Mistoffelees – Christine

Rum Tum Tugger – Raoul

Macavity – PhanTom

I do not own CATS or any Phantom references. I own the random names I tossed in during the first chapter. A story that is similar to my 'PhanTom of the Opurra'.

London, England was quiet – lifeless. Papers fluttered about the streets from the gentle breeze, leaves rustling and gently cascading to the ground. After London had burned down from a fire many years ago, the humans have all evacuated – taking their personal belongings with them. Houses sat empty, the park covered with litter, every little sound echoing off the building walls. It was no longer a tourist destination, but a long – lot memory of what once a beautiful city. The junkyard at the end of town was ripped apart, the trash and junk thrown about from the weather and the once panicking humans, hoping to find escape.

An old tom slowly made his way into the abandoned junkyard. His fur grew grey with age and his coloring was fading away. His paw trailed along the familiar piles of junk as his golden eyes gazed around sadly. This had once been his home – his pride and joy. He passed by a makeshift graveyard, walking along the old tombstones. He stopped in front of two, much larger headstones. 'Munkustrap' and 'Old Deuteronomy' were engraved on the separate gravestones. The tom bowed his head in respect, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He wiped his nose and ventured forward towards the clearing, where a small gathering of cats were taking place.

"…sold! To Josephine," the tom standing on the tire was saying. The queen smiled as she took possession of the old rocking chair that sat dusty and rickety. The old tom took place near the edge, slightly away from the others. His eyes froze in place when he caught sight of a familiar queen. The grey queen bowed her head in respect at the tom, whom quickly avoided her gaze to study what was happening in front.

"Showing here," a young tom spoke suddenly, holding up an object.

"These were the handmade bagpipes of the famous Rum Tum Tugger," the announcer said, staring around the crowd. "Son of Old Deuteronomy – the Jellicle leader. They are still in working condition, used and ready to be played once more. Shall we start at 50?"

One by one, paws rose to claim the bagpipes. The old tom stared intently, the corner of his lip turning up into a faint smile as he eyed the bagpipes. Ah, how youthful and carefree he was as a young tom. But all of that had changed when he grew older. The smile faded as he glanced at the grey queen, looking away once more.

"Sold! To Alkane," the announcer interrupted. Alkane – what a familiar name to the old tom. Oh, yes. He was the son of Alonzo and Cassandra. The tom grinned widely as he took hold of the bagpipes. Well, at least they were finally being put to use again, the tom mused to himself as he watched the young tom dart out of the yard.

"And now for the last object, queens and gentletoms," the announcer looked around gravely, his voice lowering. "This was once in the possession of the Napoleon of Crime. The Hidden Paw. Macavity." Whispers were immediately buzzing throughout the crowd. The tom held up his paw for silence. "He was most famous for being the Napoleon and the Hidden Paw, but alas, he was known by a different name: the PhanTom. Many had not known of this, other than the Jellicles that once occupied this space here in the yard…"

"Showing here," the tom from earlier said, showing the crowd an object.

In his paw sat a collar. It was the color of black, made of leather with small silver spikes spread out evenly. The queens in the yard gushed over the beauty of the collar, but were all hesitant, as it had once belonged to the notorious Macavity.

"Shall we start at 100?" The announcer asked. The old tom's ears perked up. He knew that collar. His paw rose slowly. The tom on the tire smiled warmly at seeing the tom and nodded. As they did with the bagpipes, paws rose and fell during the next couple of minutes. The grey queen gave a soft smile to the old tom and raised her paw. The tom frowned and raised his own paw again, bidding higher. This continued for a while.

"200? Do I see 200?" Finally, the grey queen lowered her paw. "Sold! To Rum Tum Tugger!"

The buzz in the crowd died down as they turned to face the old tom near the edge of the crowd. The Maine Coon was handed the collar, who kept his gaze down to avoid the stares of the other cats. He lightly fingered the collar, remembering the memories that came with it. Pain. Love. Hurt. Family. Tugger looked up as the crowd left, leaving him and the old grey queen standing alone by the TSE – 1 car.

"Hello," the raspy voice of the queen greeted, coming slightly closer.

"Mother…" Tugger whispered, staring at her and clutching the collar.

"It's been far too long, my son," Grizabella murmured, opening her arms for a hug. Tugger declined her offer, still watching her.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

Grizabella sighed. "The same reason you are here."

Tugger shook his head and stared out across the now empty yard. "I miss this place. I miss our friends and family."

"As do I, Tugger, but most things happen for a reason." Grizabella put a bony paw on the maned tom's shoulder.

"I visit their graves every day," Tugger whispered, staring down at the collar.

"Their souls may not have been able to go to the Heaviside Layer into a different life, but they are smiling down at you from above," she told him gently. The tom burst into tears and wept into his mother's headfur.

"Mother…" he moaned quietly.

"Rum Tum Tugger, you listen to me right now!" Grizabella demanded as firm as she could manage. "Do not let the past haunt you. Think about the good memories. Think about all the good times and forget the bad. Do you understand me?"

Tugger nodded meekly and wiped his eyes, pulling away. "Yes…"

"Good." Grizabella kissed his cheek. "I must be on my way. Take care, my son."

Tugger watched her leave, desperately wanting to reach out to her – to not be alone anymore. He sighed and limped down a familiar path, coming to an old human child's playhouse that had been converted into a den – his den. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped inside, sneezing from the dust from neglect and emptiness.

What had once been a cheerful and inviting den was now dusty and lifeless. His golden eyes gazed around, the feeling of crying wanting to overpower him again. No. He had to remain strong. For himself, his mother, and dead family and friends. Taking a seat on the makeshift bed of blankets, Tugger played with the collar in his fingers, doing what his mother told him to do:

To remember the good memories.

I wasn't too crazy about the conversation between Tugger and Griz, but whatever.