First and foremost, the title may be only temporary, it depends. I just came up with something quick and hope if fits in with the rest of the story. So, yeah. Don't get mad if I decide to change the title as the story goes on. First story in a long, LONG time so...sorry if my quality of writing has dropped, considerably, and I'm also sorry if you run into any spelling or grammer errors; I did spell-check, I just mistype sometimes, so warning in advance. Also, I seem to have an absolute obsession with commas: blame my dad, seeing as he's a grammer and writing freak and majored in English for no apparent reason, just for the heck of it. Always looking over my shoulder, correcting my 'terrible' grammatical (if that's a word) mistakes. But, looking towards the bright side, I've finally gotten up the nerve to once again begin my writing! So, yay! Also, this is my first story that's not about Warriors so yay again. I really hope you enjoy, flames are somewhat amusing, and, as always, R&R, PLEASE. I could use some critique. Some cheering on might be nice as well. x.x But, if you would please, not be too harsh. Just some pointers on how I can improve would be nice. And remember, this is more of an introduction to my character, so it's not supposed to be total straight-forward or action-packed. That'll come later. Rated T, just to be on the safe side.

Disclaimer: I don't own Night at the Mueseum. I only own my little character.

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I am the cat that they keep in the storage. I am the cat that the security guards view as their little rag-tag of a mascot. I am the cat that they keep to kill the mice, scare the rats, and to pretty much just save a little more of the nasty stuff they call 'put-to-sleep' medicine for the reject animals that really need it. In other words, I am the cat they keep out of the kindness of their hearts.

I live in the basement of the Smithsonian museum, or, perhaps, should I say, museums. Or would it be the storage room of the museums? Then again, it is awful big, so I don't much know if you could call it a 'basement'…But, for the lack of a better word, I guess we shall just have to settle with calling it the 'storage room' of the Smithsonian.

Quite an interesting place, really. Interesting for a cat, anyhow: lots of places to sleep, plenty of food, nearly complete privacy and silence…that is, until that mouse-brained creature of a monkey brought that cursed tablet down in to disturb the peace…but we'll get to that later, shall we? Now, back to the perks of the storage room…where was I, again? Privacy…silence…lots of sleeping accommodations-can't run out of them really. Feeling in need of something soft and bouncy? Go on over to the antique furniture section. Might have to rip up a few plastic tarps, but what the heck? This place can spare a few. Don't know why old furniture needs tarps anyway. It's not like anyone's going to sit on them…Well, scratch that. I, the guardian of the storage room, will sit on them. Back on topic, however…Feeling that all that softness and squishiness is giving you an awkward sleeping position? Head on over to one of the many, many wooden crates or semi-cars around here. Lots of them. Lots of color selection as well. Can get a bed any color you want, just gotta look a bit. Or how about you're feeling like you want to get up somewhere high? There's lots of gorilla and jumbo shelves around here…very tall, they are. Very satisfying to one who finds themselves in need of being up somewhere high. Why would you want to sleep somewhere high? Well, I don't know why; I guess you get kind of paranoid being in the dark down here all the time…sometimes the shadows are not what they seem, my friend. Sometimes the shadows are not what they seem.-But, back on topic, and through all that mindless babbling of mine, I've just remembered where I was in speaking of the perks of the storage room: darkness. I absolutely adore the darkness. Only a few lights down here, and those are dimly lit, just for security. Makes sleeping very easy. Also trains the vision. Makes the eyes sharper, the mind clearer. Well, except of course when I get lonely-yes, lonely-down here. Did you know that a cat, with as much pride and self-respect we possess, could get lonely? Well, we can. Especially me. Of course, I know I'm not always alone. Sometimes those security guards-very sweet and kind they are. Morons, but sweet-will come down here, whether it be a dare by their guard friends or just to test their own level of courage by braving the twisted, nasty corridors of the Smithsonian…I don't always know. But they do seem to like me. Are fond of me, even. Whenever I appear, just out of the hallways and passages of the storage room myself, they seem reassured. They'll pick me up, give me a stroke, say, "There's a good kitty. Yeah. You're such a brave little kitty. Too bad you have to spend your whole life locked up down here…" and whatnot, then will look down one of the many corridors, all dark and foreboding, their free hand holding out a flashlight, the beam trembling upon whatever they shine it over as their hand is shaking from fright, will gulp with a slightly dramatic finality to it, then will slowly, me in one arm, the flashlight in the other, creep down that first hall, slowly…ever so slowly…until they'll give one big shudder, maybe let out a little whimper, turn around quickly and, with stiff steps, hurry over to the huge light switch and turn everything on. Waste of power, but what can I say? They are humans with not at all the darkness-equipped vision I have. Pity. A poor pity it is. But their lack of sense and vision sure gets them and their annoying selves out of my home quicker than them getting lost in the dark maze of the storage room and eventually dying of starvation ever could. That it does do.

My most favorite security guard is probably the one they call 'Brundon'. Of course, his nametag says 'Brandon' but that's besides the point. I guess they either just forgot to put a 'U' on there or his parents didn't know a chuck about how to spell. Either theory will do. But back to it, my favorite is perhaps the security guard named 'Brundon'-out of laziness on putting those two annoying apostrophes there every time I mention his name, I will just put the word Brandon. I only hope you remember to pronounce it correctly.-The reason he is my favorite is because he's twice as scared of the dark as the other guards, jumps whenever I allow him to spot my reflectively glowing eyes before I emerge from my dark realm, always forgets his flashlight, and is allergic to cats, which does me nicely. Of course, I doubt he realizes this for he always picks me up when he comes down to give me my food and water, and, sometimes, repulsing as it sounds, will sneeze upon my beautiful fur of which I will have to clean all that disgusting mucus off of eventually, disgusting as it is. Despite that, however, I must say that he is my favorite security guard. And not only for his stupidity and lack of a brain, or his quickness on getting out of my home and allowing the peace to return, but also for his kindliness, his funny little disposition of friendliness and somewhat, albeit, irritating aura of quirkiness that seems to follow him everywhere…he's quite a character, that fat, videogame-addicted excuse for a man is. Rather amusing, even. If only slightly. And you must take into consideration that I only see him for, tops, five minutes about every two, three, times a month or so; in other words, for me to label him as 'amusing and friendly' in that short of a time period of which we commune, he must really be that amusing and friendly.

Well, besides the security guards, the slight description I gave you of my normal, everyday life and, I must add the rather rare but occasional new shipment of new exhibits to store, I must say that there is, pretty much, nothing else that ever happens down here and only one other thing to do, living every day and every night at the very bottom of the largest museum in the world, and that is read. Yes, read.

Odd as it sounds, I, as a cat, do read. Not many cats can. In fact, very few. But I, as on most things, am an exception. Do not stereotype, my friend. Never stereotype without exceptions, because there will always be some. The universe is quite a diverse place in which to live, which makes things interesting…especially when all you've got is the world's history to keep you company. Along with about a thousand plastic replicas of the people in history to go along with it. And I haven't even read all of them, have barely seen even half of a half of the things they store down here. Yet. However, as a side note, I must admit that it is somewhat creepy to have all those eyes, all those thousands of eyes, just staring at you. Constantly, without blinking. But that's something you will probably never experience, seeing as, if you are reading this, you are probably not a cat living in the storage room at the bottom of all the Smithsonian museums, pretty much all combined into one, which makes it the biggest museum in all the world. Perhaps even all of history, even. I haven't read about that down here, about if the Smithsonian is the biggest museum in world history. They probably wouldn't keep that information down here, anyhow, seeing as they do want to keep people coming. And who doesn't want to come to the biggest museum in world history? Not many people-with a liking for history, or for the world they live in, for that matter-would raise their hand to turn that opportunity down. Not many. However, like everything else, there are exceptions.

I must say that my favorite thing to read about down here, in the storage room of the biggest museum in-theoretically-world history, is animals. I, being a cat, am very much quite interested in animals: their anatomy, history, interactions with man, stories of companionship between them and man…all of that juicy stuff. It's all very interesting, absorbing, can make the hours pass like heartbeats. Then again, being locked up down here in, basically, a basement storage room, I never can tell what time of day it is. My life now revolves around pretty much two things: the time they bring the food, when I'm tired, and the time I spend reading. The only thing that really keeps time around here is, literally, my heartbeat: a constant, quiet, solid rhythm is has. Always there, never faltering. Unlike the rest of my life…that goes pretty much however the wind blows, however it wants to go, never a steady, unfaltering beat. Always an unpredictable, swinging song that has no harmony, nothing I can always count on. But I've gotten used to that. It doesn't bother me much anymore. Because, after all, when you're a cat, you always have something to hold on to, claim and never let go, and that's your pride. You have your pride, your self-respect, yourself, and that will never leave you. Well…hopefully. As I said before, never blot out all the exceptions or contradictions. There's always gonna be some.

In my time spent down here, measured by the heartbeats, in my wonderfully quiet, peaceful, dark home, lit only by the few florescent light bulbs which allow enough light down here to keep me from going, pretty much, insane, I have found that, out of all the exhibits, all the stories that each contain their own little tidbit of history, there is one story that I adore very dearly, a story that I prize most of all, one that I put above all other stories for its grandeur of faith and courage, willingness to save, and simply overall its unconditionally wondrous love, is the story of a man called Jesus Christ. Well, He wasn't exactly a man, or, at least half of Him wasn't, for, according to His story-of which I found in a rather old book down here, all dusty and grimy it was for it hadn't been used for a very long time-He was half man and half god. Or, in other words, a child of a man and a god, a, more specifically, god known as a god called God, or in, apparently, His chosen people's language, a god named Jehovah. Quite an authentic name, it is, Jehovah. A very specific name and, from my being down here, I have learned that this particular names means something very, very divine…Extremely divine… It means 'He Causes to Become' or, more simply put, 'I Am'.

I Am. It's a very distinguished name; not very many have a name like that, no. No, most people you come across are named after more simple things, things that are pretty or admirable to the human mind, such as flowers, or warriors, or great rulers or beautiful places, water or fire, courage and love…But rarely, very rarely, if ever, do you come across a being with a name such as the like of 'I Am'. It's a very divine name, a name that holds so much meaning yet which takes so little to speak…Very simple yet so complex, which is a hard state, I assure you, to achieve. At least for the human mind. But a god? Especially this god, this…well, being described so vaguely yet so thoroughly in this book that concerns the tales of this man, this other being, named Jesus Christ…I Am's Son. It is a very interesting, very true tale, it is. And the Book in which I found it in, the book known as the Bible, it contains many other stories, great stories, all of them. And, according to this wonderful book, these stories, each and every one of them, are true.

I find that very incredible, that all these tales, stories of faith and, pretty much, the history of man's interaction with this God, this Jehovah, this I Am, is all very wondrous. Very…I don't know…unearthly, I'll call it for lack of a better word. But, then again, perhaps there really is no word that can describe this Bible, this pure work of extraordinary writing, this history…It's very much amazing.

Of course, there are things that are quite extraordinary, as in it's almost seemingly impossible that they could happen, such as the things they call 'miracles' in this book. For example, apparently, in the story of Jesus Christ, this man-god is crucified, which, I believe, is a Roman method of killing a criminal and exactly three days after His death, He arises again…Conquers-turns back-death. Can you imagine that? I have heard of people cheating death, but conquering it? That is a…a whole 'nother story in itself. Something quite unfathomable. But, as I have stated, this is a world full of incredible things; you cannot always outlaw the impossible here. And besides, I should know a little about cheating death…Of course even I, a cat with all of my nine lives, cannot really beat death, but I sure have cheated it. Many, many times have I cheated it. Probably more than nine. In fact, I know it's more than nine. I've conned death out so many times, even I, in my world of history, facts, and darkness, have not the memory to count them all. Barely care to remember how I almost died in most of them; I've seen my life flash before my eyes too many times to remember each and every one of my near-death experiences. And besides, they say to enjoy life while you can, and surely they mean that you should not constantly think about dying if you are supposed to enjoy life, and who would find their death to be at all a desirable thing? Not many. Life is a gift, and you should always, always treasure it. After all, your life could end in the blink of an eye and you would be gone; that gift of life would disappear, just like you. Of course, like everything, there are exceptions; some do desire, wish for, wait for in earnest, for their death.

I am not an exception. I take heed to this gift of life of mine and I enjoy it. Of course, there are the bad times, whether they be incredibly boring or I read about something very sad and feel terrible or have a stomach ache from eating a bad mouse, but I do not yearn for my death. At least…not yet.

I do not fear death, however. I do accept death as a fact of life, as there must be a beginning and an end, but I do not wish for it. Not now. Perhaps, perhaps after many more years or perhaps if I fall down the wrong path in life and I find myself in an endless torture, one without an end until my life has passed, I shall wish for my death. But, so far, I have not fallen down one of those paths. I am glad of it, too. However, there, as I've said several times before, is an exception to this rule, this law of a beginning and an end, and that is the man, the man-god, I mentioned before: Jesus Christ. He lived, He died, yes, but He also rose. And then He didn't die again, no. No, He, according to this Bible book, then ascended into a place called 'Heaven' and now sits at the right hand of His Father, Jehovah, I Am. There, until the end of the age, He awaits until the end of the world, the end of the world as we know it, at least, draws forth. He will be the end of the earth. For, as His father, part of this Jesus Christ Himself, says, "He is the beginning and He is the end. He is the Alpha and Omega. The First and the Last."

I don't know if I can believe, really, truly believe, this, however. It all seems just too…just too…extraordinary. But this world is extraordinary…So there really is no answer to whether this story, this tale, is true or not. I shall only have to wait and see, just as any other. I am quite sure that, if this Jesus Christ can conquer death, when He brings the world to and end, along with this life, I shall surely, not even with my great string of luck, not be able to cheat death again. Quite surely I shall not.

So, now that you have read of this, this little beginning to one of the many, many stories of me, the cat whom they keep in the storage room of the Smithsonian, the cat they keep out of the kindness of their hearts, hopefully you shall understand who I am and just exactly where I am coming from as you hear and read of this tale, adventure, of me. You shall know how I, the cat, begin to fit into all this…this mess that I am about to tell you about, this story of mine, and you shall know how my peace, a peace that I had managed to keep for so long down here as the storage room cat, is finally disturbed, and quite abruptly, I may say, and you shall know how I, the basement cat, shall fit into all of this. Surely, you shall.

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First note: I came up with this whole idea, or story, more like, while playing with my little brother's Playmobile Egyptian set. I was just playing along with all the little figures, and suddenly I began to play out this story in my head. And it, like all my little games that eventually turn into stories, just kept growing and growing, and getting a bit better, that I decided to write about it. So, yeah. That's where this whole thing came from.

Anywho, I didn't put you to sleep, did I? Well, if you're reading this, I guess you're still awake, so that's good. This chapter, or, rather, introduction, was rather more of a train of thought than a straight-forward sort of thing. I know, I do realize I might cling to some topics a bit too long, but I was sort of just writing whatever popped into my head, revising a bit here and there where I forgot things, but mainly just a run of my thoughts. I also realize that I leave my character still somewhat vague, as in actual appearence and, of course, my little cat character's name. Don't worry, it'll all come later. Just remember, patience is a virtue. It'll all come in good time. I also know that this, so far, doens't have much to pertain to Night at the Mueseum...you'll just have to wait for that, too. But don't worry, it does have something to do with NatM. Thank you for reading and, please, R&R.