Rating: PG to T
Summary: How Alonzo came to the Jellicles.
Disclaimer: CATS is not mine.
---
There were toys at the other end of the pipe, and for some reason, that discovery did not surprise Alonzo. They left the pipe and entered a very large-- by their feline standards-- very empty room. Fabric, pillows, and scrap paper had been pushed up into a nest in one corner, leaving the field of toys to radiate from that single source. It took all of his nocturnal abilities for Alonzo to avoid tripping over a stray yarn mouse or squeaky ball.
The tux, on the other hand, was quite comfortable in the mess. He navigated through the minefield of jingly, squeaky, fluffy, feathery, and glow-in-the-dark toys with ease, pausing only once to bat a duck shaped creation out of his way. Their destination was a small flap on a door.
Lines of light streamed in through the tiny cracks in the fabric doorway, but did little other than to direct attention towards that single point. Alonzo was wary, his fur on end and claws extended, creating a worrying click click click in the dark. He followed the tux close, and blinked in the harsh flood of light that washed through the room as the strip of fabric was pushed aside. “Where are we?”
“You’re going that way.” Mistoffelees indicated the left side of the hallway with a flick of his tail, not waiting for a response before he turned right.
Alonzo growled and grabbed the tux by the tail-- it made a better leash-- and switched his grip to the scruff of Mistoffelees’ neck once he could. “No you don’t, Tux. You’re not going anywhere without me.”
The tux had curled at the paw on his neck, looking more like a kitten than ever, and Alonzo doubted the age he had been told. But he refused to release the tux at the pitiful mewl of protest. There was also little resistance (or assistance) from the tux as Alonzo dragged him along down the left corridor, white tipped tail dragging along.
“But I don’t want to go that way…” Mistoffelees pouted in the grip, well aware that he was acting like a spoilt kitten. “I want to go my way.”
A low growl rumbled in Alonzo’s throat as he dragged the tux along, eyes darting to every niche and potential doorway in the hallway. “Where’s the Tugger?”
“I don’t know.”
That was it. Alonzo had lost patience and tossed the smaller cat ahead of him, right into the dead end. Claws sunk into the other tom’s shoulder and the grip held him in place. “Bullshit. You’ve been here before. So where the hell is he and how do I get out?”
The small cat looked stunned for a moment, then began to pout. “This isn’t fair.”
“No?” Alonzo sank claws in deeper, reducing Mistoffelees to a squirm and whimper. “Neither’s leading me on a bloody chase.”
It took a moment longer, but Mistoffelees pointed to a velvet drape that had been strung up to the ceiling. It was like the rest of the red (and sometimes purple) strips of velvet that hung along the walls. They were pretty decoration, a cheap alternative to tapestry or ornamental rugs, but Alonzo could only give the item a blank stare. Mistoffelees wriggled, tearing fur and muscle as he escaped the patched cat’s grip.
“In one of those.” The tux attempted to soothe the injury but gave up as Alonzo made a move. As the patched tom turned to examine the drape, Mistoffelees took off, tearing down the hallway with all the intent of a fleeing mouse.
Alonzo ignored it. He knew his way back to the pipe, and if the scent in the air-- that putrid smell of mould and chemicals-- was anything to go by, he had to guess that there were open windows nearby, if only opened in a vain attempt to move the air along. He sniffed the drape, prodded behind it and found a wall. Ears falling he turned to the next, across the hall, and tried again.
The lack of life in the building was troublesome, but not as worrying as the scent of dried blood. Faint on the air, it did not taste like Mistoffelees’ blood, so Alonzo assumed that it was the Tugger’s.
---
Candy secured, Mistoffelees was able to ignore the fading throb of pain flowing from his injured shoulder. He was careful, though, to move and stop when told. The sweets were hard, stale, much more than a mouthful, but probably forgotten for a few weeks before they served their purpose as payment. And for the moment they were his whole world.
It was a stick of flavoured sugar he was gnawing on now, head tilted as a ginger tom sniffed at his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how he had won such favour with Macavity, but he suspected that it had something to do with simple pleasures. After Quaxo’s death, the small tux only ever wanted a few toys, some treats, and attention when there was time. The latter was not something he required, but it made him purr, and that was what mattered.
He had never thought that it would make Macavity purr too.
A rough tongue slid over the wound, paws holding him down. Mistoffelees did not seem to notice the restrictions unless his grip on his candy was lost. It was a simple arrangement, really: Macavity had a constant spy and worker in the junkyard should his other sources fail, a plaything when he needed one, and (occasionally) a representative of the tribe to abuse as he saw fit. The little tux would always come back for more; the feline crime lord always paid him well.
So held down, being roughly groomed in what most cats would consider an act of both tenderness and dominance, Mistoffelees struggled to keep hold of his payment. Macavity made a low noise-- a growl that was meant to be something of a purr-- as he did the grooming, not taking any care to stop the trickle of blood or smooth the fur away. It was a parody. A mockery of affection based purely in the need to keep infection and disease away from property.
A willing minion was hard to find. Most demanded payment higher than a toy or treat. Mistoffelees had never even demanded that his life be secure.
“Where is he now?” Macavity asked as he pulled away, searing the claw marks closed with a small spark of flame.
Mistoffelees twitched and tried to smooth his fur over again before he answered. “Looking.”
“Where is he looking?”
“The drapes.”
Macavity swatted the candy away from the tux, “And?”
Mistoffelees pouted, but did not chase after his prize. “And what?”
“Will he find the Tugger?”
“Eventually.” Feeling that his duty was done, the tux reached for the candy. Macavity let him reclaim it, lounging back on the solid cushion of a dismantled chair. Eyes darted towards the fireplace, where a new scarlet rug was stretched and being dried.
---
Alonzo stumbled back through the hallway, the weight on his back and shoulders unsettling as his fur matted and stained with a trickle of blood. He dreaded going back through the tunnel, and through the streets, but he was too far into the lair to know any faster way out. It was easier to retrace steps than it was to find a new path.
A drape, heavy and purple, rustled to one side of the patched tom and he paused. Wary, he bristled, anticipation of a fight surging through him. Tugger, what was left of him, mewled in pain as Alonzo set him down, propping him up against a far wall and using another drape as cover. There were no words of encouragement, nothing to reassure, as Alonzo turned back to the offending piece of cloth. It shifted in response.
Claws out, he approached, eyes following each movement in a silent assessment of weakness. Reaching out, ready to jump, ready to attack, he yanked the cloth back. The source of the movement was revealed and Alonzo blinked in surprise, tail puffed out. He did not recall a window there before.
It was open a crack, enough for someone to slip through. And a look through the opening-- Alonzo stretching as far as he could while still being discreet-- revealed a tiger-striped and bleeding tabby queen struggling to run across the docks. It was enough.
A noise behind him caused Alonzo to jump, then rush to help a struggling Maine Coon stand. “What the hell are you doing?” It was as close to an annoyed hiss as was physically possible.
Tugger smirked, weak and stumbling, he gripped the patched tom’s fur; the twist of his lips belied everything his stance said. “Felt a breeze, Patches.”
“There’s a window.” Alonzo considered. “Think you can make a few feet drop?”
The Tugger nodded, attempting to draw himself up to his full height, and succeeding in tearing a few scabbing wounds. “Course I can, luv.”
Alonzo rolled his eyes and got the injured cat onto the windowsill, taking it slow as he inched out . They would fall together, and Alonzo pulled Tugger out with him. They landed hard and a paw over Tugger’s mouth stifled the yowl of pain that followed two resonating cracks. The patched tom dragged the tom from the wreckage of crates below the window. They had both landed in strange ways, leaving Alonzo with a broken leg and Tugger with a broken arm.
But they could still move, and a short time of struggling to do so resulted in fresh bearings. Alonzo knew where they were, and it was closer to the sanctuary of the junkyard than he had thought. Pulling Tugger with him, Alonzo paused only at the body of a queen, as broken and bloodied as Tugger’s. With a nudge of his paw, Rumpleteazer was sent to the river, and the patched tom gave a small nod of acknowledgement to Mungojerrie as the tiger-striped tom licked blood from his paw.
“Munkustrap is on his way for you two,” Mungojerrie’s tail flicked as his sister’s form floated towards the fishing dock, already bobbing in the water as near-sighted and scarred fish mistook her fur for food. “I’m not saving your asses again.”
Alonzo smirked, “Doubt you did in the first place.”