Of Kittens and Dogs
By Leokitsune
Summary: Farfarello watches a kitten (a real kitten, not a Weiß one).
Disclaimer: Schwarz, Weiß, and all things associated with it belong to Project Weiß. Update: Revised May 28, 2004, for consistency.
Chapter 1: Life's Lessons - Of Cats and Birds
The Irishman had been standing at the window most of the morning now, staring like a tiger that had sighted his prey. Schuldig looked out the window as he drank his cup of coffee. As near as he could tell, Farfarello was looking at a white kitten smeared with car oil.
Schuldig's gaze drifted back and forth between the two predators. The parallels amused him. The cat was a natural predator; Farfarello was a made one. But they both had the same intent golden stare on the hunt, the same white fur sticking out every which way from neglect.
The kitten was crouched in the tall grass, stalking a bird three feet away. Slowly one paw would lift, then another, and the bony shoulders would fin back and forth, inching the low-slung body closer. Schuldig and Farfarello watched the small animal's tail twitch, then, as if it couldn't wait another second, the kitten broke, racing towards the target.
Unlike its human counterpart, this hunter was a bit clumsy. Schuldig shook his head in amusement as the kitten missed his prey by a good six inches. "Fifth one this mornin'," Farfarello informed him.
"Persistent, eh?" Schuldig took another sip from his cup. "That's good. It's how you survive, ja?"
"Not if you're clumsy and inexperienced like that one," Nagi said, coming to join his older teammates at the window.
"How else do ye gain experience but to try and try again?" Farfarello mused. "And 'clumsy?' Tis a natural state in the young and uncertain."
Nagi sniffed but remained silent. He had never been an awkward pre- adolescent or a clumsy child. He had been an adult for as long as he had been in Schwarz because it had been expected of him. But Schuldig and Farfarello both remembered more natural childhoods, where clumsiness had been a stage they had dealt with.
The three stood in silence as they watched the kitten make its sixth attempt. When the kitten missed again, Nagi snorted softly then moved off. Schuldig and Farfarello were the only witnesses to the seventh and eighth. They also witnessed Nagi leave for school. The boy got a few steps up the walk, then turned and came back. They watched as he dug around in his bookbag until he found a packet of dried fish. He ripped it open and set it a few steps away from the sidewalk, under a bush. He then left without a backwards glance.
It took the kitten a moment to find the bag, and another to work up the courage to go over to the savory yet alien thing. Soon it was devouring the snack ravenously, head buried in the plastic bag. Once finished, it groomed itself, cleaning the crumbs of fish off paws and whiskers. The oil stain stayed though, a dark smear along the nape and spine.
Then it was back to bird-hunting. "Ye think it's still hungry?" Farfarello asked Schuldig.
Schuldig shrugged. "Maybe it just likes to hunt."
"It'll never catch one," Crawford said. He had the paper in one hand, empty mug in the other. The cup was destined for the dishwasher, the paper for the trash. He had stopped to see what it was that Schuldig and Farfarello was watching. They had both been there when he had gotten his second cup, between the local section and the business section. Now they were here after he had finished. They were not people known for long attention spans.
Once Crawford had seen the object of their concentration, he had gotten a glimpse of the kitten's future. It had irritated him that his gift occasionally squandered itself on such inconsequential things, so he spread the aggravation around. Sure enough, he was rewarded with an annoyed frown from Schuldig.
Schuldig had been absorbed by the struggle that had been unfolding before him. It was life, the struggle for survival, untainted by the trivialities that so plagued human life. Those trivialities were what really made him hate being a telepath. But here was instinct, life stripped bare. He had tensed every time the kitten had crept up on its prey, and had relaxed in disappointment every time it had missed.
Now Crawford had come up and destroyed that anticipation. It never occurred to him to question Crawford's proclamation. He watched Crawford leave, then left himself. Farfarello heard the door open and close and saw Schuldig walk down the walkway to his car. Schuldig didn't even glance over at the kitten, which was crouched under Crawford's car where it had run when Schuldig had passed by.
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Pounce. Miss. Pounce. Miss. Over the next few days, Farfarello watched the kitten try to complete the task it was hardwired for. It was a predator. It could no more quit hunting then it could learn to talk in human tongues. Farfarello was thinking of the kitten when he found the injured bird in the park a week later. He cupped the bird in his hands, trapping it in a cage made with his fingers.
He walked home, bird in hand, to where the kitten was. By now, the creature was slat-thin, its ribs an undulating structure that could be clearly seen. It had been surviving off scraps that had fallen out of garbage cans and Nagi's indifferent charity. The kitten skittered to the safe shadows underneath Crawford's car when Farfarello bent to one knee and released the bird.
He retreated into the house to watch the drama unfold. He was barely in position when it happened. The kitten pounced on the bird as it flailed about with its broken wing. There was a struggle, then the triumph of predator over prey. The kitten sat there for a moment, mouth full of warm flesh and disarrayed feathers, then dragged his kill underneath Crawford's car.
When Schuldig returned, it was five the next morning. He had the paper tucked under one arm, which he threw carelessly, but not too much so, onto the kitchen counter next to the coffeemaker. Farfarello turned from his now- customary place in the window. "Still cat-watching, Farf?" Schuldig asked without interest.
"He caught one," Farfarello said solemnly. He left his post to get a glass of milk.
"The kitten? What? You say he caught one?" Schuldig crossed the kitchen in long strides and pressed against the window, trying to peer into the pre- dawn dimness. His head turned left, then right, looking for the little blob of white. His long fiery hair slid off his shoulders, parting so that Farfarello could see Schuldig's pale, unprotected nape. His eye gleamed predatorily, but when Schuldig turned back to face him, that gleam was gone, leaving Farfarello's customary blankness.
"Are you sure? Crawford said—"
"Crawford was wrong," Farfarello said. He finished his milk and rinsed out the glass.
"Wrong? But—" Schuldig flinched when Farfarello carelessly smashed the glass in the sink. "Tch. Farf." He was at Farfarello's side in the next moment, gently restraining Farfarello's hands, leading him away from the tempting shards. "Ach. Nein, nein. Crawford will be here any minute, and he wouldn't be happy to have a messy Farf to deal with first thing. To your room you go."
Schuldig spotted Nagi standing in the doorway, disinterestedly taking in the whole scene. He shoved Farfarello in his direction. "Nagi, lock up Farf, will you?" Nagi silently led the Irishman down the hall and Schuldig turned back to the sink to clean the shards of glass. They really needed to invest in tin cups or something. His gaze fell on the window. Suddenly, curiosity consumed him.
Schuldig didn't even bother to put his shoes back on, padding into the dewy grass barefoot. The kitten was nowhere in sight. Following a hunch, he knelt down to look under Crawford's car. A hiss greeted him. The kitten was crouched beside the remains of a good-sized bird. A crow. Glossy black feathers were scattered over the pavement. Schuldig straightened and dusted dirt off his hands and knees. So Crawford was wrong, after all.
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