![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyMy name is Scary. I'm a cat. And this is the true story of how I saved the world.
My humans work for a uptight government bureaucracy called the Litterbox, apparently because it was downstairs from the Prime Minister's cat during World War II. (Felines disapprove of most wars, but this World War stuff is not cool. Think of the kittens, you fools!)
I am typing this because I read in one of the human diaries that intelligence operatives should keep a record so that their knowledge is not lost on their inevitable descent into madness, death, or worse. As I am apparently the only cat operative, this is at least nine times as important.
How did this happen? Summoning grid. Package delivery service box. I did what cats do naturally and WHAM! Sentience. And being able to watch Animal Planet, fear the vet even more, and read as voraciously as I ever chased mice.
Apparently felines are immune to Special K, a condition that causes human brains to quickly resemble swiss cheese if they do magic. Or maybe it's the demon.
It was a struggle, I admit it. One moment leaping up into the box, then writhing all over the table and floor and running up and down the halls. The demon trying to learn to use my body, and me explaining that I don't do leashes because I'm a cat.
I hardly ever get the urge to curl up on a sleeping, trusting human's chest, wait for it to calm, and bite out both sides of the jugular before it can wake.
Hardly. Ever.
This is the true story of how I stopped CASE BADDREAM NINELIVES. (Keep that keyword under your hat, or your loyalty oath to the Litterbox will set your hair on fire. No oath? Extinguisher is down the hall. I'll wait.)
### (1)
Because I'm a cat.
(1) As an additional security precaution, the story is written in High Feline and invisible thanks to a Hand of Birdy.
My humans work for a uptight government bureaucracy called the Litterbox, apparently because it was downstairs from the Prime Minister's cat during World War II. (Felines disapprove of most wars, but this World War stuff is not cool. Think of the kittens, you fools!)
I am typing this because I read in one of the human diaries that intelligence operatives should keep a record so that their knowledge is not lost on their inevitable descent into madness, death, or worse. As I am apparently the only cat operative, this is at least nine times as important.
How did this happen? Summoning grid. Package delivery service box. I did what cats do naturally and WHAM! Sentience. And being able to watch Animal Planet, fear the vet even more, and read as voraciously as I ever chased mice.
Apparently felines are immune to Special K, a condition that causes human brains to quickly resemble swiss cheese if they do magic. Or maybe it's the demon.
It was a struggle, I admit it. One moment leaping up into the box, then writhing all over the table and floor and running up and down the halls. The demon trying to learn to use my body, and me explaining that I don't do leashes because I'm a cat.
I hardly ever get the urge to curl up on a sleeping, trusting human's chest, wait for it to calm, and bite out both sides of the jugular before it can wake.
Hardly. Ever.
This is the true story of how I stopped CASE BADDREAM NINELIVES. (Keep that keyword under your hat, or your loyalty oath to the Litterbox will set your hair on fire. No oath? Extinguisher is down the hall. I'll wait.)
### (1)
Because I'm a cat.
(1) As an additional security precaution, the story is written in High Feline and invisible thanks to a Hand of Birdy.
