I Love Little Kitty...

"I Love Little Kitty..."

by: Lady Bast

Note: This story is written as though the third season never occurred. This is because it was never broadcast in my area.

Warning: This story contains mature content though there is no swearing and no actual sex. Also, for your personal safety, do not e-mail me and ask me how I came up with this. All I will say is that it is a purging of the vilest imagery that has ever taken root in my mind...the events described here do not even do it justice. And it all started with a chance comment overheard on the bus...

"I love little kitty, her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm."
-Children's Rhyme

She lies shivering in the dank, dark room, the chill of the packed earthen floor creeping into her bones, making them ache even worse than before. The thin straw mat upon which she sleeps does little to ease the pain that has begun to take hold of her joints and the threadbare blanket that she clutches to her heat-starved body cannot hold off the fever she has felt building within her over the past few days.

She feels the urge to urinate, but is loath to leave the pseudo warmth of her blanket. The need is strong, however, and she reluctantly crawls to her feet, stumbling with a sudden wave of dizziness. Water is all that is plentiful in this place and she drinks large quantities of it to fool her empty belly into believing that she has eaten. But for this small deception, she must pay the price.

She limps to the corner where a mound of gritty dirt has been piled. The entire room reeks of bodily waste, but she had guessed the special purpose of the sand ever since her captor had called her "my pet kitty." The chain barely reaches that far, but she strains against it, the metal collar chaffing her neck. If she is going to live in this pit, she will keep it as clean as she possibly can though the sand has not been changed since she got here.

She thinks it has been nearly a week now.

"Wilykat, please," begged Cheetara. "Sit down!" His nervous pacing and extreme distress were playing on her small psychic abilities, putting her in a state of near panic, but draining her in a way that did not seem to affect him.

It was difficult to know exactly how old the kitten actually was, though Tygra estimated that he was on the verge of his fifteenth year. No longer a kitten, really. Always slim, he was now terrifyingly gaunt, his ragged breeches hanging loosely on his hips. His eyes were sunken, haunted, rimmed with the deep purple of sleepless, fretful nights. His feet were blistered from constant pacing, his hair matted and unwashed, and he'd acquired a curious habit of brushing his lips with the back of his hand so that over the past week they had become dry and cracked, bleeding if he forgot to apply the salve which Tygra had given him. He usually did.

"Wilykat, we couldn't find her!" pleaded Cheetara. "Don't destroy yourself as well! Please !"

"Didn't look hard enough," insisted the youth, pacing, pacing. "Didn't check everywhere."

"Of course not, it's a big world!" the cheetah said, trying logic once more though it always failed. "It's been nearly eight days! We can continue to search, but you must accept that it might only be for her body..."

"NO! SHE'S NOT DEAD!" screamed the other wildly, pounding a fist against the wall. "SHE'S NOT! I'D KNOW IT IF SHE WERE!" He ranted a few minutes more and then turned so suddenly that Cheetara thought he might leap at her, but he only stared at her a moment before diving for the door. The cheetah gave a cry of alarm and lunged for him before he could escape.

"We have to find her!" he wailed as Cheetara grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms cross-wise over his chest as Panthro had taught her to do. Fortunately, Wilykat's clan was small in stature for it was the cheetah's additional height that gave her the leverage necessary to bring the raging youth under control. The emaciated figure was surprisingly strong.

"Shhh!" she hissed. "Please! Do you want Tygra to stick you full of needles again?"

Had he answered yes, she would not have been surprised. Tygra had been pumping the child so full of sedatives that she was quite sure he'd become addicted to them. To her surprise and relief, he burst into tears. She led him back to his bed and sat him down, comforting him as best she could. When, clinging and clutching, he cried into her shoulder, she held him. It made her feel vaguely uncomfortable, but she tolerated it, knowing that he would soon wear himself out and tumble into an approximation of sleep.

"My fault," she heard him whisper hoarsely into the crook of her neck. "I shouldn't have left her alone."

Cheetara made no reply.

"How's my pretty kitty? Have you been a good kitty?" the giant asks in halting speech, petting her bright, striped hair. She wants to bite at the brutish hand, bite and claw and scratch, but a series of bruises - now faded to a sickly yellow beneath her fine, short fur - reminds her of what lays in store for the rebellious. She gives a small cry of protest - no more than a mew - as he cradles her, stroking the gentle swell of her young girl's breasts through the worn fabric of her robe. "Pretty kitty. Pretty eyes."

The eyes in question are wide and staring, amber-red, bright with fear. Slit pupilled, they take in the character of the giant's face. She shudders, knowing that - somewhere in the creature's sick mind - he thinks he is being kind. What, then, will he be like if he is angered?

She decides that she does not wish to find out and makes no protest as he parts the strands of her silky mane to tickle the delicate points of her ears. "All pretty. All mine," he croons and sings brokenly to her before tumbling her back onto her bedding and placing the shallow tin dish - previously resting on a table - on the floor. He refills a chipped clay bowl from a pitcher and leaves the windowless room, closing the door behind him.

She crawls on all fours as far as she can toward the dish, knowing that the chain will not be long enough if she stands. Still, she has to stretch painfully to reach the plate. As expected, it contains hashed meat - fatty, wet, raw, but not too spoiled. This is a blessing...she has been sick many times already. There are table scraps as well today, and for these she is also thankful. Table scraps - no matter where else they might have been - are always cooked. The food is unappetizing, unnourishing...yet there is never enough.

Hungry, she eats quickly and in silence.

On the first day after her disappearance, the Thundercats had begun a frantic search of the territory known to date. There were only six of them to do so, for the residents of the Tower of Omens were away on a scouting mission beyond the range of their communicators and would not be back for several weeks. Never had their absence been felt so acutely. Cheetara had wondered how to break the news to them if the missing Thundercat were not found, but otherwise had kept her mind on her mission. This search had lasted three days.

On the fourth day, Tygra had said to Lion-o: "Are you sure you cannot see her with the sword?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" snapped the weary lord. "The Eye sees nothing! Either she'd hidden behind some form of forcefield, she is not in any danger, or just doesn't want to be found!"

But they had continued searching.

On the fifth day, they had done a sweeping search of Sirestis - the town in which she had last been seen - and its area. On the sixth they had gone from door to door, from dawn until dusk, asking each available person to touch the mystical Sword of Omens and tell all they knew on the subject. Most had complied willingly, some had had to be convinced. No one had been caught in a lie save a raving lunatic who claimed to have seen her ride a purple pony up a crystal staircase, gallop twice around the moon and jump down again, landing neatly as you please.

A Caninian matron had warned them against approaching her neighbour, a hulking man of bovine appearance. "Ruvo is simple in the head," she winked. "You'll get no answer out of him." But they had tried and received nothing but broken lamentations regarding a pet kitten, run over by a cart weeks before. To this, the Eye had given no response whatsoever.

On the seventh day, Wilykat had disappeared. He was later found in the marketplace, clothing muddied and torn, begging passersby for the return of his sister. They had asked him to come home, but he had been adamant, so Tygra had doubled the strength of the sedative he had prescribed and injected it into the youth when his attention wandered elsewhere. Wilykat had later wakened and fallen into a fit of hysteria which had lasted until he'd scratched Tygra heartily, caused Lion-o's nose to bleed, and been slapped by Panthro with enough force to make his ears ring. Then he'd been placed under guard.

Cheetara had been his first warden.

Today, the eighth day, Tygra and Lion-o got into a screaming match. Lion-o felt sorry for the remaining twin who blamed himself for the tragedy. Tygra thought he was right to do so, but then he had always favoured the girl. The argument lasted until Lion-o caught sight of Panthro in the doorway, gripping Wilykat by the hand with the intention of bringing him to market to buy a new shirt - his others being ripped to shreds - and to end the boy's constant demand to have just one more look at the town.

Panthro pressed his lips together tightly, resisting the urge to make a cutting remark. He clenched his fists with the desire to strike one of the two for their insensitivity, but released his hold when Wilykat, his hand still clasped within the panther's own, squawked in pained surprise. Then, in silence, he dragged his charge off to the market, as promised.

While they were there, they overheard Ruvo telling a butcher that his new kitty would not get run over. He would take good care of it, he said as the man set fresh sausages on display, nodding absently at the bovine's chatter. Panthro bought the shirt, though none of them quite fit the youth's small frame, and a string of the sausages and thought no more about it. But Wilykat remembered.

She picks absentmindedly at the dirty rag that serves as a bandage for her ankle. The sores beneath it burn angrily and she knows that the skin will be puffy and red. She hopes she will escape this prison before the infection gets too deep, but she is uncertain. She only knows that being barefoot in the filth of the room is her greatest liability. The sores are starting to spread on her left leg and the right aches with chill so that she can no longer walk or stand for extended periods of time.

She tugs at her metal collar. There is red rawness beneath it. Fortunately, the choker has no rust and the wound is as clean as can be hoped for in these surroundings. The flesh of her forehead is still warm, however, and the fever is worsening. She thinks, perhaps, that the meat has finally gotten to her, but when she tries to explain this to her captor with whimpering mews - he doesn't seem to understand her words and she has ceased to use them - he merely stares at her, unable to comprehend how she can be sick when he is taking such good care of her. In her last attempt, she only succeeded in vomiting on his vest. He'd tossed her aside, the chain cutting into her throat, and threatened her with a doctor. She wishes he would call a healer, but knows that she is not that lucky.

Her faith in a rescue wanes a little each day...or, at least, every time she wakes. In this lightless room, she cannot tell day from night. Not that it matters. She has been forgotten. Perhaps they don't even know that she's gone, or, worse, perhaps they don't care. She will die here. She hopes it is swift and soon. She begins to cry despite the silence behind the door which indicates the absence of her captor - normally a happy occasion for he will not come in to pet her.

But even this small comfort is dashed as a gentle creaking is heard. Is he back? Please, Jaga, please... don't let him be back! No more tricks! No more teasing! A promise! Just don't let him be back! She swallows her sobs and presses herself as deeply as she can into the darkness.

"Wilykit?" comes the faint, frightened whisper. "Kit, are you here?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but the words are so long unspoken that they meld into a pitiful whine. I doesn't matter, it is enough. Her brother knows the sound and timber of her voice.

Slim arms wrap themselves around her frail body and she cries out in fear and surprise. It is not her brutish captor, but the memory of his touch lingers and she shudders at the thought. Yet she reaches out to the one before her, even as she draws back. He understands and briefly touches her hand as he pulls away, catching sight of the metal collar and its locked clasp.

He gestures...wait...and pulls from his belt a leather wallet. Unrolled, it holds several crude metal instruments. Make-shift lock picks. Does Tygra know he carries these? Does Panthro?

He works swiftly, if clumsily, poking her more than once. But it is only a small discomfort and when the collar falls away, she nearly faints in relief. He nuzzles her gently, checking for blood, for injury. "Oh, your throat!" he sighs. "Your ribs! Doesn't he feed you?" She could ask him the same. The curving bones can be felt even through his leather shirt. "And your legs...can you walk?" he asks worriedly.

She does not think so, but she cannot reply. She is choked with fear.There is an all too familiar shadow in the doorway. Sick, feverish, she clutches her belly and moans. The hulking figure shies away, but her brother holds her as she retches, spitting sour bile. Her captor looks on in disgust then notices the collar lying broken in the dust.

"Kitty wants to run away," he growls. "Bad kitty!"

"Stop it!" she hears dimly beyond the fear and the fever. "She's sick! Dying! You're killing her!"

"Carts kill kitties. Ruvo make safe," rumbles the bovine giant. Then his face softens as he sizes up his fragile opponent. "Two kitties to take care of now. Streets not safe." She starts to cry, knowing that she is too sick to fight or even run and that her brother is also weakened and will not leave her. This last thought both saddens and pleases her.

"Enough, Ruvo." It is the butcher from the market. "The healer said that you were to have no more pets. You cannot care for them."

"Carts kill kitties. Ruvo make safe..." repeats the giant, but his voice wavers.

"I'd throw myself in front of a cart too if I thought I'd be locked up in here," the butcher fires back. "Here, girl. Someone has come for you and your protector." He pauses to drop his cloak over her shivering body. "I never even thought..." he says, shaking his head sadly. "I knew you were lost and that Ruvo claimed to have a new kitten, but I never even thought...with your eyes..." He flushes with shame and embarrassment. "But they've come to take you home. You can come in now, my lords!"

"Forgive me," he continues, bending to touch her dulled and tangled mane as four Thundercats and a Snarf pour through the doorway. She shies away, but her eyes flood with tears of relief. "And please forgive Ruvo... He truly did love you."

"I...know," she chokes through sobs as powerful arms lift her off the ground. She does know, and somehow that makes it all the worse.

"I Love Little Kitty..." © 1997, A.C. Smith (aka Lady Bast). No one may copy or redistribute this story - in part or in whole - or add it to a webpage - personal or commercial - without the express permission of Lady Bast. This story may, however, be printed out or downloaded for personal use, provided that all notices (such as this one) remain intact. Lady Bast reserves the right to reprint or redistribute this story as she sees fit. Send comments to Lady Bast.