Disclaimer for depictions of depression, suicidal tendencies, and a dash of existentialism.

As always, thanks for everyone who has left reviews - Guest(s), musicaltheatress0978, and elijowa, who's review actually inspired me enough to finally finish this chapter and post it. You guys rock!

He woke up in darkness - a cold and empty void of his own making.

U-b-i-q-u-i-t-o-u-s.

I-n-e-s-c-a-p-a-b-l-e.

Nobody else sees it, not Munkus or Jenny or Jelly or mother. Nobody else feels it the way he does - nobody could think to understand...to smother the beast lying dormant inside him, yearning for escape.

It hurts.

He hurts.

He hurts and he is...being touched. Prodded, by soft and d-e-l-i-c-a-t-e paws. Vicky is staring at him with her wide blue eyes, consoling but uneasy. A white blotch surrounded by nothing but black.

"You were moving a lot," she signs slowly. "Another bad dream?"

Quaxo didn't mean to wake her up. To cause problems of any sort, it be a n-u-i-s-a-n-c-e to everyone around him.

But that's what he was, wasn't he?

"Sorry," he signs back feebly. "I'll move."

He found himself sleeping next to Vicky quite often of late. She wasn't fluffy like Tugger, or warm like Munkus, but...he needed the touch. To remind himself that he wasn't alone, floating in some eternal vacuum of his own thoughts.

But she wasn't Tugger. Nobody was Tugger.

(He was bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. It's everywhere. It's on the floor and the bedsheets and the cabinets and his fur. It's sticky and warm and it doesn't come off. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and it doesn't come off. It will never come off. They tell him he is clean now; unblemished. But he can still smell it. And it will never come off.)

Tugger hates him. He must. Quaxo knows he does. He knows because he was the one to hurt him. Tugger invited him in his den and then he goes and hurts him.

They all hate you.

Everyone here.

He could feel the tears bubbling in his eyes, the feeling all too familiar now. Quaxo doesn't know why he cries so often, probably the combination of many different things. Maybe because there is something wrong with him. There has always been something wrong with him.

Tugger hates you.

Munkus hates you.

Demeter hates you.

Old-mother hates you. That's why she left you.

A tear escapes, running down his cheek. He wipes it away with the back of his paw. He could still feel Tugger's blood on his face.

"You're avoiding the question."

Quaxo blinks. Vicky entwines her tail with his own, the touch enough to tether him back to reality. At least for now.

"I'm fine."

He's not.

"You'd say that on your death bed."

He would.

"I'm just..." he trails off, batting away another wayward tear, "...tired."

That wasn't false. There was never a moment when he wasn't tired. It had been...how long? Definitely more than a week. Less than a month. Since...that day.

(He wakes up enveloped in fur - warm and soft and familiar. He's in Jenny's den, surrounded by still bodies. Dead - no, sleeping - sleeping bodies. He hopes. Tugger and Jenny and Munkus and Demeter. Tugger stirs beneath him but doesn't wake, gauze wrapped tightly around his side. It smells like blood. He's surrounded by blood. He's drowning in blood.

He's drowning.

Drowning.

Drowning.)

"Quaxo!"

Oh, right. She's still talking to him. She's...why couldn't she just let it go?

"You just...zoned out."

"I told you, Vicky. I'm just tired. I promise."

She frowns. "Because you're not sleeping! Did you take the herbs that Jemmy gave you?"

His chest had been hurting. Normally he would ignore such infirmities, one simply didn't have the time to stop dance practice if your ankles hurt or you are stricken with a sniffle. But this wasn't minor. Nor was it psychological.

His chest felt...tight, like someone was squeezing at his lungs. Every breath left him breathless - a k-n-i-f-e was lodging itself between his ribs and stabbing him when he had the audacity to inhale.

He had asked Jemima - begged, more like - to sneak him something to lessen the symptoms. Just enough to go unnoticed by Jelly and the other kittens.

"But why don't you just ask Jen-"

"I...I can't. It's...I just can't..."

"...but what if you're really sick?"

"I'm not. And if I was, I'd tell you. And if I get worse, I'll also tell you."

He was getting really good at lying.

And hiding. From Demeter, from Munkus...from Tugger.

They hate you.

They all hate you.

(He doesn't see Munkus come in. He is sleeping when he wakes the first time. He is talking when he wakes the second. With mother and Demeter - hushed voices, urgent and strained.

He can't hear them very well, not while pressed into Tugger's mane.

But he can hear enough.

"Out of control..."

"...magic..."

"...how are we..."

"...dance..."

"...Quaxo..."

"...Macavity..."

And his blood turns to ice.

And he runs.

And runs.

And runs.

And he doesn't look back.)

They keep trying to talk to him. To corner him. But Quaxo is a magician, and he has gotten quite good at making himself scarce. To keep moving, to never stay in the same place for too long a time. Nursery at nighttime - Jelly doesn't take it well when other adults intrude after sun-down.

Don't cough up a lung. That's essential. Sick kittens mean attention, of which he was trying to avoid. But cold weather and alcohol and damp s-e-w-e-r-s make a fatal combination when trying to avoid having your body be infiltrated by p-a-t-h-o-g-e-n-s.

"Are you listening? Did you take the herbs?"

Did her frown get larger? Or was lack of sleep messing with his mental functions?

"Yes."

No.

The herbs do help to ease the pain, just enough to let him slip into the realm of the unconscious for a few hours (if he was lucky.)

But herbs don't help the dreams. They don't help the blood and lightning and the tearing open of skin. And the eyes - red and bright and vicious, they taunt him.

No. Beckon him.

Quaxo wonders whose eyes they belong to. He wonders why they look so...familiar.

No. He does not sleep.

He does, however, read. He learns to hide. How to make himself i-n-v-i-s-a-b-l-e and throw his voice around to confuse the seniors.

He dances when alone. Outside the junkyard when it is dark and the h-u-m-a-n-s are asleep.

He...exists. A soul without a purpose. Magic that he can't use. Magic that he can't control. A tribe that either hates him or will once they find out.

If they find out.

("Munkustrap is looking for you."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Electra raises an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"Um...okay?"

"Are you avoiding him? Are you in trouble?"

"Something like that.")

It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that his mentor was seeking him out to tell him to leave; to tell him that he hurt his brother and he was a danger to the tribe.

Out of control, just like Macavity.

….or maybe to tell him that he didn't love him anymore (to tell him that he never loved him in the first place.)

But he can't say any of that if Quaxo isn't around to say it to. Arguable logic, but it's been working so far.

Vicky sighs, squeezing his shoulder with her paw.

"You'll tell Jemmy if it's getting worse, right? The cough?"

"I told her I would."

"Then go back to sleep. You don't have to move or anything. If sleeping next to me helps."

"I..."

He's tempted. To try and ignore everything and lose himself in slumber. He only wishes it was that easy.

"I'm going out."

"Out like...outside the junkyard?"

"Yeah. Just for a bit."

"But Jelly says it's supposed to snow again..."

"And I'll be back before it does. I just...I need to clear my head, okay?"

He doesn't like lying to her, but the fibs leave his tongue (paws?) so often it almost feels ingrained. He doesn't know how long he'll be out there for. He just can't be here.

"I'm not going to try and stop you. But...please be careful, okay? And don't stay out too long."

Quaxo nodded, nuzzling her cheek. He breathes in deep, focusing his power deep in his core. There are many things that can go wrong when t-e-l-e-p-o-r-t-i-n-g - more than once he ended up too high in the air and had a plethora of bruises to show for it. But he was getting better, improvement was inevitable when you had so much time to spare.

He feels the familiar tingling sensation, the rush of wind in his ears. It was...comforting almost. Natural.

And Quaxo was a being of routine.

He lands in the park, abandoned this late at night by the h-u-m-a-n-s. There is snow everywhere, remnants of the storm this morning. He could feel it under his paws, hard and icy on the ground. The weather was only going to get worse, he mustn't linger. Especially since he couldn't t-e-l-e-p-o-r-t back home, as convenient as that may be.

It bothered him, not being able to use magic to get back in the junkyard. He tried again after the unfortunate s-e-w-e-r incident, when he had plenty of magic to spare, just to be left with the same result. As if something - some wall or barrier, was preventing him from getting in.

No, it didn't just bother him. It was driving him nuts. The only thing that can prevent magic is more magic. Is there another magician out there somewhere? Besides Macavity?

Quaxo sighed, he didn't have the time to dawdle. He stretches his legs and starts walking towards his favorite cluster of trees. Sure, he may have almost died there (twice) but he felt...connected to the place. It still bared the scars of his last meltdown, if the half-burned shrubbery were anything to go by.

He reaches it in a matter of minutes, and starts to climb his favorite tree - not the tallest by any means, but its branches were thick and twisted together, making it an ideal place to sit and contemplate. Of course, the climbing only serves to aggravate his infected chest even worse. He really should have eaten the soothing herbs, but he accidentally crushed his last batch and didn't want to ask Jemima prematurely for some more and raise suspicion.

So, he sits at the base. A minute passes, then another. It was...cold. He was cold. This never used to bother him before, at least not to this extent. Because he had Tugger. Tugger, with his thick tail and fluffy mane that he loved to burrow himself in. He misses it, more then he could possibly imagine.

"Is he awake?"

"No. I mean, he's really drugged out."

"Still?"

Jemima gives him a weak smile. A sympathetic smile.

"Whatever got him, got him good. And it's only been a week. We can't risk moving him or he'll tear out his stitches. The catnip is for the pain, but it also makes him very sleepy."

"How long...I mean...until..."

"A couple of weeks, maybe. Until it's fully healed." Noticing the look on his face, she continues, "but the worst is over. I mean...he's stable enough for Jenny to leave me alone with him for a couple of hours."

"Can I...see him?"

Jemima smiles warmly at him. "Sure." A pause. "He's asks for you a lot, you know. Why haven't you visited him yet? Everyone else has."

There were many things he could have told her. Many things he wanted to tell her.

So instead, he settled on nothing.

He brushes past her and makes his way inside Jenny's den. Tugger is there, lying prone on the bed. Quaxo just watches for a second, making sure his chest rises and falls. Making sure he wasn't seeing a ghost. Jemima hangs by the door, only briefly, before allowing him a couple of minutes alone.

He reaches out for his paw, hanging limp and loose off the medical bed. He could feel the tears in his eyes, the tears rolling down his cheeks. Tears that dampen the fur of the motionless Maine Coon beneath him.

"I'm...so sorry, Tug," he whispers. "You don't have to forgive me. I..."

Was it getting really hard to breathe?

"I don't expect you to forgive me. I'll understand if you hate me and don't want to see me again. Because friends don't hurt each other. I'm not a very good friend, am I?"

He sniffles, squeezing Tugger's paw just a bit harder. Still, he doesn't move. No indication of wakefulness.

"You are my best friend," he continues, trying to stop his voice from wavering. "My first friend. I..."

The 'I love you' dies on his tongue.

Quaxo doesn't see him again after that. He can't. He can't face him after what he did. He...doesn't deserve Tugger.

Was he crying again? It makes sense, his face feels wet. He's crying alone at the base of a tree, and every sob is torturous - pain lashing through him as his lungs struggle to intake a sufficient level of oxygen.

'p-n-e-u-m-o-n-i-a

an acute disease that is marked by inflammation of lung tissue accompanied by infiltration of alveoli and often bronchioles with white blood cells…'

He read that in his d-i-c-t-i-o-n-a-r-y. Is that what he has? There are too many words, big words that the h-u-m-a-n healers use. P-n-e-u-m-o-n-i-a can be fatal, though that's not always the case. Of course, he is not a h-u-m-a-n, which might make the whole argument moot in the first place.

Another cough rattles his bones. Quaxo doesn't try to get up, to walk back to camp.

He...doesn't want to.

There's some part of him - some small part - that thinks he deserves this. The pain.

R-e-t-r-i-b-u-t-i-o-n.

The snow starts falling again, a flurry. And still he sits. Time passes in a haze, his eyelids grow heavy - the thought of slumber enticing him into its grasp.

(He knows it was dark. And cold and white – the white was everywhere. He had never been outside before.

Mother carries him by the scruff.

He squirms and squirms.

He does not like being carried this way.)

Quaxo drifts as the world turns into a white blur of barely discernible figures, all melting into one another in the background. It was beautiful, almost. Like a painting that the h-u-m-a-n-s would hang in their h-o-u-s-e.

(He is not alone. He cries. No, they cry. Where did mother go? Is she coming back?

They are cold. They are tired. They are hungry.)

He doesn't feel the cold anymore. A warmth flows through him. A good warmth – a comfortable warmth. Cozy enough for him to settle back and close….

(They run and run and run. They run until they can't. They curl up together, cries lost in the night air.

There is a light – bright and blinding. It was not coming from him. It was coming from them. It surrounds them. Envelops them.)

("Don't close your eyes.")

Quaxo blinks, jolting awake and almost slamming his head into the trunk of the tree. This wasn't…no. Those aren't his memories. Was someone talking to him?

(It is cold outside, but they are warm. It is dark outside, but they are light.

They are not as they were before.

They are one.)

It was entirely possible – more than likely – that he was going insane. That whatever remnants of his sanity were slowly ebbing away, leaving an empty shell of confusion and contradiction.

("Run. You mustn't stay here.")

Was he….hallucinating? Where did the voice come from?

("He will find you.")

"Who?" Quaxo asks futilely in the night. "Who will find me? Who is talking to me?"

("You are.")

His heart feels like it was pounding out of his chest. There are things about his past that he doesn't know, that he was too young to comprehend. Memories are fleeting – old-mother, and r-u-n-t, and crying and anger.

And….and….there was something else, buried just deep enough that it was outside his grasp. Or was it just his conscious grasp?

"Are you…." he struggles briefly, trying to remember the name that Tugger relayed to him that night, "Mistoffelees?"

("I am you.")

"But…if you are me, then how are you talking to me? Are those your memories or mine? Are you real or…are you just in my head?"

("Why can't I be real if I am in your head?")

"But…that doesn't make…." he's breathing a bit too heavily now, breathes turn into gasps that turn into coughs. Full body coughs that reverberate through his whole frame. He feels something warm and metallic fill his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

Oh, this was bad.

Maybe he should have just gone to his mother. Maybe he should have stopped hiding from them like a c-o-w-a-r-d. Because there is a real possibility now that he isn't going to make it home.

("He is coming.")

Maybe…maybe this is what they wanted in the first place. He sinks back towards the ground – towards the ice and snow that burn and tear at his paws. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that whatever will be the first to kill him takes him quickly.

("He is coming.")

He wonders if Tugger will say goodbye to him. He wonders if they'll ever think to look for him. He wonders if they care enough.

("He is here.")

"Wake up."

Was that...? Quaxo blinks open his heavy eyes, struggling to his paws.

("He is here.")

That was a voice. A real voice, not the one in his head. No. No, it couldn't be. He would have heard if another cat was approaching. There are leaves and sticks and other objects all over the ground beneath him.

"Turn around."

He could feel his heart drop to his stomach. All of his senses say to run away. Quaxo does not like strange cats – unfamiliar cats. But something about his voice….against his better judgement, he turns.

("He will find you.")

And before him stood…. a cat. A ginger cat. A wild cat. Whose eyes - red and bright and so achingly familiar, were trained directly on him.