Sorry I was a week late! D: It was just that I had a really, really busy week last week: Mom's birthday, a super-long school project due, lots of homework, first volleyball practice...a lot. So that's why this is late. Again, sorry! Dx Also, I had planned for this chapter and another chapter to all be one chapter...then I looked at the word count and saw a grand total of over 10k words and I was like, 'No way am I making that all one chapter!' So I cut it into two chappies. Sorry I lied: this one wasn't very exciting like I promised it would be, but the next one will be, that I'm pretty sure of, seeing as I've already written it. xD Anyways, please read AND review! And thank you very much to my two reviewers so far; you guys make me want-and try-to write faster. :3
Disclaimer: I dun own Night at the Muesuem. If I did-well, let's not get into that.
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You know, the first thing you think when you hear men cursing-let alone shouting curses-you think, What the heck is going on? Is someone dying? Well, maybe you don't consider the idea that someone is dying, but you certainly ought to think, What the heck is happening? And, when you live in nearly utter and complete silence at near all times, it's even a bit more of a concern. Especially when you hate noise. Or don't like people all that much. Or are a cat.
Of which I very much do, do, and am.
Utterly hate them all-perhaps hate is a bit strong, though very, very much dislike might cut it-, but I especially, very quite much more than the others listed above, dislike noise. It's downright terrible. Just awful. It makes my ears ring, my fur bristle, my ears flatten, and my whiskers twitch. Hate it. Absolutely despise it. With a passion, I might add.
Especially when those shouts are curses, something that might even irk me more. You know, I really don't believe in cursing; some may say it's only a word, but they, quite horribly, fail to realize that a word is not just a sound you make: it has a meaning. And, sometimes, it has a very vicious meaning; one that can make your ears ring, your fur bristle, your ears flatten, and your whiskers twitch. Be very careful what you do with words, my friend. They are not playthings that you can simply throw around and have fun with; they mean something. I suggest you remember that. It may save you a bit of trouble some day. It may even earn you a little respect, as seeing as you don't use them. Like I've always said, I believe that when people-and cats alike-resort to cursing, they are simply not capable of using a more proper, better, less vulgar, but with the same amount of power, word. I suggest you be very careful.
And so, there it was, I, lying at the near-bottom of the storage room of the largest museum in-supposedly-world history, desperately and ever-so-joyously clinging onto my newfound prize, a much-missed item, my elder red brick, it being so old that its edges had well crumbled away, leaving them dull and slightly dusted in maroon, that I heard the sudden-though not utterly shocking, seeing as visits to my home (not including the bringing of my daily food and water) are rare but not wondrous surprises to be savored and enjoyed for every precious moment-and, dare I say, rather coarse shouts and angry yells of men-that I presumed by the pitch of their voices-, the screech of the Smithsonian vault entrance being opened, the distinguished purring hum of a motor, and the ever-so-irritating sound of something, rather large, I thought, falling and crashing.
Now, seeing as I do live in near complete silence around ninety-nine point nine percent of my time, you would probably think my first reaction would be to jump-or at least jerk a little in surprise, even slightly startled by the sudden eruption of noise in my oftentimes quiet and peaceful home… Not at all. Not even close. In fact, the first thing I did do was roll my eyes, both irritated and annoyed rather than surprised or alarmed, for, as the fact goes, I am quite regularly bothered by humans; humans and all their noise and talking. Particularly I hate their little devices, little things with screens and, quite a lot, have little fruits on them…oh, what are those fruits called? Ohhh…What are those called…Oh, yes! Apples. Humans often, especially the delinquent night guards that feed me, have little devices, little tablets, with screens that move, -oh, the horror-make lots and lots of noise, and have apples on them. I believe they are called cell phones, whatever those are. Isn't a cell a prison cage, somewhere where humans lock criminals? Or how about those tiny little things that make up human-and cat's-bodies? In fact, I do believe that the word cell can mean a lot of things-but what does it have to do with a little tablet device that has a screen, shows pictures, makes noise, and has these weird just-out-of-college night guards talking on them about every single time they come down-or, a better question, why do they point it at me, press a button, and make a picture of me appear on the screen? Of course, I am quite beautiful, perhaps a little lovely to look at even, with all my silky soot-black fur, interwoven and marked through with rather eye-catching moon-silver stripes-a silver tabby I think they'd call me. And my eyes, oh!, my eyes. Like little blue bouncy balls that sparkle, one of the night guards had told me as he had, like all of them, admired my beauty on one of his umpteenth attempts to brave the twisted labyrinth of the Smithsonian vault, probably another dare. However, seeing as his little developing mind probably couldn't fathom a better vocabulary description other than, "-Little blue bouncy balls that sparkle-" I'm sure it's safe to say that he probably meant, and he would have said this if he'd had a more, if only slightly, intelligent and well-developed brain, two points of utter astounding blue beauty, two little orbs of pure and extraordinary azule-as the good Spanish would put it-, tinted ever-so-lightly with the smallest hints and fathoms of turquoise, entwined with the most absolutely authentic touches of the lightest indigo, a very, very small amount, but there. Two droplets of astonishing splendor, fit not even to the lowest depths of the greatest king-for, very truthfully, it could only be such as that of a cat, and only the best of the best of cats, the children of Bast as the pharaoh's once said, that could possess such lovely, utterly gorgeous eyes. Magnificent works of art, they are. The creator of this stunning design should be absolutely proud of himself, just simply and bluntly proud. Quite nothing could equal to the sight of those eyes-quite nothing at all in the world…
And that's exactly what the night guard would have said, if only he'd had a better vocabulary and a bit of a more clever and/or poetic brain. But, sad as it is for all of us, he did not have quite such a well-developed brain, nor, probably, the cleverness or the ability to create poetry to even speak such as description as I've just shown you. Quite tragic indeed.
But, back and onward from my little going-on about noise that somehow, eventually, led to the splendor of my eyes, it was there, hugging on tightly to my newfound prize, my heart filled with a long-lost yearning which had, finally, been fulfilled at the site of the red stone, at the near-bottom of the largest vault of the biggest museum in world history, that I heard the crashing of something large, the purr of a motor, the straining cry of the poorly-oiled entrance to the storage room being lifted up, and the shouting curses of angry men, that I rolled my eyes, very much quite annoyed. As I've said, I was not at all surprised by the disturbance to my peace, not at all, but I was very much irritated. And, dare I say, somewhat curious. After all, it is somewhat rare to have visitors straying down to my dark, dusty home, filled with the thousands of eyes of the many manikins and exhibits that line my hallways and passages, something of which many might find a little bit creepy, if not just slightly disturbing, shouting and crying cusses out to each other, their voices raised in anger. And, I have to admit, I was somewhat curious.
So, twitching my whiskers, still rather irritated at the noise, I lifted my head from it being rested on the red stone, my red stone, and looked into the direction that the shouts were coming from, though it was utterly and obviously quite useless, seeing as I cannot see, despite my lovely cat's night-vision, through many, many shelves and rows of manikins and semi-cargo-crates, all decking and lining the paths and walkways of my great, and, albeit, slightly foreboding, home. But, despite the uselessness of it, I looked anyways, eyes trained forward, my ears, though protesting to the noise which was, from my position, rather faint though still annoying, pricked to catch the slightest sounds the voices made that carried through the hallways and passages and stairwells of the storage room, which was quite far, though not too far for my ears to pick up even a little bit of it.
Continuing to stare forward, off into darkness, I barely blinked as I heard another crash-this one not as loud as the previous. It was promptly followed by more shouts, however, for the record of the men, these words just as quite blasphemous, but, due to keeping the audience, I'll replace some words with some that are a little less…vulgar:
Man One, I'll call him: "Oh, good god! Can you not knock stuff over when you're trying to get the crud-darned thing in here? Geez! This is fragile stuff here, not your average, everyday crap."
Man Two: "Looks like everyday crap to me. All I see here is an oversized, ugly red semi-car."
Man One: -And I could imagine him rolling his eyes saying this- "There's stuff that's in there, you idiot."
Man Two: "I knew that."
Man One: "Of course you did. Now, are you going to just sit up there on your darned, lazy butt? Get down here and help me lift this stupid thing back up to where it belongs!"
Man Two: "Coming, Your Highness."
…
Yes, not your average conversation between to grown men…but, when your down in the basement of the largest museum in all world-history, you tend not to think about it too much. Besides the delinquent night guard's rather unintelligent chatter on their little cell phones, this is about all the conversation I get down here. So, I live with it.
Anyways, as their brief conversation came to a close, I found myself straining my ears forward, flickering them from time to time as if to get a better hold of the sound bouncing off the walls and jumbo shelves and semi cars, through the couple of stairwells, over and around the many, many manikins and the stored exhibits that accompanied them, all the way to my ears, very delicate pieces of equipment indeed. Very delicate. But I still clutched on to my red rock, the brick, still feeling its elder, elder warmth pulsing through me, returning an old feeling I had lost for quite some time. And I was very happy to have it back.
But I was also curious, to my surprise, and even rather yearning to go and see what was going on up above me-up where the men were. Thing was, I didn't really know why. As I've said, new shipments of storage are pretty rare, but nothing to be savored. Especially when the two workers shipping the objects liked to cuss and shout. A lot. And I hate noise, nearly as much as I hate cussing. But, and, albeit, it was a very strange feeling, I simply felt that I just had to go up there and see this new shipment…It rather startled me. And…it even might have frightened me. But only a little. Just a very little. After all, I was still in my home, the very heart of the place that I knew best. No one could outdo me in these tunnels, these twisted caverns, this labyrinth. No one knew these old, dusty passages as well as me, not even the Smithsonian owner could navigate this place like I do; like a ship's captain. This is my home, where I live and work and play-or, just sleep-and no one, except no one, should know this place better than I do. No one could know this place better than I do. So why should I be afraid in my own home?
I didn't know. I truly didn't know.
But I was very much complied to go see these men-okay, maybe not so much the men-but this new shipment of stock. It was really just…a twist, one of many, of Fate. Or maybe old Destiny had put her old, playful hand-or paw-down in my life at this particular moment and just simply said, "Do it. Go and see." Simple as that really…But who could ever call the work, much less the plans, of Destiny-or Fate. Or, according to the Bible book, the wondrous 'I Am'-simple? Truthfully? No one. Absolutely no one. Only a very much well-organized and well-ordered and purposed being could do such a thing-a being with a plan, with a creation that it itself controlled, a being who knows all things. None of us, except they themselves, of course, are as such. Not a single one.
And, seeing as where I was in life and how very compelling this command of the one who controls all-whoever it may be-I would have very much and very willingly went right along with this new turn that-out of laziness, I shall simply call whomever they are, Fate-Fate had put forth to me…If only it had not been that I had happened to find this red stone, this wonderful stone that had been something I had yearned for for so, so very long, that held a warmth that I very much missed…If only I had not stumbled upon this scarlet brick, which was, probably, in fact, another twist Fate had lain out for me in it's great scheme for my life, I would have very readily went along. And, quite frankly, what a scheme it has been. After all, what better life can you get than being a cat, rather a incredible, beautiful, little astounding creature all on its own, that lives in the very bottom, the dusty, old basement, of the vault of the biggest museum in, supposedly, world history? Truthfully, I've seen those off quite worse. Very much quite worse off. I would say it would be…oh, perhaps in the top twenty. That is, if you look at how many lives there are and how bad or good your particular life can go. Of course, there would be others that would beg to differ. But differences are the spice of life. You live and you let live. Let each man have his own cup of tea and all that. Very true. All of it very true.
And so, having it been established that Fate had put forth this feeling, this rather unsinkable and undeniable sensation that just filled me from ears to the very last hair on my silver-and-gray tail-tip, and I would have been very willing to go along with it, but yet…yet I could simply not leave-abandon would be a more appropriate word-my red brick, the one that filled me with that ancient warmth, the one I had lost for, oh, so long. It just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be good. In fact, it would be bad. Quite bad, really. For, as I turned my eyes away from the blackness, looking towards where the sounds of the shouts were coming from, and instead looked down towards the red brick, I felt a pinch of sadness tremor through me, making its way like a rather fat rat with thick fur that you can barely swallow down your throat through my body. I had lost this brick, this little rock, for so long…and yet, and just only after Fate had finally given me the way to it, to return to it and its comforting warmth, Fate had also directed me down another twist, another path, in my course of life. No, it was not a path I at the moment understood, neither comprehending the purpose nor the time or place that Fate decided for it to happen, but it did happen. It was happening. Here. Now.
And now the question was, Do I ignore Fate, or do I obey? In one situation I lose, and yet in the other situation I lose. For, in one, I disobey Fate, my perhaps creator, and in the other I lose something very special to me. Again.
For how can you ignore Fate? It is the almighty, the being that directs and posses, created, your life. For you were begot through another's path in life, and, therefore, did Fate not create you, too? And, if it did so, how are you capable of, how are you able to bear, disobeying the laws of Fate? For, when Fate tells you to do something, do you not do it? Or is it Fate directing you to not do what it told you to, laying down another trail that you must walk in your lifetime? That, no one will ever know. Only one shall know, and that one shall be Fate itself. It's a bit confusing, though, I must admit, even to the sharp, keen mind of a cat. Looking through all the scenarios and diplomats in such ponderings…quite a feat for the one who can finally answer. Not that anyone ever will.
And so there I lay, my paws resting-no, clutching-onto my red brick as the pulling tug of Fate's grew a bit harsher in the pit of my stomach, urging me, telling me, commanding me to go, yet still my heart did not want to leave my stone, only just so short a time after I'd found it, right here, near the bottom of the Smithsonian storage room, in a section very much largely possessed by Egyptian artifacts, and yet in the midst of them all lay a red stone, lying behind the shadow of the battle armor, at the very bottom of one of the many, many jumbo shelves, that of which I didn't know if I could ever find again for, despite the lack of natural elements down here in my labyrinth home, scents usually do fade…and I did not want to lose it again-never again. Closing my eyes and resting my head upon it, hugging it tight, I lay there for a few moments, the somewhat continuous crashes as the two men who were loading the new shipping stumbled and scrambled with the cargo they had dropped, or had knocked over in their clumsy way of getting the new shipment into the museum vault, the tug of Fate's growing ever steadily stronger the longer I waited, constantly commanding me to go... Leaving my eyes closed, I had one single thought echoing through my head, laying there, I don't want to leave…I really, really don't want to leave…
But by a few heartbeats later, I had already pulled myself away from the brick, slowly and stiffly-stiff from the wrenching misery filling my entire being, paining every last fiber of my little cat self-climbing up and over the Egyptian battle armor box, out of the shadows of the jumbo shelf, into the darkness, lit only slightly by the florescent light bulb high overhead, into the alleyway of the Egyptian-cluttered section of the Smithsonian storage room, off into the darkness, and towards the sounds of the two men coming from somewhere overhead, somewhere above; away from the red stone, my red stone. It was hard to leave, very hard. So hard that I didn't know if I could do it…But I didn't look back. When you face something hard, something painful, you never look back. Ever heard of the tales of the ancient Greeks? Or how about one of the stories in the great book of I Am, the Bible? Those tales should only prove you should never look back. Bad things happen when you look back.
I knew that the bad thing that would happen to me would be I would not be able to leave. Never. Not even with the demanding being of Fate urging me, pushing me, onward, away from the red brick, I couldn't leave if I looked back. So I didn't. I was, once again, obedient to Fate, with its many twists of life it seemed to have in store for me…some of them seemed quite cruel. Ever so cruel…But when you live life, you have to take the good as well as the bad. For, as the ancient Chinese used to say, "The miracle is not to fly in the air, or walk on water, but to walk on the earth." Be grateful: it'll get you places.
And so I followed my scent trail back along the path I had come, jumping over storage items when I had to, curbing around them when I didn't; I didn't feel in such of a wonderful mood anymore. I padded onward, setting my pace at a brisk trot, making sure of myself that I would not miss the men, and neither their new shipment. Fate had told me to, and I would obey. Forward I made my trail, following the pathway of my scent, not barely having faded seeing as there were no elements for it to weather here, down here in the bottom of the storage room, padding through the darkened corridors, trotting swiftly and surely through the florescent-lit hallways, always following the same trail that I had taken here. And, as expected, slowly but surely the shouts of the men grew louder, more defined and clear, as they didn't echo quite so much as I put fewer walls between myself and them. By the sound of it, they were still struggling to put whatever they had knocked down back into place, and quite a time it sounded they were having. Groaning, moaning, shouting, growling, whimpering, and cursing galore, not that I will go into any detailed description, mind you. I will simply leave you to wonder yourself of just what they were saying.
Still padding along the trail of my own way, I found myself heading up one set of stairs-no more than five steps at the most; I hadn't bothered to count-trotting my way through many, many corridors and alleys in my labyrinth of a home, then found myself heading down the steps of another set of stairs, probably the exact same amount of steps as the one I had passed over before. And, all the while, as each step I took brought my farther and farther away from my now, once again, lost treasure, I found the throb of pain, of longing, for the red brick growing a little less harsh, a little less hard, in the pit of my heart, my soul. But it still ached.
I wasn't too sure it would ever cease to ache again.
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Another chapter written and posted. It was a little-very, very little-more exciting than the previous two chapters, though still not wham, bam, IN YOUR FACE exciting. That'll come later, I promise. Sorry for any spelling or grammar errors that I may have missed; I did go through it with spell-check, but I may have missed some... But anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and, since I already have the other chapter written I'll be posting it today, too. :3 Thank you for reading and PLEASE review!
