Poppy was absolutely panic-stricken.

She and her housefolk had gone camping in the mountains- but- but her housefolk had just-

Lightning cracked across the sky and a hawk called. Poppy scooped up her mouse and, eyes wide enough to see the whites, ran back to the cave she'd started to call home.

She slipped through the hole hardly big enough for her and stepped down the three steep steps and into the clearing. It was cold but the four caves on one wall nor the cave on the ledge were any warmer.

One moon ago a thunderstorm had broken out in the mountains, where Poppy and her owners were hiking. A particularly loud strike startled Poppy so much she had run from camp seeking a safer place to stay. She'd found this cave but when she returned to the campsite, everyone was gone.

She didn't blame her housefolk for leaving without her, but it didn't mean her heart didn't hurt when she got left behind.

Poppy quietly started to eat her mouse as the thunderstorm pounded outside, just as her routine had been for the past month.

(...)

Too many scratches. Too many scratches.

Every day, Poppy scratched a line into the cave above the ledge. The cave had a few sharpened stones from top and bottom that Poppy used to know the name of, but wouldn't know now.

Too many scratches for her to count. Was this a year visualized? She had no clue.

Poppy didn't know many things, but she knew a few things. She knew that finding a mouse and waiting for a hawk provided more prey than just the mouse. She knew hawks and eagles had claws and stars above, they were dangerous.

She knew that after the thunderstorms strands of red, yellow, sky blue and ocean-blue would spread across the sky. She knew she used to know the word for that, too.

She knew she was calling herself the Cat of Flying Colors.

She knew that one day a hawk had snatched her by the fern-green collar her owners had picked out for her and after struggling, she'd slipped out of it. She knew that after that day she no longer felt like she was waiting for a… a Nofur to take her home, no longer a pampered pet being fed dry pellets that tasted and felt like deep-fried tablescraps drenched in dirt.

She was the Cat of Flying Colors, master of the mountain. No Nofur dare tame her.

Then Flying Colors faintly heard a noise. Not as loud as thunder, but just as angry. A motor?

Slowly, Flying Colors padded from her cave and around the path of the mountain, all the way down into the big cliff were campers made their sites.

Sure enough, there sat that sickly-looking fern-green four-wheel-drive. Various dark-pelted Nofurs with darker tufts at their heads in too-bright accessories dragging packages and bundles out from the mouth of the monster.

Flying Colors turned around to make the journey back to her cave. There wasn't any greenery on her side of the mountain, not enough that Nofurs would be interested in, and the beach and ocean weren't hardly worth it.

(...)

Too loud, too loud.

Mice didn't like the sound of humans. Hawks didn't like the sound of mice. Songbirds hung around anyone who would listen and compliment, and had moved down to the camp. The songbirds moved, so Flying Colors went with them.

A warbler sat on a branch a tail-length under the cliff. If Flying Colors went down, she'd undoubtably break her neck on the rock below and die, still preyless. So, Flying Colors was twitching her tailtip and waiting for the warbler to fly up into her outstretched paws. Unfortunately, a cry of Nofur fear sounded behind her and the bird shot up, too fast for Flying Colors to catch. Valuing her safety over a meal that honestly wasn't hardly worth it, Flying Colors backed up on her haunches and closer to the Nofur.

Another cry and suddenly, Flying Colors' pelt was met with a flurry of paws. No claws came, rather worthless cold nubs. Flying Colors unsheathed her claws and narrowed her pupils to slits, about to attack. Atop her stood a ginger tom, hardly muscular and more fur and bone and stomach than power. A strange pink-and-white symbol cat at his chest rather than a bell or tags, and at the end of his paws his claws were replaced with the equally-pink nubs.

Flying Colors let out a hiss, batting him sideways back to his Nofurs with her claws sheathed. No cat could fight the Cat of Flying Colors and win.

The ginger tom leaped into the long-furred Nofur's arms and suddenly another rushed over, holding a strange silver stick. It let out a click and Flying Colors knew she didn't need to know the name of it to know she'd better run for her life. A pebble scraped against her tail and a thunder-like sound rang out from the contraption, but Flying Colors was out of sight too fast for another attempt.

Maybe some things could fight her and win.

(...)

It was late at night the next time Flying Colors heard a sound, the clattering of paws unused to stone walking along it. Flying Colors ignored all her instincts to lay there and die of starvation and stood, exhausted.

On the downsteps of her tunnel stood the tom, a yellow, blue and gray thing in his jaws, looking around. Flying Colors flattened her ears to her head.

"What do you want?"

The tom jumped, then purred, then made his way up the steps. Flying Colors didn't unblock the tunnel or let him inside. The placed the bag at the edge.

"I'm sorry my dad tried to shoot you," he mewed, "You look starved. I thought you'd like some food."

Flying Color backed up, reluctantly, and let the tom into his cave with his… food.

The tom came in and jumped down beside her, holding the bag in his hind legs and biting and pawing at the top. Until, eventually, came a zzrripp! and the tom tilted the bag over, grabbing it by the end, making everything fall out. They were tan pellets yet somehow looked softer than the things her Nofurs would feed her.

"They're salmon flavored!" the tom informed.

Flying Colors crouched over the pellets, slowly licking one up. It was a flavor, alright. Stronger than the hard pellets her Nofurs had given her. Flying Colors swore to the stars she'd blacked out for several minutes, because next thing she knew, all the tan things were gone. The tom blinked in surprise.

"Uh," he mewed, "My name is Archie."

The dark tabby nodded. "Flying Colors."

Archie tilted his head. "Flying Colors?"

Flying Colors backed away, "...Flying Colors. Thank you for the meal."

Without another word, she sprung into the cave above the ledge. Archie, stunned, bundled up his bag and headed out of the cave- not without one final glance at where Flying Colors had jumped.

(...) - vomit tw

A month. That's how long Archie and his owners had stayed in the mountains. Every day, the tom would come to Flying Colors and Flying Colors would teach him to catch prey properly.

Archie licked behind Flying Colors' ear and purred.

"Flying Colors," he mewed softly, "You were a housecat before you came to the mountains, right?"

Flying Colors cringed a bit, pulling her head away. She felt her heart pound harder against her lungs and ribs.

"Y-yeah?"

"Well," Archie went on, "If you're chipped, maybe my housefolk can return you to them."

Flying Colors felt her hackles rise. "Ch-chipped? Return?"

Archie nodded, "Yeah!" he exclaimed, standing and pacing around her. "Don't you miss your owners?"

"Ha!" Flying Colors shot up, startling Archie and making his own hackles rise. "Do I miss my owners? After they leave me here for over a year? Oh, Archieee…. The kittypet stereotype is that ginger cats are dumb!" Her voice changed to a growl, "You didn't need to prove it."

Archie flattened his ears to his head. "What? Surely they miss you, Flying Colors!"

"If they missed me they would've come looking after the storm passed," she replied icily.

Archie's eyes widened and he looked up at the tunnel. "...my housefolk will be looking for me," he mewed, then cringed, then turned to Flying Colors to apologize for his choice of words. Flying Colors had already turned away, so Archie just snapped his jaws shut and rushed out.

Almost immediately, Flying Color's stomach felt awful. Was it regret or was something wrong with her?

Either way, she rushed out and ran to a ledge. She hardly made it fast enough before some disgusting-feeling something was making it's way up and out of her throat. Hacking a bit and coughing up one other thing, Flying Colors leaned back and panted. It felt like her stomach was full of pebbles and it was not comfortable. She needed them out, but why was her body choosing like this?

Gaining her breath, Flying Colors dragged her paws onward, toward the river that lead down to the ocean. Cleanest non-rainwater the mountain got. Flying Colors forced herself to lay on her side and look at her stomach. She felt her heart skip a beat.

It was big. Too big for a half-starving cat surviving off either one mouse or housecat treats. Her teats looked like the color of a sunset. Flying Colors felt her chest tighten and her voice came out in a sob.

"Oh, stars above…."

(...) - end tw

Flying Colors was trying her best to make her way down to Archie's campsite. Inwardly she was still terrified of that man and his stick. Archie met her half-way.

"Flying Colors!" he exclaimed, voice strained, "I have, uh, news."

"Archie! So do I."

Archie sat down and shuffled his paws. "You first."

"I'm expecting kits! Yours!"

Archie's green eyes went wide. So big Flying Colors could see the whites around them.

"O-oh," he mewed, "U-um… Me and my owners. We're… we're leaving today."

Flying Color's heart skipped. "What?"

"We're leaving. Going back home."

"A-Archie you can't-" Flying Colors glanced around, desperate but unable to hold his gaze, "You can't leave me! How can I feed a kit and myself all alone?!"

Archie shook his head and stood. "I-I'm sorry, Flying-"

Flying Colors unsheathed her claws and lashed her tail. "Fine. Get out of my sight before I do something I'll regret."

Archie shuffled his paws, "I-I love you."

Flying Colors huffed. She didn't really have the heart to hurt him, not at all, but she was furious. Archie ran off, kicking up a bit of wind.

Yes, Flying Colors thought to herself, The kitten will be named Short Breeze.

(...)

Short Breeze was a dark tabby with her father's ginger patches, but just as handsome. She seemed to grow all-too fast. Then one day, Flying Colors had to tell her what that thunderous sound was.

Two weeks later, Short Breeze brought home two cats named Buck and Circe. Flying Colors knew the look in her eyes all too well.

(...)

Buck had renamed himself Buck's Antler to fit in with Short Breeze and Flying Colors. Circe had not changed her name.

Short Breeze purred and licked his cheek. "I'm going to name our child after you."

Buck's Antler hummed, "Hardened Hooves?"

"Tawny Spots."

"Fawn Heart."

"Arched Legs!"

Flying Colors shifted her elderly paws, then mewed, "No Arches."