Home > Kitty vs Alien (Feral Aliens)

Kitty vs Alien (Feral Aliens)
Author: Loki Renard

1 Chasing Kitty

 

 

Skoll

“Raindrops on roses…”

“You’re not here for her,” I remind myself. “This is not about her. Ignore her.”

But ignoring her is like trying to ignore the sun. She is everywhere. She is everything. She is the desire I cannot sate, the hunger which makes me starve.

“AND WHISKERS ON KITTENS!” Her sudden shrill tone bursts through the afternoon air. The human I love is doing what she tells her cat is the ‘rock’ version of the song. It seems to amuse her greatly, though she is alone and cannot possibly know she is entertaining anybody besides herself.

This planet smells like meat. I am glad for the mask they make me wear, or else my fangs would be clear to all who see me. The mask means my strangeness is hidden away from the world, and that allows me to hunt among the unsuspecting humans without interference.

This is not my world, and I do not belong here. But the human who lives next door has become a small comfort. Her presence is very much felt in my life though she barely knows I exist. She sings in the shower in the mornings and sometimes in the evenings. When she does, I can hear her quite clearly through the wall, the water running as she warbles happily, unaware that everything she believes her life to be is a lie.

She is pretty, though it is not merely her appearance which draws me to her. She has a pleasing strawberry blonde pelt on her head which curls about her ears and drifts toward her shoulders in a way I find entrancing, and bright blue eyes not so different in color from my own. She has been a distraction throughout my investigation, albeit an unwitting one. I have felt the need to carnally relieve myself many times in the hope it is simple lust which makes me focus on her to the exclusion of all most all other things, but my desires always return. The breeding instinct is strong in me, twisted by this human female.

Her name is Kitty, an irony she does not appreciate and may not ever understand. If I do my job properly, she will never know what happened. In a matter of hours, I will have my prey and I will never see her again. That may be why I cannot keep myself from staring, why I try to drink her in with my gaze. I have never spoken to her, much less touched her. I am not here to sate my appetites. I am here to work. I am here…

“THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS!”

She does not sing in what humans would call tune, but she sings with such gusto and life that I cannot help but be drawn to her. I have noticed she sings that song to herself when she has had a bad day at work. I wonder what happened today. I wonder if she’s dreading Monday. She has a cup with a ginger cat on it who professes to hate Mondays. It is her favorite mug.

I know that because I am a bounty hunter. A private investigator, of sorts. It is my job to notice things like that. It is not a fixation, or an obsession, and it is certainly not unrequited love which tears at my heart day and night, leaving little room in my thoughts for anything besides her.

Still, every time I am in her vicinity, I find my gaze drifting to her. Even now, I am watching her. I should be paying attention to my target, the wily beast who has evaded me for years, and who I am now within a hair’s breadth of catching. He is sitting at the entrance to her property, guarding it for her. He is possessive, as I am, but he is also small and weak, and I will not allow him to outsmart me again. I have his scent — but I also have hers, and hers draws me more primally than his. A bounty is undertaken for money, but this kind of connection, this only comes…

“Fuck!” I use the Earth curse. My fugitive has spotted me.

His eyes widen and I know he knows that I know what he knows. His secret is out. This is over. He runs. I lurch out of my hiding place, determined to claim my bounty once and for all.

 

Kitty

My story begins, as all good stories do, with an attempted murder.

I’m telling you that now so you won’t be too shocked when all the attempted murdering starts in a few dozen words. Just in case you were eating something nice. Or maybe drinking something nice. Basically, if you’re doing anything nice at all, stop now.

Who am I to tell you to stop doing nice things? I’m the voice that has been injected into your head. Anyway. Let me tell you where I am, and to a lesser extent, who I am.

My name is Kitty. You don’t hear that name much anymore. It went out in the 1960’s, along with affordable housing and fear of nuclear war. Nowadays we have different concerns. I don’t need to tell you what they are, because you already know, and you’re sick of them.

It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m in the garden of my rented house, digging a hole. You don’t need to know what the hole is for. Suffice to say, it needs to be deep. I’m past the crumbly dark brown topsoil and into the annoying yellow-orange clay layer which sticks to the head of the spade and makes it impossible to use. The clay reminds me of the clay in those videos on the Internet where a talented person can build a whole house out of clay and mud, but I’d put money on my attempt being a mound of wet slurry.

REeeeooW! A sound of pure feline fury and outrage interrupts my musings on mud bricks, as I hear the angry hissing of my cat. A moment later there is a silver tabby flash as Mr Tiddles streaks past at full speed.

I’ve never seen him move that fast in his life. Mr Tiddles is the lazy kind of cat. The kind of cat you see on the couch on Tuesday and is still there Thursday. I’ve held a mirror up to his nose before to make sure he’s still breathing. The vet puts his age at around eight years old. I’ve only had him for three of those years, ever since he showed up on my doorstep one night, a completely soaked and ragged looking stray. I’d just broken up with my last boyfriend, and there Mr Tiddles was, just as pathetic on the outside as I felt on the inside.

It is impossible to say how much I love that cat, or what I’d do to protect him.

But it’s not impossible to show.

Hot on Mr Tiddles’ furry heels is my neighbor. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a face mask. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without the face mask, but that’s not rare these days. I see the lower halves of people’s faces so infrequently that noses and mouths are starting to seem indecent on some level. His name is Tom, or, no… Tim.

As far as I know, Tim works in finance in the city, and likes to spend long evenings in silent darkness. He’s quiet, which makes him a good neighbor. What doesn’t make him a good neighbor is the fact he’s chasing my cat. He has a net, in which he is trying to ensnare Mr Tiddles. Fortunately, Mr Tiddles is far too agile to be caught by Tim from finance.

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