Author's Note: Now, I know what you're thinking, but just give me a moment to explain.

About a month ago (being the complete movie fanatic that I am), I decided to sit down and watch Alien in honour of the new one coming out later this year. One month later, I have seen every single film where Xenomorphs feature and am hyped for Covenant to the point of mental exhaustion. As a result, I have a huge amount of writing inspiration for the franchise.

Felidae, on the other hand, has been one of my favourite films for ages and writing a fanfic about it has always been high on my priority list. However, after a re-watch, now so more than ever. Therefore, I decided to effectively kill two birds with one stone and do something else I've wanted to do for awhile- start a totally new fandom.

So, here is the product of my labours. Syreni.

For the moment, I've decided on a T-Rating, but considering the fact this combines two of the most violent, sweary, sexual and genuinely frightening films I've ever seen, it could very easily turn to M. You have been warned.

Hope you enjoy!

Syreni

Chapter One:

Throughout my miserable life, it has become apparent that I have a knack for getting into trouble. An insatiable morbid curiosity bodes well for no one, let alone a cat whose only recognisable talent involves unmasking ruthless psychopaths. But perhaps I'm being pessimistic. After all, I never intended to get mixed up in the Claudandus business. I was never looking to run into a group of blind sewer-dwellers (yes, that was intentional) calling themselves The Company of the Merciful. It just sort've happened.

Such a phrase could easily be used to describe what transpired last summer.

It all started with an exceedingly stupid man coming up with an exceedingly stupid idea. Namely, Gustav. My enraptured audience are most likely fully aware of my obese, mentally defective owner, but nonetheless, I shall fill you in. Gustav weighs approximately two hundred and eighty six pounds, and has the intellect of a retarded goldfish. His job entails writing romantic novelettes for magazines one might find on the very back shelf of a sleazy corner shop. These stories all have plots similar to the Fifty Shades of Grey franchise, although the writing is far inferior. You think I'm exaggerating? A title of one of his masterpieces was "The Continued and Relentless Rape Of A Virgin Prostitute".

But don't be fooled by my insulting tone. Somewhere deep, deep, deep within the blackest pit of my heart, I suppose that I occasionally experience a glimmer of affection for the enormous gorillla. Erotic writing was not his profession of choice- he does, surprisingly, harbor an interest in ancient Egyptian deities and culture- but he gets on with in it in order to feed the love of his life. That being Yours Truly, of course.

However, the drastic difference in our personalities is bound to cause a considerable amount of friction. I, for one, require routine for my life to be comfortable. I have no disillusions of my own grandeur, but I certainly enjoy the luxurious touch, whether it be in diet or living space. The house we were occupying at the time of his now (between us) infamous notion was the very same Psycho-reminiscent house we moved into before I discovered the corpse of Pascha. He and Archie hadn't done too bad a job in terms of renovation. The creaking doors were now polished and well oiled. The tasteless wallpaper had been replaced with paint that I suppose could be seen as stylish. Fashionable even. Indeed, I was actually starting to like the place. The local company, grateful for my heroic actions of two years prior, treated me with the upmost respect, and I had, excluding the thug known as Kong, the pick of the sexiest ladies. Bluebeard and I spoke every day; our friendship and mutual understanding was something to treasure.

Then Gustav had to go and fuck it all up by getting Writer's Block. The man has proven himself to be incapable of lasting in a house due to his belief that location is solely responsible for any barren stages of inspiration he may experience. I've contemplated Gustav's writing impetus to be bleak at the best of times, but if he sees it fit to move, there's little resistance I can put up.

Thankfully, Archie stepped in at this point, drawing attention to the fact they'd invested rather a lot of money in the doing up process. "And," he had added, "what with the housing market crash, you're not going to make a profit by selling it." This was the first, and most likely the only time, I will ever thank the Gods for my owner's only human friend. This didn't resolve the problem of his little dry spell though. If I was being very generous, I may have been able to sympathise with the oaf on the subject. It was his only source of revenue, and therefore, by default, my only source of food. Nonetheless, I allowed myself to slip into a naive and foolish state of relief. It had appeared, for once, that a split decision was not going to be made.

I should've been realistic and expected the worst. There is nothing more horrible than having one's hope crushed- a lesson which you, my dear readers, would do well to remember.

The first sign of my miscalculation arose when, upon settling down for a nap on the sofa, I noticed a strange magazine lying open on the floor. Immediately, it struck me as odd, for Gustav never bought such mundane crap (unless he wished, for reasons known only to him, to celebrate the publication of a recent short story). It appeared to be open to a page full of car advertisements, or something along those lines. Due to a weary state of mind in no mood for intellectually challenging activites I disregarded it. And, when I woke up once more, it had evaporated into thin air. Swings and roundabouts.

Then came what was undeniably unusual; phone calls. Not just brief ones from automated ticket scams and charities with questionable morals. Long ones, with apparent, God forbid, social interaction. Gustav was completely inept at anything that even vaguely involved other people, so this came as a rather large shock to my system. Had I, after all these years, misjudged my owner? Had he been effectively hiding a large circle of casual and close contacts from my beady eyes? Was I suddenly going to discover one morning he had an IQ close to, perhaps even rivalling, my own?

The obvious answer, a resounding no, came on a bright sunny day that bore no presage of the impending horror I was about to endure. The sky was a delicate light blue colour, without a single cloud anywhere to be seen. Bright sun beams spilled over through the windows of the house, illuminating everything in a wondrous golden glow- postcard picturesque. Being an inherently lazy bastard, I was perched on our garden fence, staring out into the neighbouring yards. My busy mind was drifting from topic to topic, some deep and profound, others utterly bereft of any meaning whatsoever. These reveries are an almost daily occurence, due to the abhorred emotion we refer to as melancholia. A few simple hours musing over the small but greatly appreciated pleasures of my life are an excellent remedy to this. Most of the time, the subject of said ponderings are philosophical conjectures in books I have read, usually penned by the great Schopenhauer or Nietzsche.

This time, however, it was music. Music! I am neither an expert nor an avid listener, though the occasional symphony to send me off to sleep is never refused. I tend to go through stages with composers. If I recall correctly (and mark these words: only at a very old age will I not), my obsession had, at the time, been with the The Planets suite by Holst. To be more specific the sublime second movement, known as "Venus: The Bringer of Peace".

But I digress. What's important is that I was relaxing and minding my own business, two things that the average domesticated cat is world renowned for.

Then, all of a sudden, I felt large hands fix around my midrift. Letting out a furious shriek, I twisted and flashed my claws at the assailant, only to discover it was Gustav. The typical inane grin he always adopted when dealing with me distorted his flabby cheeks. Instinctively, I dropped the aggressive spectacle, but ensured to fix him with my grumpiest "I'm not happy with you" face. Boy, would he be getting a sulk later.

Naturally, I'd assumed he wanted a cuddle from his beloved or something along the lines. It was a nice day, for once. When his usual designated comfort spots (including the single deckchair or on occasion the sofa if I let him) were bypassed, I deduced that he was carrying me through the garden and round to the driveway. For what reason, I couldn't fathom in the slightest. The whole time Gustav was whittering things about how much I was going to adore something or other. This didn't sound too great; he usually launched into similar monologues whenever he'd impulsively purchased-

An RV.

A fucking RV.

Needless to say, I was ready to commit suicide there and then. The only thing that prevented me from a quick throat slit were Gustav's now noticeably deformed hands, forcing me to observe the vehicle in all it's detestable glory. The adverts I'd noticed in the strewn magazine, in hindsight, made a hell of lot more sense. The phone calls? No doubt discussions with a seller who'd been patiently waiting for someone with the mental capacity of Gustav to waltz along, and couldn't believe their good fortune. It wasn't even a good RV. My estimate was that it had seen at least two or three owners, obvious in the dirty, grubby surface that had probably once been white. The bonnet was covered in ugly scars of journeys that no doubted ended in misery comparable to the plot of "The Hills Have Eyes". In fact, being stranded in the desert and stalked by a feral family of cannibals seemed far more appealing than actually being inside the thing.

Once I'd eventually stopped muttering expletives under my breath, I forced myself to focus on what Gustav was rambling on about, then instantly regretted doing so. We were to get packed and leave on a road trip first thing in the morning. This is, I quote, the answer to all of our problems. We get to keep the house, and whenever I come down with Writer's Block, we can go off travelling somewhere! Isn't this bliss, Francis?

No. It mostly definitely wasn't bliss.

I loathe travelling, for the aforementioned reasons concerning general comfort, and indeed the certainty that I will never find anything more satisfying than a home. I would visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa and complain about the shabby architecture. I would grace the Statue of Liberty and moan about how it was originally French. Upon reaching the top of the Empire State, and taking in the beauty of the New York streets below, I'd long for the silk on my favourite cushion. Perhaps, on the inevitable day when the human race touch the galaxy of Andromeda, conquer the universe, and all the trees, shrubs and animals they once walked amongst have long since died out, they shall look back at the Earth. Yes. They shall look back and think that everything else is a bit shit.

The intelligent humans anyway. Gustav's future kin (assuming he does miraculously find a woman to love him) would probably mutter some incoherent rubbish at the sight of a star and faint. Therefore, at the crack of dawn the next day, we shoved our supplies into the RV and abandoned our humble abode in search of adventure.

I am proud to report that I didn't go down without a fight. He shoved me kicking and yowling onto the back seat, amongst various plastic bags stuffed to the brim with food and the somewhat pitiful pick of our most prized possessions. The window, just low enough for me to see out, made the experience of watching the house disappear into the distance all the more torturous. Twenty odd minutes later and, due to Gustav's incessant whistling, I was considering whether there was a realistic chance of me catching tinnitus. Then I'd have an excuse to launch into the loudest caterwhauls I could muster so as to signal I required a vet. Forty minutes slipped by and the already damaged material of the seats had been instilled with extra large claw marks. An hour into the drive and I'd descended into a cold, grudging acceptance of what had just taken place, paw in paw with a heavy dosage of the dreaded despondency. Why God had forsaken me remained the one enigma I couldn't resolve.

The sky had morphed into a rather magnificent orange, tinged with pink, when the RV began to slow. Peering into gloomy trees and a bushes that indicated we'd gone rustic, I perceived a metallic signpost. It was ingraved with the words "Yew Forest: Camping and Caravanning Club". Multiple snorts escaped my nostrils. I'd been, done and got the T-shirt of the countryside (signed by a rampaging group of murderous wildcats), so the prospect of returning to nature filled me with a sense of foreboding. At the very least, there were would be humans around, and any lingering brothers would hopefully be pets. I decided to ignore the possibility of dogs. Damn dogs.

Gustav pulled up to the gate, which had an inbuilt speaker so that the incoming tourist could ask the receptionist to buzz them in. Very convenient. The gate swung open and we drove inside. Taking in my surroundings, it appeared to be of a perfectly regular set up. The small roads that linked the many corners of the campsite were fashioned from concrete. Quaint pitches of freshly mown grass, by contrast, were separated by lines of shrubbery that had recently been trimmed. As a result, an overall aesthetic of neat and tidiness arose. One may have speculated that its owner merely liked things organised, but I was in a rather unforgiving mood. I envisioned a cold looking woman with large spectacles in her late fifties, who enjoyed nothing more than exercising complete control over her victims. This was the kind of person who'd fit right into George Orwell's "1984". There would be a rule or regulation on the site for absolutely everything: all RVs would have to face east, curfew would be at 7:30 sharp, animals would never be allowed out and any rebels would be ruthlessly oppressed, or just sentenced to firing squad. Did I mention she was a semi-sadist?

In place of my dystopian vision, a middle-aged individual emerged from a building made of bright red bricks. The structure was opposite the toilet block and I assumed it to be his office, whom at a closer distance I could see was wearing denim blue jeans and an informal jacket. These clothes clung to his lean frame like leaves to branches in a storm. He tapped on the RV window and my friend rolled it down.

'Evenin' sir,' came the brusque, practised voice. 'I'm Dale, owner of Yew Forest Camping. And you are...' He produced a clip-board from inside his jacket. 'Gustav Lobel, I presume?'

'Yep. I know I should've booked further in advance, but we only got this old thing yesterday-'

'Not a problem. Let me just find your pitch.'

The man glanced down at the clip-board once more, and upon looking up, caught sight of me in the back. 'Ah, I see you're a cat person!'

Within moments, the two had launched into a conversation about the "fastidious" and "idiosyncratic" nature of me and my species. I rolled my eyes and sat back down, curling up into a solitary, unapproachable ball (nonetheless, my ears did prick when they both admitted their aversion towards our inbred competitors for the title of world's most popular pet). Felidae do bare a strong link to many of the customs involved with ancient Egypt, meaning it was one of the few subjects Gustav could speak of with any eloquence and gravitas. Within plausibility.

This moment of a quiet suddenly forced me to realise the exhaustion lulling my limbs. The day's stress, anxiety and overall fucking shitness couldn't have passed by without its inevitable effects, and soon a dinosaur-esque yawn was shattering my vocal chords. Just as I was about to drift off, the engine burst back into life, and I raised my head to see Gustav thanking Dale. Lackadaisically, my head twisted to the side, and I took in an unusual sight.

The brick red office I'd noted from before had a light switched on its main room, casting a long shadow down the road and up to our vehicle. It also invited me to see inside, but instead of the most prominent feature being a desk, or some exotic plant that had been strategically selected to make things appear higher class, it was a cat. Due to the silhouette of the bulb, I could make out very little of its distinguishing features, let alone a gender, but some vague hunch told me it was a queen. Perhaps it was in the curves of her haunches, or the slick tail that whipped from side to side like an angered cobra, yet it wasn't this guess at femininity that struck me as odd. The cat, whether it be my imagination or not, was staring straight at me. Unflinchingly. I was sure of it.

Before I could pay the figure any closer attention, it was disappearing off into the distance, concealed by the passing tents and caravans. My eyes narrowed slightly. I wasn't scared. It would take a lot more than a cold look to frighten Francis. Unsettled, but not scared. I couldn't fathom why. Strange, for it always occurs to me that the fleeting glances and actions are the ones that stay with us the most. Take for instance kneading our mother's milk, which remains imprinted upon all cats throughout their lives. It's the same for fears, primal and illogical though they may be. The paranoia that comes with not knowing. The intensity that intuition told me was present in that stare. I felt that this cat knew something I didn't.

Knowledge. Our greatest boast, and our greatest fear.

That sounded a lot less pretentious in my head than it did aloud.

We approached our pitch, which of course just so happened to be in the darkest, gloomiest spot of the whole campsite. Brilliant. Gustav opened the door and stepped out, making his way over to what was probably an electrical hook up. I scratched my neck. I would probably discover that cat's thoughts, and indeed their true intentions, upon the dawn of the next day. A full inspection of where I was going to try and exist for however long fate saw fit was in order. But, at that time, what I really required was sleep, and some time to continue musing over why my life had to be so terrible.

I didn't get round to much of the latter in the end.

So there's Chapter One! Please consider dropping a review and telling me what you thought. :)

BTW, Syreni is a Latin word meaning "Mermaid". Take from what you will.