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tampered2006-11-07 09:44 am
singingguardian.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-11-07 09:44 am
Log; Complete
When; Backlog; November 4th
Rating; G
Characters; (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
singingguardian) Guardian/Fleet-Foot, (NPC) Mr. Landlord, (thatpiratecat) The Cat
Summary; Moving in.
Log;
A long neck craned up and down and out and about, examine, snaking. A twitch of muscle under shaggy hide; this was apartment nine, wasn't it? Out of instinct she sniffed the air, a pointless action in that the air always was saturated with the odor of primate. It was still a reliable sense, sharper than a human's but still paled in comparison to a dog's. Particularly, she could smell "moods" of other organisms, should they also communicate their feelings by odor. Her kind did. Humans did not. For instance, she had yet to see a human sniff ritually at a flank or shoulder in greeting. They found it rude even, despite the wealth of information that could be quickly gleaned about an individual faster than any words. Didn't even have to be so intrusive to ask. Peculiar.
She could spend years, however long that might be here, standing there, comparing her species to humankind, and at times she had nothing better to do, but for now, she did, which was for instance, going on inside. The spike of human scent had caused her to bristle, but she maintained a steady gait, still unsure whether to call this place home despite the Jan-human's suggestion. There was still a drive for safety within her, despite all attempts at breeding it out to create the perfect soldier; she did not want to test this planet's cold season. Her fur was thicker than norm, a product of that careful breeding, and had yet to be thicker but even it could only shelter her from so much.
---
"I'm sorry, you can't just walk in here like that," said a voice, that of an older man in overalls, Building 9's resident tool technician, or janitor if the pot wanted to call the kettle black. "Unless you're visiting," the grizzled one corrected himself, but his milky gray eye studied the dragon horse up and down, "nope you definitely don't live here." He knew those corridors up and down, like the back of his hand, which he gestured for the alien, completely unfazed by her appearance. "You want the leasing office, you go that-a-way," he pointed down the hall, "right at the corner."
---
The voice initially startled her, a head darting down to where a leg holster would have normally been, her body otherwise ready to twist around and aim the large hind leg. The nostrils flared on the still head, erect at her full height of well over six feet, and watching intently, but finding no threat, she eased and calmed down. There was a soft orchestral music playing as the tiny translator hidden away on her body did its job, Guardian only sniffing a grunt of a lone, unamused (as well as embarrassed) trombone in return. She noisily clopped in three-fourths time in the direction the little silly, funny-smelling work man had pointed, one head watching where she was going, the other examining the building's interior in wide spanning arcs around her.
---
She towered over his small 5'8" frame then, but the janitor knew his way around a mop and pail! Er, not that he would even consider combat with a dragon horse (unless the situation called for it). The hallway around the right corner led to one single door with the words 'Leasing Office' emblazoned on the glass face. There was a slot for mail on one side, but no plate that directed where one should place the rent. Interesting how the leasing office had no official method of payment, if payment was even required. A shadow moved behind the door, features obscured by the fogged glass. He moved from a cabinet, to the window, then to his desk and chair. Paperwork, never could get that stuff finished on time.
---
The single door was how Guardian had figured out that this might have been what the work human had been talking about. She could not read and even if she had learned the alphabet, the knowledge would be useless until she learned how to speak it. It was one thing to arrange letters but another to make something meaningful of them. Learning would be to her benefit in any case; it would make finding things easier. For now, she studied the blocky writing, meaning little to her, and then a mouth fumbled with the door. It was held at a crack; the human's lack of xenophobia struck her odd.
Music. The translator's voice was gentle and soothing, a perfect woman's contralto, even with Guardian's harsh brass of a normal speaking tone. "This is the leasing office?"
---
"Yes, come in," said the person at the desk, an older man of 5'8", his grizzled hair now combed conservatively to the sides. Those orange janitor overalls had been traded in for a handsome blue suit. His office was organized, albeit somewhat half-haphazardly. A pile of black cloth topped with a Guy Fawkes mask sat on the window sill. Lack of xenophobia was an asset around this place. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, clear gray eyes looking the alien woman from hoof to eye. A plate on his desk read: 'Mr. Landlord'. "What can I do for you, Miss," he asked in a cool deep voice.
---
Was Guardian a woman? Should she have been aware of what was the ideal, the idea, the concept of a human woman, should she not have brushed humanity off and its annoying differences as she normally did, she would have not been sure what to make of herself, a workbeast of a race that had little physical sexual dimorphism to begin with, from fingerlip to tail to the genitals. Puzzlingly, she was aware that humans did not rely on their sense of smell as she did, and figuring out her gender was another; one could tell gender from scent. A head tilted as the rest of her tried to shuffle in. There was a chair there, for human visitors, a cue for her to sit on the floor, seated almost comically like a dog.
"I would be interested in taking up residence here." She spoke out of one head, her right. The other bobbed and waved about, sometimes leaning in to sniff curiously at something of possible interest. "I believe you would not mind making accommodation for someone of my... sort."
---
Mr. Landlord quirked a brow at who he deemed to be Lady Alien for now. Hmm, he set both arms on his desk and leaned forward when she sat. Yes they'd have to include some floor cushions for their non-bipedal citizens.... Regardless, since the Lady Alien appeared to be comfortable Mr. Landlord decided not to offer her a seat. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully instead.
"You must be new, well well what brings you to the illustrious Building Number Nine, then?" He asked with a wide smile, teeth pearly white as if he brushed and flossed every waking moment, or just paid good money for top notch dental surgery. "And what kind of accommodations would those be, Miss?"
---
"Referral." "Lady Alien" made a note of the human's teeth, particularly how strikingly, distractingly white they were. High-born Little Ones, those at the top of the business herd typically, had their teeth taken care of with only the finest cleansing and whitening technology. Her own teeth, they were yellow. Probably even slightly crooked but not uncomfortably so; her bite was healthy. "I believe you are used to serving bipedal customers." (A head hovered near the chair.) "Would it trouble you to make some slight adjustments suited to my form?"
Oh, how could she have forgotten already? Male humans had a deeper voice. Her translator was speaking in a higher tone, a human female's? It would make assuming easier, but who was she to try to see things from an alien's point of view? Aliens were aliens; no point in trying to think like a puppeteer in a primate's artificial hooves.
---
Damn right he was on top of the business herd, hell that made him on top of the food chain in some places! But fear not, for Mr. Landlord knew how to be fair to his tenants, in fact, if he weren't fair to them his superiors would certainly come down (or up) to reprimand him appropriately. Hmm, he nodded to the dragon horse's words. True they usually rented to bipedal customers, but what kind of accommodations could a tripod possibly ask for that rivaled those goofs who stuck an entire ocean in one apartment! Wait, that thing was a desert now.
"Yes, most of our tenants walk on two legs, but don't worry we could... arrange something for a lady of your height and girth," said Mr. Landlord, fingers to his chin still. "No doubt you'd have to remain on a ground floor unless you can accommodate stairs or even use the elevator? It's your choice of course, we do our best to give what our tenants require most," he grinned.
---
A black, forked tongue flicked out to touch a fingerlip in thought, the orange herbivore's eye focused on the human. "Ksssh." A sort of "hm." "I would be interested in these arrangements. I can accommodate anything that can support me. The only issue would be my weight." Support was right; her knowledge of human history was limited but from what she could remember, they used to be fat little things, so pathetic and round, until the majority went from that miserable variety and shaped up. She was not sure about the trend here, but in terms of weight, anything that could support a large, fat human could easily support her; she weighed as much as two average ones easily.
---
"Ksssh?" He repeated the sound curiously, almost with amusement. "Yes, ksssh, I do like that," said the man, almost like an alien investigating an alien himself. In fact, that's sort of what they were doing wasn't it? When she mentioned 'support' one particular person over in Building #6 came to mind, the little leaf ninja whose power was inflating himself to gargantuan size. If they could keep that kid as a tenant, why not the dragon horse? He straightened his posture in the chair, bringing both hands down in a neat clasp on his papers. "Trust me, Miss, your size will not be an issue for the furniture. We have furnished and unfurnished apartments, and if you'd like we'd be more than happy to furnish one to your standards, though I do recommend you take up residence on the first floor. If there were to be an emergency of sort the stair wells may not be too accommodating for you."
---
"Very well," replied the dragonhorse, the other head giving the man a peculiar glance (as far as those silly lips, even on a longer, narrower muzzle, and round, round eye could convey). A snort at the imitation. Let him enjoy it; he could not replicate anything else that could come from her complex throats. "Should we decide on a furnishing, how long would it take?" She was content outside, but despite the immunizations they had given her against most primate diseases that could possibly cause her problems, there was always a risk.
---
"Why it could take a few hours to a day! It depends on how particular you are about your furnishings," he said this with a bit of a smirk, almost sssssnake-like as any top member of the business herd would exhibit. But he boded no ill will for the dragon horse, at least, he didn't smell that way. "We have a pamphlet here, do give me a moment," said Mr. Landlord as he opened a drawer and rifled through its contents. Yes, people rooms, people rooms, bipedals, ahh here. He raised his head once more then unfolded a colorful four part pamphlet for the Lady Alien. "While we don't have many non-bipedals these days we do like being prepared," he nodded.
The paper showed rooms and furnishings that would accommodate a creature such as a 'centaur', a 'hind', even a 'gryffon'.
---
Guardian took the pamphlet, the fingerlips rough as they brushed, the other head studying the contents as the paper dangled open. Again, she could not read, having to examine the pamphlet's pictures instead. Perhaps some customization would still be in order, but the options looked enticing, inviting almost. It seemed that she would be staying here for awhile after all, so some comforts would be in order...
"These look sufficient to my needs," she commented with a hint of a chirp. "Provided that you remember that I am a tripod and not a quadruped, I believe with a few more adjustments they would do." Certainly not the half-melted furniture of her people to prevent a bruise or cut but that aspect she did not really care much about. Already she had learned that human waste pots were built for humans and only humans.
---
"Design 1 has a stable if you're the type to sleep on your feet, Design 2 has a wider sleeping block but a smaller bathroom if prefer to curl," he nodded with a bright smile. "Oh not to worry, all our apartments have carpeting installed so your..." Mr. Landlord peered over the desk to examine her feet, "your hooves don't slide this way and that." He gestured left and right, "of course if you prefer hardwood we can strip the carpeting for you." Yes, despite being a human waste pot managing the property for other humans the building system seemed otherwise most accommodating to their tenants, and they didn't even ask for rent, how peculiar.
"Every room in each apartment has windows for that fresh air, I'm sure you'll come to enjoy living in Building Nine," he showed his teeth to her again. "If you'll decide if you should like Design 1 or 2 right now I can obtain a key," offered Mr. Landlord.
---
Guardian's tongue returned to a select fingerlet again. "I believe the second option would be most ideal." She had almost forgotten that human stables were different from the stables of her home; for instance, should she have to, she could sleep on her feet but almost all of her kind preferred to sprawl or more commonly curl into the infamous catatonic position she, a proud, fearless warrior, would not be caught dead in.
"Now then, may we discuss the strings attached?" She had descended from a business oriented race that had standards and ethics behind even delicious blackmail; she knew things had a price.
---
Mr. Landlord stared at the dragon horse in brief moment of silent surprise, then he broke out in laughter.
"Hahahaha! My dear Miss, we don't have strings attached in this place," he shook his head, showing off that winsome smile. "Unlike those other apartments, none of the Buildings Twelve require any sort of payment. In fact, all we really require is that you keep the apartment in good condition, always keep the peace with your neighbors, and never try to fix the utilities on your own. That's what Mr. Janitor is for." His voice took on a low tone, almost like a purr.
---
The choking noises, laughter, startled the puppeteer. She had yet to grow used to it; her own laughter was silent, two heads taking a moment to glance at each other, but this was no time for laughter, she felt no need to laugh. Really, Guardian could not help but feel a twinge of suspicion, but she knew better than to make a scene, her discomforted only marked by the slight shuffle as she adjusted her seated position on the floor. She would watch and utilize her innate, although weak, caution, just in case something was out of place.
"A reasonable deal," chimed her translator.
---
"Then you have yourself an apartment, Miss....." he trailed off, waiting for her to reveal her name, watching the Lady Alien out the corners of his gray eyes. No need to be suspicious now, else were she paranoid of such arrangements she may as well be paranoid of The City!
---
"Fleet-Foot."
She had to question herself at that moment: She used the shorthand of her true name instead of her title the Little Ones had mandatory addressed her by. The fact that she had still called herself Guardian without a thing to guard had bothered her, and she had yet to see another Little One or any other member of her species. It was odd, but now, right now, she had decided that she was her own person, and not a thing to be used like she once was, although the first felt truly more alien and uncomfortable to her.
---
"Miss Fleet-Foot," grinned Mr. Landlord. He rose from his seat and gestured to his office. "Please, stay for just a moment while I retrieve your key," he nodded to her and walked to the office door, making his own fleet footed exit. Whether she chose to try and follow him or not, the pile of black fabric moved, causing the Guy Fawkes mask to turn, as if smiling in the dragon horse's direction.
---
One head watched him go, the other noted that pasty white monkey face peering back at her. She was not completely familiar with human facial expressions, but the way the mask looked at her had caused her to bristle. Once the Landlord character had left, both heads could focus and take in the almost confrontational visage. She stood up, both heads erect at full height, chest forward, stance proud and muscles tight against her hide, as a reflexive attempt at dominance in the black gaze of intimidation.
---
"That be yer way o'saying greetings, Lady Dragon Horse," asked the mask in a voice she might have found familiar to the ears. Quicker than a flash a quadruped feline, tripod if one didn't count the peg, hopped out from under the pile of black, causing the mask to fall to the floor. The pirate cat landed on the desk without disturbing a single sheet of paper. He licked at his good paw thoughtfully. "Greetings."
---
Her first reaction: Kzinti scum!
Her second reaction: There is a ceiling.
Her third: That's not a Kzin.
It was the cat's voice that had saved it, the dragon horse having risen to her hind leg preparing to deliver this mini-beast a good trampling, but in a moment of missing grace, her heads brushed against the ceiling, which startled her, the tiny, tiny point of balance of the hoof of her leg thrown off, sending the alien to the floor on her side with a loud thump. Both heads gazed hawkishly at the cat, the only thing injured in that little stint being her pride.
Snort.
---
The crash of her weight hardly fazed him, though that earring did shake from the impact.
"Careful, even if yar be as sure-footed as a mountain goat, there be no mountains here," said the cat with a gold eye on the fallen dragon horse. "The lady be uninjured," he asked, putting his paw down, full tail twitching slightly. He turned his head to face her fully.
---
"Uninjured," she puffed under her breath, having pushed herself back up into a sit. Should Mentor have seen that slip, she could not fathom what he would have done to her. Stupid. Not even foals do that. "I'm partial to plains myself." The heads lost the malicious gaze and studied the feline from two directions. "You are ... him. I imagined you bigger."
---
"That's good to know, me being only a frrrraction of yer size... far be it for me to imagine carrying yar to the hospital," he gave her a sharp feline grin, paw and peg poised just barely over the edge of the desk. "Aye, I be him, no bigger like a lion, nae smaller like a kitten, 'him' being the cat if'n I may assume as much," he tilted his head at her.
---
This alien's diction confused her. Where was Diplomat (did he make it)? He would have no trouble deciphering his strange language of puzzle for her, no doubt. She was a fighter, not a riddle solver. "I can... call you "Cat" then. You were watching me?"
---
"Certainly, lovely lass, a cat be what I am, it be me name if'n the sound tickles yar fancy rrurrrr," he replied with a rolling purr. What use did he have for names, he was a feline after all. "Aye, listening be more like it. Y've yerself a place o'slumber herrrre, stroke o'luck for ye," said the cat as he crouched then lept from the edge of the desk to the floor. Now he looked even smaller compared to the dragon horse. "No need to let yerself roam the streets, 'specially when it be coming, the season for sleighs'n bells," he purred as he walked beside her, against her.
---
"Very well. Cat, then. I found it startlingly easy," the puppeteer thoughtfully replied. If she had separate hands, she would have been rubbing her chin, but the tongue-to-fingerlet was substitute enough. Amazingly, she did not flinch or jump as the cat rubbed; a sign of her trust, even if he was of a carnivorous specie. "Too easy. They did not ask for anything monetary other than upkeep. I find it suspicious, but I shall accept and watch." A head hovered towards what was the tag on the desk, a tongue flicking as it hovered. "Now do tell me," this head said, "what does this plate say?"
The other head added, taking proximity to The Cat. "Season? Another... holiday?"
---
"A'course it be easy, this be The City, lady love," how many sweet little pet names could he come up with for the dragon horse? He walked a full circle around her, coming to sit on her left side, good paw to his muzzle again. He licked thoughtfully, brought that paw over his ear like a man would fix his hair. "Thar be no need for the gold'n trinkets here, rrurrrr..... Mr. Landlord says it," the plate he meant, giving the metal sheet a cool look before he returned his one-eyed gaze to Guardian. "Aye a 'holiday'," said the cat, emulating an average human accent, perhaps from the northeastern United States, "winter season be comin', what the two-legs enjoy that ol'yule, Christmas."
---
Guardian chirped and studied the plate, it's letters, it still making little sense to her. Human language... She was hardly a linguist, even if it happened to be her race's gift, and she did not know where to start. For a moment she felt lost, although that was only that particular head. The other watched the cat still, finding new items to research the next time she went out. However, no point in participating in a holiday that meant nothing to her, unless it was food. Food she understood very well.
"I do not understand this lack of currency. I still believe there is a catch to all this. These humans are too generous for my comfort."
---
"You be forgetting yar not on that terran place called Earth, this be a different sort o'destination, a different kind o'port rrurrrr...."
The cat prowled around her hoof, giving the strange toes a sniff. Funny he should be so interested in her feet when he was clearly lacking one of his own. The peg clopped along as he turned to stalk in the opposite direction, tail swishing along her hide.
---
The hooves were large in proportion to her size by puppeteer standards, the toes able to splay if needed and the tips slightly curved, like claws. While the claws of the back hoof were pointed outward to help it impale through targets, a lance, the forelegs were aimed downward to provide traction and grip the soil. They were worn down by the concrete but still she could easily, horribly injure someone should she decide to rear and lash out. Their appearance was softened however, by the long flowing hair, soft, silky smooth and white, like that of a horse's. Far away, she could easy be mistaken for a headless one, or perhaps a deer, by body alone, but up close, she truly was something else.
"I never had been on Earth. I only... studied what we knew of it." Which happened to be a lot, although she herself did not know too much. One would hire a specialist, or a diplomat even, for that.
---
She wasn't so much like an equine that she might be spooked by say a serpent yes? Not that the cat had such snakes up his furry sleeves, and neither would he be so cruel as to experiment with her fear factor. The little pirate sat on his haunches, rubbing the side of his face against her flank, smell for smell as only animals knew how. He sounded a low 'rrurrrr' from his throat.
"This be like a piece of it," he explained to the dragon horse, "but not the same as yar can see there be many many Earths that the two-legs be callin' 'home'." He said the word as if it were amusing, the concept of home. "The lady be hailed from the stars, ar eye not?"
---
A head dipped and scented the cat as well, an exchange. Unusual, that sort of thing reserved for fellow puppeteers, but a comfortable familiarity. "A piece... Hrrr. You could say I am from 'the stars,' yes. Far from here." The location of their homeworld was one of the galaxy's greatest secrets, a black ball with glowing continents, a world lit by its own light, drowning in the waste heat of its civilization. It was Earth-like, or used to be, but there were too many things to address beyond that.
The other head gave The Cat a curious tilt. When was she 'a lady?' Her society cared little for gender outside of breeding, especially in comparison to humans.
---
Even to a cat 'ladies' were distinguished from 'gentlemen' for cultural reasons. Despite her society's lack of emphasis on gender roles, the cat himself had been around societies long enough to adopt their cultural customs, and indeed notice the similarities between them and others. Why, Guardian acted like a lady! At least in the eyes of the suave gentleman wrapped in a furry black and white pelt, peg for leg and all. There was no denying that in his golden eye.
"Ye bringin' a li'l flavor to the place 'en, for there be few of our kind," but what 'our kind' entailed, well he chose not to explain, as cats were wont to do.
A shadow neared the glass door, Mr. Landlord returning with key in hand.
---
A warrior graduating to a lady? Only one day the alien would understand, but for now, she shrugged off these silly pet names with an uncharacteristic tolerance. She had been extraordinarily tolerant since her "death," when her normal state of mind consisted of a barely harnessed rage. The chemical regulators had to have been the blame, exacerbated by the loneliness, the comforting smells of the Herd. At the crux of it all, she was a two-headed entity in a one-headed world.
A neck twisted towards the door. No time to further consider The Cat's words, what similarities that merited them being the same.
"The 'Mr. Landlord,'" muttered the other head. " Perhaps it would benefit you to hide, Cat."
---
"Hide? We cats have that mastered to an art, me lovely," he gave the dragon horse a grin, "but we be callin' it seeing with both eyes open."
Both eyes, though he had only one. The clopwalker brushed his tail against the head that smelled him then prowled to the office chair. One leap to him there, then another to the pile of black cloth. He burrowed under the fabric, curled his thick tail close to his body. Even the peg remained hidden as the landlord entered the office, key in hand. Hmm, how would she use the key anyway, not that the man was one to doubt her ability to learn her way around tools.
"Here we are, Miss Fleet-Foot, one key and a copy to Apartment 11 on the ground floor, Design 2 as you asked," Mr. Landlord gave her a broad grin as he held the key out to her.
---
The brushed head momentarily jolted back, without a threatening action in return. Uncharacteristic tolerance indeed. It would be optimal for the cat to be hidden anyway. Both heads turned towards the supposed Mr. Landlord.
"You have my gratitude." As the other spoke, a head snaked out to take the keys and copy, her lips quite dexterous, even more so than the wonder that is human hands. They functioned almost as miniature fingers, "tendons," tiny bunches of muscle really, almost visible, extending to the nostrils and "duct" running along behind them to her eye. There were tiny white whiskers marked along her muzzle, particularly along the "chin" and before the tufts of hair behind her jaw and cheek. "I believe that concludes our session."
She would not doubt The Cat's ability to leave the room unnoticed.
---
"No no, you have ours," he smiled to the Lady Alien, handing the key over with a human gesture; a shake of his hand to her dexterous lips. Mr. Landlord was the only person in the office, the same man who was the janitor, the same technician repair man, one wondered how this system of apartment buildings in the city worked, who 'we' were. "It does, my dear, you can move in this minute now or tour the grounds a bit, meet your neighbors," nodded the man as he went to the window.
"Oops, how'd this get here," mused Mr. Landlord as he picked up the Guy Fawkes mask off the floor, "are you familiar with this celebration, Miss Fleet-Foot?"
---
A puzzle. This whole Great Burrower-damned "afterlife" was a puzzle!
She snorted. This man probably expected her to snort, as that might have been the norm for an Earth animal of her type, although her snort meant something more than cleaning that nuisance dust from her nostrils. "I shall take to my room for the night, and explore later, for my own sake. It would not be wise to stimulate myself too much." A lie; she felt ready to take on a pack of Grigamelefwee, sickle-clawed, savage beasts that used to prey on her kind. Cunning they were, with their use of surprise on an unsuspecting herdmate peacefully grazing in the tall grass of the veldt....
"And no, I am not familiar with that... celebration." She hated that mask already, bristling a little as the holes resumed that accursed black gaze.
---
Grigamelaguggenheim? What? Not that Mr. Landlord would even be familiar with the name had she said it outloud. He didn't appear offended by her snort either, interpreting it as a dragon horse gesture of completion. With the keys handed off the man was free to gesture with the mask dramatically.
"They're celebrating the day a man tried to overthrow his government, isn't that special," he said to Guardian, mask held over his face. "This represents that individual, a Mr. Guy Fawkes, and the costume as delivered by our illustrious resident Mr. V, is what you wear beneath it." Mr. Landlord reached for the pile of black fabric, held it in his grip and raised it from the window sill in a fabulous flare. The feline was nowhere to be seen underneath. "Would you like the costume," he offered the mask and cloak to the dragon horse.
---
She shuffled as the hand approached where The Cat was, but that became where The Cat had been; he was gone. The suspicious shuffle was made to the door instead, just in case. Better to look eager to leave rather than eager to hide something. Possibly it would be easier to hide things from a human, as they mostly used their eyes, otherwise he might have noticed the gentle hint of feline scent in the cloak, which the puppeteer would not be forgetting for awhile.
"A generous offer by your all too generous hands." The keys shined as they dangled from the other mouth. "You may keep it. It looks better on a primate, human, anyway. I do believe I have one head too many for such a costume." What a silly outfit. What a hidious mask. What a ridiculous idea; she only served the Hindmost unquestionably, regardless of his regime, despite her personal feelings. Duty was most important, not mindlessly toppling herd hierarchy without careful consideration of what might entail after. Besides, it looked even worse on someone than off!
---
The cat had already disappeared, as if by magic, or was it simply sharp feline cunning? No black and white one-eyed clopwalker rolled out of the cloak, perhaps to Guardian's reassurance, but his escape had left a few white hairs on the cloak. Hmm, Mr. Landlord noticed this, plucked a few long haired strands from it. Ahh but the Lady Alien's shuffle backwards caught his attention once more. So eager to leave she was, but he couldn't blame her, he thought the mask silly as well and hoped only to get rid of it without having to actually throw it away. No need to let the lower establishment think he cared not for their peasant tricks.
"Well if you insist, Miss Fleet-Foot," he said to her with that same grin, folded the cloak properly and set it on his desk, mask on top as it smiled to her. "I think you're going to love living here in Building Nine," he said in bidding her farewell, a sharp glint in his eye.
---
"I shall not doubt that statement," Fleet-foot, Guardian, said, turning around on those long legs of hers and making her way to the door. The talking head twisted around before she plodded through the doorway, a snout nudging the door, adding, "I do apologize. I must be shedding."
---
"Well it is that season," he said to her cheerfully, neglecting to mention how the season included hitching carriages to horses and sleighbells to reindeer, no doubt primitive forms of her brethren. Mr. Landlord offered the Lady Alien a wave goodbye, and when the door should close, it became a solid illustration on the wall, a comical painting of the Leasing Office.
---
A grunt of a reply.
Not quite, but her distaste for being a beast of burden was all the same. Her ancestors had been tiny engineered lap animals, created for their tiny, musical throats, funny looks and gentleness. How the ancient docile beasts able to fit comfortably in a teacup managed to survive when the Slavers had commited mass suicide of their enslaved sentients, but they did, and they evolved to sentience themselves, from the burrows and caves to the grasslands and plains, then finally the reaches of space with a great business empire. The average size for her species was comfortable however, they allowed a slow, easy transition to being significantly larger. Guardian had been bred too big, too quickly; the cybernetic enhancements were absolutely necessary, the giant puppeteers prone to heart problems, quickly deteriorating hip joints, bone cancers, among other things. Bless technology.
A head craned back. Not believing her eye, she sniffed curiously. Now, that was impossible, even with the marvels created by her people taken into account!
A Great Burrower-damned puzzle indeed. The keys still real and tangible, hooves in three-fourth time echoed as she went to find her room.
Rating; G
Characters; (
singingguardian) Guardian/Fleet-Foot, (NPC) Mr. Landlord, (thatpiratecat) The CatSummary; Moving in.
Log;
A long neck craned up and down and out and about, examine, snaking. A twitch of muscle under shaggy hide; this was apartment nine, wasn't it? Out of instinct she sniffed the air, a pointless action in that the air always was saturated with the odor of primate. It was still a reliable sense, sharper than a human's but still paled in comparison to a dog's. Particularly, she could smell "moods" of other organisms, should they also communicate their feelings by odor. Her kind did. Humans did not. For instance, she had yet to see a human sniff ritually at a flank or shoulder in greeting. They found it rude even, despite the wealth of information that could be quickly gleaned about an individual faster than any words. Didn't even have to be so intrusive to ask. Peculiar.
She could spend years, however long that might be here, standing there, comparing her species to humankind, and at times she had nothing better to do, but for now, she did, which was for instance, going on inside. The spike of human scent had caused her to bristle, but she maintained a steady gait, still unsure whether to call this place home despite the Jan-human's suggestion. There was still a drive for safety within her, despite all attempts at breeding it out to create the perfect soldier; she did not want to test this planet's cold season. Her fur was thicker than norm, a product of that careful breeding, and had yet to be thicker but even it could only shelter her from so much.
"I'm sorry, you can't just walk in here like that," said a voice, that of an older man in overalls, Building 9's resident tool technician, or janitor if the pot wanted to call the kettle black. "Unless you're visiting," the grizzled one corrected himself, but his milky gray eye studied the dragon horse up and down, "nope you definitely don't live here." He knew those corridors up and down, like the back of his hand, which he gestured for the alien, completely unfazed by her appearance. "You want the leasing office, you go that-a-way," he pointed down the hall, "right at the corner."
The voice initially startled her, a head darting down to where a leg holster would have normally been, her body otherwise ready to twist around and aim the large hind leg. The nostrils flared on the still head, erect at her full height of well over six feet, and watching intently, but finding no threat, she eased and calmed down. There was a soft orchestral music playing as the tiny translator hidden away on her body did its job, Guardian only sniffing a grunt of a lone, unamused (as well as embarrassed) trombone in return. She noisily clopped in three-fourths time in the direction the little silly, funny-smelling work man had pointed, one head watching where she was going, the other examining the building's interior in wide spanning arcs around her.
She towered over his small 5'8" frame then, but the janitor knew his way around a mop and pail! Er, not that he would even consider combat with a dragon horse (unless the situation called for it). The hallway around the right corner led to one single door with the words 'Leasing Office' emblazoned on the glass face. There was a slot for mail on one side, but no plate that directed where one should place the rent. Interesting how the leasing office had no official method of payment, if payment was even required. A shadow moved behind the door, features obscured by the fogged glass. He moved from a cabinet, to the window, then to his desk and chair. Paperwork, never could get that stuff finished on time.
The single door was how Guardian had figured out that this might have been what the work human had been talking about. She could not read and even if she had learned the alphabet, the knowledge would be useless until she learned how to speak it. It was one thing to arrange letters but another to make something meaningful of them. Learning would be to her benefit in any case; it would make finding things easier. For now, she studied the blocky writing, meaning little to her, and then a mouth fumbled with the door. It was held at a crack; the human's lack of xenophobia struck her odd.
Music. The translator's voice was gentle and soothing, a perfect woman's contralto, even with Guardian's harsh brass of a normal speaking tone. "This is the leasing office?"
"Yes, come in," said the person at the desk, an older man of 5'8", his grizzled hair now combed conservatively to the sides. Those orange janitor overalls had been traded in for a handsome blue suit. His office was organized, albeit somewhat half-haphazardly. A pile of black cloth topped with a Guy Fawkes mask sat on the window sill. Lack of xenophobia was an asset around this place. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, clear gray eyes looking the alien woman from hoof to eye. A plate on his desk read: 'Mr. Landlord'. "What can I do for you, Miss," he asked in a cool deep voice.
Was Guardian a woman? Should she have been aware of what was the ideal, the idea, the concept of a human woman, should she not have brushed humanity off and its annoying differences as she normally did, she would have not been sure what to make of herself, a workbeast of a race that had little physical sexual dimorphism to begin with, from fingerlip to tail to the genitals. Puzzlingly, she was aware that humans did not rely on their sense of smell as she did, and figuring out her gender was another; one could tell gender from scent. A head tilted as the rest of her tried to shuffle in. There was a chair there, for human visitors, a cue for her to sit on the floor, seated almost comically like a dog.
"I would be interested in taking up residence here." She spoke out of one head, her right. The other bobbed and waved about, sometimes leaning in to sniff curiously at something of possible interest. "I believe you would not mind making accommodation for someone of my... sort."
Mr. Landlord quirked a brow at who he deemed to be Lady Alien for now. Hmm, he set both arms on his desk and leaned forward when she sat. Yes they'd have to include some floor cushions for their non-bipedal citizens.... Regardless, since the Lady Alien appeared to be comfortable Mr. Landlord decided not to offer her a seat. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully instead.
"You must be new, well well what brings you to the illustrious Building Number Nine, then?" He asked with a wide smile, teeth pearly white as if he brushed and flossed every waking moment, or just paid good money for top notch dental surgery. "And what kind of accommodations would those be, Miss?"
"Referral." "Lady Alien" made a note of the human's teeth, particularly how strikingly, distractingly white they were. High-born Little Ones, those at the top of the business herd typically, had their teeth taken care of with only the finest cleansing and whitening technology. Her own teeth, they were yellow. Probably even slightly crooked but not uncomfortably so; her bite was healthy. "I believe you are used to serving bipedal customers." (A head hovered near the chair.) "Would it trouble you to make some slight adjustments suited to my form?"
Oh, how could she have forgotten already? Male humans had a deeper voice. Her translator was speaking in a higher tone, a human female's? It would make assuming easier, but who was she to try to see things from an alien's point of view? Aliens were aliens; no point in trying to think like a puppeteer in a primate's artificial hooves.
Damn right he was on top of the business herd, hell that made him on top of the food chain in some places! But fear not, for Mr. Landlord knew how to be fair to his tenants, in fact, if he weren't fair to them his superiors would certainly come down (or up) to reprimand him appropriately. Hmm, he nodded to the dragon horse's words. True they usually rented to bipedal customers, but what kind of accommodations could a tripod possibly ask for that rivaled those goofs who stuck an entire ocean in one apartment! Wait, that thing was a desert now.
"Yes, most of our tenants walk on two legs, but don't worry we could... arrange something for a lady of your height and girth," said Mr. Landlord, fingers to his chin still. "No doubt you'd have to remain on a ground floor unless you can accommodate stairs or even use the elevator? It's your choice of course, we do our best to give what our tenants require most," he grinned.
A black, forked tongue flicked out to touch a fingerlip in thought, the orange herbivore's eye focused on the human. "Ksssh." A sort of "hm." "I would be interested in these arrangements. I can accommodate anything that can support me. The only issue would be my weight." Support was right; her knowledge of human history was limited but from what she could remember, they used to be fat little things, so pathetic and round, until the majority went from that miserable variety and shaped up. She was not sure about the trend here, but in terms of weight, anything that could support a large, fat human could easily support her; she weighed as much as two average ones easily.
"Ksssh?" He repeated the sound curiously, almost with amusement. "Yes, ksssh, I do like that," said the man, almost like an alien investigating an alien himself. In fact, that's sort of what they were doing wasn't it? When she mentioned 'support' one particular person over in Building #6 came to mind, the little leaf ninja whose power was inflating himself to gargantuan size. If they could keep that kid as a tenant, why not the dragon horse? He straightened his posture in the chair, bringing both hands down in a neat clasp on his papers. "Trust me, Miss, your size will not be an issue for the furniture. We have furnished and unfurnished apartments, and if you'd like we'd be more than happy to furnish one to your standards, though I do recommend you take up residence on the first floor. If there were to be an emergency of sort the stair wells may not be too accommodating for you."
"Very well," replied the dragonhorse, the other head giving the man a peculiar glance (as far as those silly lips, even on a longer, narrower muzzle, and round, round eye could convey). A snort at the imitation. Let him enjoy it; he could not replicate anything else that could come from her complex throats. "Should we decide on a furnishing, how long would it take?" She was content outside, but despite the immunizations they had given her against most primate diseases that could possibly cause her problems, there was always a risk.
"Why it could take a few hours to a day! It depends on how particular you are about your furnishings," he said this with a bit of a smirk, almost sssssnake-like as any top member of the business herd would exhibit. But he boded no ill will for the dragon horse, at least, he didn't smell that way. "We have a pamphlet here, do give me a moment," said Mr. Landlord as he opened a drawer and rifled through its contents. Yes, people rooms, people rooms, bipedals, ahh here. He raised his head once more then unfolded a colorful four part pamphlet for the Lady Alien. "While we don't have many non-bipedals these days we do like being prepared," he nodded.
The paper showed rooms and furnishings that would accommodate a creature such as a 'centaur', a 'hind', even a 'gryffon'.
Guardian took the pamphlet, the fingerlips rough as they brushed, the other head studying the contents as the paper dangled open. Again, she could not read, having to examine the pamphlet's pictures instead. Perhaps some customization would still be in order, but the options looked enticing, inviting almost. It seemed that she would be staying here for awhile after all, so some comforts would be in order...
"These look sufficient to my needs," she commented with a hint of a chirp. "Provided that you remember that I am a tripod and not a quadruped, I believe with a few more adjustments they would do." Certainly not the half-melted furniture of her people to prevent a bruise or cut but that aspect she did not really care much about. Already she had learned that human waste pots were built for humans and only humans.
"Design 1 has a stable if you're the type to sleep on your feet, Design 2 has a wider sleeping block but a smaller bathroom if prefer to curl," he nodded with a bright smile. "Oh not to worry, all our apartments have carpeting installed so your..." Mr. Landlord peered over the desk to examine her feet, "your hooves don't slide this way and that." He gestured left and right, "of course if you prefer hardwood we can strip the carpeting for you." Yes, despite being a human waste pot managing the property for other humans the building system seemed otherwise most accommodating to their tenants, and they didn't even ask for rent, how peculiar.
"Every room in each apartment has windows for that fresh air, I'm sure you'll come to enjoy living in Building Nine," he showed his teeth to her again. "If you'll decide if you should like Design 1 or 2 right now I can obtain a key," offered Mr. Landlord.
Guardian's tongue returned to a select fingerlet again. "I believe the second option would be most ideal." She had almost forgotten that human stables were different from the stables of her home; for instance, should she have to, she could sleep on her feet but almost all of her kind preferred to sprawl or more commonly curl into the infamous catatonic position she, a proud, fearless warrior, would not be caught dead in.
"Now then, may we discuss the strings attached?" She had descended from a business oriented race that had standards and ethics behind even delicious blackmail; she knew things had a price.
Mr. Landlord stared at the dragon horse in brief moment of silent surprise, then he broke out in laughter.
"Hahahaha! My dear Miss, we don't have strings attached in this place," he shook his head, showing off that winsome smile. "Unlike those other apartments, none of the Buildings Twelve require any sort of payment. In fact, all we really require is that you keep the apartment in good condition, always keep the peace with your neighbors, and never try to fix the utilities on your own. That's what Mr. Janitor is for." His voice took on a low tone, almost like a purr.
The choking noises, laughter, startled the puppeteer. She had yet to grow used to it; her own laughter was silent, two heads taking a moment to glance at each other, but this was no time for laughter, she felt no need to laugh. Really, Guardian could not help but feel a twinge of suspicion, but she knew better than to make a scene, her discomforted only marked by the slight shuffle as she adjusted her seated position on the floor. She would watch and utilize her innate, although weak, caution, just in case something was out of place.
"A reasonable deal," chimed her translator.
"Then you have yourself an apartment, Miss....." he trailed off, waiting for her to reveal her name, watching the Lady Alien out the corners of his gray eyes. No need to be suspicious now, else were she paranoid of such arrangements she may as well be paranoid of The City!
"Fleet-Foot."
She had to question herself at that moment: She used the shorthand of her true name instead of her title the Little Ones had mandatory addressed her by. The fact that she had still called herself Guardian without a thing to guard had bothered her, and she had yet to see another Little One or any other member of her species. It was odd, but now, right now, she had decided that she was her own person, and not a thing to be used like she once was, although the first felt truly more alien and uncomfortable to her.
"Miss Fleet-Foot," grinned Mr. Landlord. He rose from his seat and gestured to his office. "Please, stay for just a moment while I retrieve your key," he nodded to her and walked to the office door, making his own fleet footed exit. Whether she chose to try and follow him or not, the pile of black fabric moved, causing the Guy Fawkes mask to turn, as if smiling in the dragon horse's direction.
One head watched him go, the other noted that pasty white monkey face peering back at her. She was not completely familiar with human facial expressions, but the way the mask looked at her had caused her to bristle. Once the Landlord character had left, both heads could focus and take in the almost confrontational visage. She stood up, both heads erect at full height, chest forward, stance proud and muscles tight against her hide, as a reflexive attempt at dominance in the black gaze of intimidation.
"That be yer way o'saying greetings, Lady Dragon Horse," asked the mask in a voice she might have found familiar to the ears. Quicker than a flash a quadruped feline, tripod if one didn't count the peg, hopped out from under the pile of black, causing the mask to fall to the floor. The pirate cat landed on the desk without disturbing a single sheet of paper. He licked at his good paw thoughtfully. "Greetings."
Her first reaction: Kzinti scum!
Her second reaction: There is a ceiling.
Her third: That's not a Kzin.
It was the cat's voice that had saved it, the dragon horse having risen to her hind leg preparing to deliver this mini-beast a good trampling, but in a moment of missing grace, her heads brushed against the ceiling, which startled her, the tiny, tiny point of balance of the hoof of her leg thrown off, sending the alien to the floor on her side with a loud thump. Both heads gazed hawkishly at the cat, the only thing injured in that little stint being her pride.
Snort.
The crash of her weight hardly fazed him, though that earring did shake from the impact.
"Careful, even if yar be as sure-footed as a mountain goat, there be no mountains here," said the cat with a gold eye on the fallen dragon horse. "The lady be uninjured," he asked, putting his paw down, full tail twitching slightly. He turned his head to face her fully.
"Uninjured," she puffed under her breath, having pushed herself back up into a sit. Should Mentor have seen that slip, she could not fathom what he would have done to her. Stupid. Not even foals do that. "I'm partial to plains myself." The heads lost the malicious gaze and studied the feline from two directions. "You are ... him. I imagined you bigger."
"That's good to know, me being only a frrrraction of yer size... far be it for me to imagine carrying yar to the hospital," he gave her a sharp feline grin, paw and peg poised just barely over the edge of the desk. "Aye, I be him, no bigger like a lion, nae smaller like a kitten, 'him' being the cat if'n I may assume as much," he tilted his head at her.
This alien's diction confused her. Where was Diplomat (did he make it)? He would have no trouble deciphering his strange language of puzzle for her, no doubt. She was a fighter, not a riddle solver. "I can... call you "Cat" then. You were watching me?"
"Certainly, lovely lass, a cat be what I am, it be me name if'n the sound tickles yar fancy rrurrrr," he replied with a rolling purr. What use did he have for names, he was a feline after all. "Aye, listening be more like it. Y've yerself a place o'slumber herrrre, stroke o'luck for ye," said the cat as he crouched then lept from the edge of the desk to the floor. Now he looked even smaller compared to the dragon horse. "No need to let yerself roam the streets, 'specially when it be coming, the season for sleighs'n bells," he purred as he walked beside her, against her.
"Very well. Cat, then. I found it startlingly easy," the puppeteer thoughtfully replied. If she had separate hands, she would have been rubbing her chin, but the tongue-to-fingerlet was substitute enough. Amazingly, she did not flinch or jump as the cat rubbed; a sign of her trust, even if he was of a carnivorous specie. "Too easy. They did not ask for anything monetary other than upkeep. I find it suspicious, but I shall accept and watch." A head hovered towards what was the tag on the desk, a tongue flicking as it hovered. "Now do tell me," this head said, "what does this plate say?"
The other head added, taking proximity to The Cat. "Season? Another... holiday?"
"A'course it be easy, this be The City, lady love," how many sweet little pet names could he come up with for the dragon horse? He walked a full circle around her, coming to sit on her left side, good paw to his muzzle again. He licked thoughtfully, brought that paw over his ear like a man would fix his hair. "Thar be no need for the gold'n trinkets here, rrurrrr..... Mr. Landlord says it," the plate he meant, giving the metal sheet a cool look before he returned his one-eyed gaze to Guardian. "Aye a 'holiday'," said the cat, emulating an average human accent, perhaps from the northeastern United States, "winter season be comin', what the two-legs enjoy that ol'yule, Christmas."
Guardian chirped and studied the plate, it's letters, it still making little sense to her. Human language... She was hardly a linguist, even if it happened to be her race's gift, and she did not know where to start. For a moment she felt lost, although that was only that particular head. The other watched the cat still, finding new items to research the next time she went out. However, no point in participating in a holiday that meant nothing to her, unless it was food. Food she understood very well.
"I do not understand this lack of currency. I still believe there is a catch to all this. These humans are too generous for my comfort."
"You be forgetting yar not on that terran place called Earth, this be a different sort o'destination, a different kind o'port rrurrrr...."
The cat prowled around her hoof, giving the strange toes a sniff. Funny he should be so interested in her feet when he was clearly lacking one of his own. The peg clopped along as he turned to stalk in the opposite direction, tail swishing along her hide.
The hooves were large in proportion to her size by puppeteer standards, the toes able to splay if needed and the tips slightly curved, like claws. While the claws of the back hoof were pointed outward to help it impale through targets, a lance, the forelegs were aimed downward to provide traction and grip the soil. They were worn down by the concrete but still she could easily, horribly injure someone should she decide to rear and lash out. Their appearance was softened however, by the long flowing hair, soft, silky smooth and white, like that of a horse's. Far away, she could easy be mistaken for a headless one, or perhaps a deer, by body alone, but up close, she truly was something else.
"I never had been on Earth. I only... studied what we knew of it." Which happened to be a lot, although she herself did not know too much. One would hire a specialist, or a diplomat even, for that.
She wasn't so much like an equine that she might be spooked by say a serpent yes? Not that the cat had such snakes up his furry sleeves, and neither would he be so cruel as to experiment with her fear factor. The little pirate sat on his haunches, rubbing the side of his face against her flank, smell for smell as only animals knew how. He sounded a low 'rrurrrr' from his throat.
"This be like a piece of it," he explained to the dragon horse, "but not the same as yar can see there be many many Earths that the two-legs be callin' 'home'." He said the word as if it were amusing, the concept of home. "The lady be hailed from the stars, ar eye not?"
A head dipped and scented the cat as well, an exchange. Unusual, that sort of thing reserved for fellow puppeteers, but a comfortable familiarity. "A piece... Hrrr. You could say I am from 'the stars,' yes. Far from here." The location of their homeworld was one of the galaxy's greatest secrets, a black ball with glowing continents, a world lit by its own light, drowning in the waste heat of its civilization. It was Earth-like, or used to be, but there were too many things to address beyond that.
The other head gave The Cat a curious tilt. When was she 'a lady?' Her society cared little for gender outside of breeding, especially in comparison to humans.
Even to a cat 'ladies' were distinguished from 'gentlemen' for cultural reasons. Despite her society's lack of emphasis on gender roles, the cat himself had been around societies long enough to adopt their cultural customs, and indeed notice the similarities between them and others. Why, Guardian acted like a lady! At least in the eyes of the suave gentleman wrapped in a furry black and white pelt, peg for leg and all. There was no denying that in his golden eye.
"Ye bringin' a li'l flavor to the place 'en, for there be few of our kind," but what 'our kind' entailed, well he chose not to explain, as cats were wont to do.
A shadow neared the glass door, Mr. Landlord returning with key in hand.
A warrior graduating to a lady? Only one day the alien would understand, but for now, she shrugged off these silly pet names with an uncharacteristic tolerance. She had been extraordinarily tolerant since her "death," when her normal state of mind consisted of a barely harnessed rage. The chemical regulators had to have been the blame, exacerbated by the loneliness, the comforting smells of the Herd. At the crux of it all, she was a two-headed entity in a one-headed world.
A neck twisted towards the door. No time to further consider The Cat's words, what similarities that merited them being the same.
"The 'Mr. Landlord,'" muttered the other head. " Perhaps it would benefit you to hide, Cat."
"Hide? We cats have that mastered to an art, me lovely," he gave the dragon horse a grin, "but we be callin' it seeing with both eyes open."
Both eyes, though he had only one. The clopwalker brushed his tail against the head that smelled him then prowled to the office chair. One leap to him there, then another to the pile of black cloth. He burrowed under the fabric, curled his thick tail close to his body. Even the peg remained hidden as the landlord entered the office, key in hand. Hmm, how would she use the key anyway, not that the man was one to doubt her ability to learn her way around tools.
"Here we are, Miss Fleet-Foot, one key and a copy to Apartment 11 on the ground floor, Design 2 as you asked," Mr. Landlord gave her a broad grin as he held the key out to her.
The brushed head momentarily jolted back, without a threatening action in return. Uncharacteristic tolerance indeed. It would be optimal for the cat to be hidden anyway. Both heads turned towards the supposed Mr. Landlord.
"You have my gratitude." As the other spoke, a head snaked out to take the keys and copy, her lips quite dexterous, even more so than the wonder that is human hands. They functioned almost as miniature fingers, "tendons," tiny bunches of muscle really, almost visible, extending to the nostrils and "duct" running along behind them to her eye. There were tiny white whiskers marked along her muzzle, particularly along the "chin" and before the tufts of hair behind her jaw and cheek. "I believe that concludes our session."
She would not doubt The Cat's ability to leave the room unnoticed.
"No no, you have ours," he smiled to the Lady Alien, handing the key over with a human gesture; a shake of his hand to her dexterous lips. Mr. Landlord was the only person in the office, the same man who was the janitor, the same technician repair man, one wondered how this system of apartment buildings in the city worked, who 'we' were. "It does, my dear, you can move in this minute now or tour the grounds a bit, meet your neighbors," nodded the man as he went to the window.
"Oops, how'd this get here," mused Mr. Landlord as he picked up the Guy Fawkes mask off the floor, "are you familiar with this celebration, Miss Fleet-Foot?"
A puzzle. This whole Great Burrower-damned "afterlife" was a puzzle!
She snorted. This man probably expected her to snort, as that might have been the norm for an Earth animal of her type, although her snort meant something more than cleaning that nuisance dust from her nostrils. "I shall take to my room for the night, and explore later, for my own sake. It would not be wise to stimulate myself too much." A lie; she felt ready to take on a pack of Grigamelefwee, sickle-clawed, savage beasts that used to prey on her kind. Cunning they were, with their use of surprise on an unsuspecting herdmate peacefully grazing in the tall grass of the veldt....
"And no, I am not familiar with that... celebration." She hated that mask already, bristling a little as the holes resumed that accursed black gaze.
Grigamelaguggenheim? What? Not that Mr. Landlord would even be familiar with the name had she said it outloud. He didn't appear offended by her snort either, interpreting it as a dragon horse gesture of completion. With the keys handed off the man was free to gesture with the mask dramatically.
"They're celebrating the day a man tried to overthrow his government, isn't that special," he said to Guardian, mask held over his face. "This represents that individual, a Mr. Guy Fawkes, and the costume as delivered by our illustrious resident Mr. V, is what you wear beneath it." Mr. Landlord reached for the pile of black fabric, held it in his grip and raised it from the window sill in a fabulous flare. The feline was nowhere to be seen underneath. "Would you like the costume," he offered the mask and cloak to the dragon horse.
She shuffled as the hand approached where The Cat was, but that became where The Cat had been; he was gone. The suspicious shuffle was made to the door instead, just in case. Better to look eager to leave rather than eager to hide something. Possibly it would be easier to hide things from a human, as they mostly used their eyes, otherwise he might have noticed the gentle hint of feline scent in the cloak, which the puppeteer would not be forgetting for awhile.
"A generous offer by your all too generous hands." The keys shined as they dangled from the other mouth. "You may keep it. It looks better on a primate, human, anyway. I do believe I have one head too many for such a costume." What a silly outfit. What a hidious mask. What a ridiculous idea; she only served the Hindmost unquestionably, regardless of his regime, despite her personal feelings. Duty was most important, not mindlessly toppling herd hierarchy without careful consideration of what might entail after. Besides, it looked even worse on someone than off!
The cat had already disappeared, as if by magic, or was it simply sharp feline cunning? No black and white one-eyed clopwalker rolled out of the cloak, perhaps to Guardian's reassurance, but his escape had left a few white hairs on the cloak. Hmm, Mr. Landlord noticed this, plucked a few long haired strands from it. Ahh but the Lady Alien's shuffle backwards caught his attention once more. So eager to leave she was, but he couldn't blame her, he thought the mask silly as well and hoped only to get rid of it without having to actually throw it away. No need to let the lower establishment think he cared not for their peasant tricks.
"Well if you insist, Miss Fleet-Foot," he said to her with that same grin, folded the cloak properly and set it on his desk, mask on top as it smiled to her. "I think you're going to love living here in Building Nine," he said in bidding her farewell, a sharp glint in his eye.
"I shall not doubt that statement," Fleet-foot, Guardian, said, turning around on those long legs of hers and making her way to the door. The talking head twisted around before she plodded through the doorway, a snout nudging the door, adding, "I do apologize. I must be shedding."
"Well it is that season," he said to her cheerfully, neglecting to mention how the season included hitching carriages to horses and sleighbells to reindeer, no doubt primitive forms of her brethren. Mr. Landlord offered the Lady Alien a wave goodbye, and when the door should close, it became a solid illustration on the wall, a comical painting of the Leasing Office.
A grunt of a reply.
Not quite, but her distaste for being a beast of burden was all the same. Her ancestors had been tiny engineered lap animals, created for their tiny, musical throats, funny looks and gentleness. How the ancient docile beasts able to fit comfortably in a teacup managed to survive when the Slavers had commited mass suicide of their enslaved sentients, but they did, and they evolved to sentience themselves, from the burrows and caves to the grasslands and plains, then finally the reaches of space with a great business empire. The average size for her species was comfortable however, they allowed a slow, easy transition to being significantly larger. Guardian had been bred too big, too quickly; the cybernetic enhancements were absolutely necessary, the giant puppeteers prone to heart problems, quickly deteriorating hip joints, bone cancers, among other things. Bless technology.
A head craned back. Not believing her eye, she sniffed curiously. Now, that was impossible, even with the marvels created by her people taken into account!
A Great Burrower-damned puzzle indeed. The keys still real and tangible, hooves in three-fourth time echoed as she went to find her room.