lunges to grab me but I dance back, and Rum Tum Tugger digs a pair of razor sharp claws into its shoulders, stopping the creature.

"Twins!" I scream at the top of my lungs. Scurrying forth, Tantomile and Coricocat shuffle to the front of the small group of Jellicles.

"Take him to his human. It'll take him to the vet," I say, placing the broken body of Alonzo in Coricocat's arms. The twins can locate anything, anyone within a matter of minutes. The two run off as I turn to everyone else.

"Stay back!" I order.

There is a yell. I look to the Doberman just in time to see Tugger's body flying through the air, thrown off. He collides with the top of a junk pile and rolls all the way to the ground. The dog snarls and shakes its mangy pelt.

"Tugger!" I cry. The Doberman whirls around at the sound of my voice. Its eyes are wide and dark, spit frothing all over its muzzle. Staring down on me in a frenzied craze, it begins to charge.

My muscles bunch, and then I leap forward, running to meet the Pollicle. It only takes a few steps and I find myself airborne. I go for the eyes. Claws, my own little ministers of death, gouge the right eye. Mad as hell, the dog bucks his head, jaws snapping. I feel the teeth graze my leg, skin tearing, but I ignore the pain. My claws find the throat of the Pollicle's up-turned, bucking head.

I dig in. Blood spurts warmly over my paws. Next come my teeth, and a red heat pools into my mouth. I'm careful to keep my body close to the Doberman's neck where those deadly jaws can't reach, but the dog suddenly leaps and flops onto his side, crushing me. Hissing, blood spraying from my lips, I loosen my grip, trying to squirm out from underneath the creature.

It is a mistake. The minute I loosen my claws the Pollicle lurches to its feet, pulling me with it. Its head turns, mouth gaping. Teeth aim for my stomach but catch my hindleg, clamping down. With a quick shake of its head, the dog flings me from its body.

I land hard on the car top. My head spins, vision swimming. Slower than I need to I stand up, leg bleeding and screaming in pain, just in time to see the Doberman leaping directly at me. And I know I can't move in time.

Suddenly, I realize that I'm going to die.

A loud crackling noise breaks through the air. A blue flash momentarily glows behind the Pollicle, whose face is contorted with agony and above all of this, I hear someone screaming my name.

At once the Doberman erupts into a horrid ball of flames before my eyes. It hits the edge of the car and falls, screaming. The sound is unearthly, terrifying, and one of excruciating pain. The Pollicle takes a few steps and then falls, still howling as it burns to death.

For more than a minute I stand, stupefied by the turn of events. The heat warms my face and the smell of flesh cooking is overpowering.

As the sound grows and the dog still does not die I quickly grab a large metal rod from behind me. Without hesitation, I swing it down. My leg gives out and I tumble off the car, but the rod still connects with the poor creature's skull.

Silence resonates throughout the junkyard.

Edging away from the still burning body of the Pollicle, I rise on wobbly legs, utterly confused. My breathing is heavy and my paws are shaking, but I'm doing surprisingly well. I supposed if I don't fix my leg soon I'll either bleed death or never be able to use it again, but for right now I can manage.

I look to Tugger. He is sitting up but seemingly all right. The rest of the tribe wasn't involved so they should be okay, which means Mistoffelees is—

Oh HeavisideI know how the Pollicle died.

Mistoffelees stands before the corpse of the Doberman, the last few flames dying out. The stench is unfathomable. Mistoffelees's eyes are huge and terrified. Hie entire body is shaking violently. He holds his paws out in front of him, staring at them in complete horror.

"It was only a spark," he whispers, his voice full of disbelief. He looks to the burnt body and then back to his paws.

Mistoffelees turns around to the Jellicles behind him. "Just a flash, a small spark"

To my horror, the other cats back away, fear evident in their eyes. Most of them have never witnessed a death, let alone one so terrible. Especially at the hands of a Jelliclea Conjuring Cat, a cat with virtual omnipotence.

A tremor, one I will never forgive myself for, courses through my body. I never dreamed Mistoffelees could hold so much power. A few kittens catch my brief weakness and begin tumbling backwards, frightened by Mistoffelees, frightened by me.

Mistoffelees looks to me, deep brown eyes seeking an answer.

"I lost control," he whispers, face paling with the damnation of his own words. "I wasn't going to kill it. Not like that."

"Mistoffelees," I say, taking a step towards him.

"No!" he screams, wrapping his arms around his body. The other cats back away frantically. Mistoffelees looks to the dead Pollicle and shudders. Then, with a puff of thick smoke and a familiar spin, Mistoffelees is gone.

~*~ -----@ END PART ONE @----- ~*~