In Which Patches is Pissy

Patches transformed into his human form because he simply needed to pace. Of course his natural feline form was superior in all other ways, but unless he wanted Mr. Wickles to notice, that is to assume that he was stalking his annoyance of a duplicitous former faux master…well, the human form had its compensations.

“With every other piece of tomfoolery he’s come out with why would you think this had a possibility of success? How do you know he wouldn’t just latch on to the sparkles and add them to the lizards?!?”

Mr. Wickles hesitated, “Our advisor-”

“Advisor singular? ONE person decided this was a good idea and you just went with it? What kind of cockamamie-”

There was a whipping wind and a stunning burst of light which left Patches blinking for a few moments. When his eyes cleared he discovered he and his erstwhile owner were in the midst of a grand and elaborate library. There were shades of Art Nouveau and Baroque and styles he wasn’t sure had ever actually existed in his world.

As he gaped Mr. Wickles huffily adjust his cuffs, “If you want to complain about the following of wise advice, you can argue with the giver.” With that the man flounced through the ornate doors Patches had just noticed. They closed with a petulant slam and the cat was left alone in the awe-inspiring room. He let his nature take control and transformed into his proper form so as to better assuage his curiosity. He leapt up onto the empty edge of a shelf and began to saunter. His tale twitched with a jaunty rhythm as he followed intriguing smells and leapt from bookcase to bookcase. One scent began to dominate the others and he found himself captivated.

He was making a particularly impressive leap, even for his dashing self, when he suddenly collided with a soft form in midair. He, of course, landed on his feet. Patches groomed himself with a purposeful air as it just wasn’t done for someone to think he might not be doing something he hadn’t absolutely intended to. He glanced up and froze. Across from him was the most glorious cat.

He gazed at her, dumbfounded, as she groomed herself casually. The other cat could be nothing but female, if his nose hadn’t told him then her sheer beauty would have. She was lean. She was graceful. Her face regal. She was, in a word, perfection.

The mystery cat stopped grooming and sat, her tail lashing behind her before curling around to settle in front of her delectable paws. “Patches, I presume.”

Her voice was as charming as the rest of her and he abruptly made a sweeping, feline bow, “I am, but I am more interested in what your name might be, you vision of perfection.”

Her ear twitched, “I’m the individual who hatches cockamamie plans.”

Patches was too entranced to process what she’d said. “There should be paintings of you scattered around the globe so all can appreciate the wonder of your presence,” he purred.

She flicked her tail, “Well, one could say it’s already been done. I posed for the Marshall Islands’ Abyssinian stamp.”

His twitterpated ears caught up a moment later, “You’re the advisor? You? You want me to become a sparkly vampire BOY?!?” She was suddenly a tinge less beautiful in his eyes and his ears went back as his tail fluffed.



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