A/N: I have been working on a story that is darker and more dramatic than I usually write, and had to do something to take the edge off. Feel free to critique, this is a style I haven't really tried before. Macavity's personality for this came from a chapter in my other story, Demeter's Life, where I was slightly insane with pressure from school when I wrote. You have been warned, hehe!

A Study of Humanity

The Reality of Humanity as Seen by the Eyes of Felinity.

By Sleeping Tiger

Prologue

It was hardly my intention to become a house cat in any way. The Jellicles are mostly house cats, or house cats in training - part of a conspiracy to hand over their God-like nature for a bowl of kitty-chow that is supposed to replace a freshly caught mouse. But no, I'm here now, trapped inside of a house, feeling for the first time a victim, and re-contemplating the idea of kit-napping kittens and queens and locking them in warehouses for hours to days on end. I usually don't believe in karma, but there are times when it hits you like a mad double-decker bus sent by the devil himself.

Let me start from the beginning…

It all began when I was walking along the street, contemplating new ways to freak out cats and humans alike with my ability to defy the laws of gravity. As most cats in my command know- but would never say around me for fear of punishment- I will always turn my head at the sight of a queen who happens to have yellow or golden fur. (It's stronger with the golden fur.) Even more so if she has black and white on her. It's a habit I'm trying to kick as part of my New Years Resolution, but that's beside the point.

My head turned, instinctively, at the sight of a queen who looked very familiar to me, and like a snake mesmerized by that flute thing that snake charmers use, I was instantly drawn across the busy street in an obscure metropolitan area in London over to this creature of beauty. Sure, cars were swerving, crashing, smashing into things, screeching to a halt, all not to hit me; that was all part of my dramatic entrance. Not once had a car hit me. I assume it's either everyone in the vicinity is a cat lover and would never dare crush one under their car, or I give off some aura that strikes fear into their very souls, that they would be killing something purely evil, that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. I prefer the latter.

Now, of course, by now, the queen in question had turned and looked at me, stunned, as I had made quite the entrance. It was, unfortunately, not the queen I had hoped it to be. I hardly wanted to waste a good entrance…it wasn't my style. But it had not been in vain, as she looked terrified when she realized who I was. "Macavity!" she cried.

Well, she certainly had the same extent of vocabulary as who I thought she was had. Apparently, my reputation preceded me, as she turned and ran. I didn't want to chase after her. I was upset as it was and decided to show her mercy. But as luck would have it, though I had the courtesy to bestow mercy on another living creature, I was punished for it.

I, again, stepped off the curb and onto the road. Perhaps I lost that evil aura through my angelic act of mercy, and what with my mind on another cat, I didn't have time to react appropriately as a car came barreling towards me. It stopped just short of hitting me, and I acted like a deer in the headlights, fur on end, stunned. When I breathed a sigh of relief, a double-decker bus crashed into the back of that car, and everything went black.

When I finally regained my senses, I was in a cage. Of course, when you've put as many cats in cages as I have, the first thing you think is someone has taken retaliation. A prior victim of my crimes had taken advantage of my…ahem…momentary detainment from the physical world, and had now locked me up for questioning, plotting to form a take-over of the stronghold I have on the rats and strays in the area, and become the new Napoleon of Crime!

I would have nothing of it! I liked that name…

So I made to lift myself up, when I realized there was an odd sensation going throughout my body. I eventually registered it as pain. I know it seems odd a creature of flesh and blood to not know what pain is the moment he feels it, but, you must remember…I was hit by a bus…in a way. I didn't know my head from my tail. (And yet, I could still postulate over a coup d'etat.)

Coup is such an odd word. It makes sense for a pigeon to make that sound…whoever came up with that etymology should be hung from their thumbs and whipped repeatedly. But I digress…

It was in that time that I began to understand where I was at. A human had put her face into my line of sight, and said some dribble about "It's okay, you shouldn't move so much. You had a bad day," in a baby voice that would make an infant implode with over-stimulation. And that's when it hit me. I was at the dreaded and much feared "Vet".

"Let me out of here, you foul human," I commanded. But these idiotic creatures have no sense of what cat language means. They don't realize that every time they hear us "meow", we are in some way, insulting them. And, as human's tend to do to animals they think are beneath them, she cooed over me.

Again, that sound, "coo."

"Aren't you a good kitty? We're going to find you a foster until you get better."

"Meow."

"Aw, you're so sweet." If only she could have understood what I referred to her as…

To my complete and utter humiliation, each time I was taken out and examined, I was in too much pain to do anything to these bipedal creatures, and they continued to refer to me as a "good kitty." To which I would responded in many colorful words and remarks.

Among being uprooted from my place as the most feared cat in London to the cutest kitten in the Cat Hospital, I was shoved into a cage by whatever human dared touch me with his filthy hands, and continually talked to about something called a "foster". They assured me, in a voice dripping with so much sweetness, I was on the verge of going into a diabetic coma, that they would make me feel all better until I was ready to be "adopted".

I was familiar with cats being adopted when they my subordinates. It wasn't pretty. They wore collars, and were forced to become house cats. No matter how many times a cat can be fed a delicious fish treat, given a nice, warm bed to sleep in, and brushed, to save him from the indignity of a hairball, a cat would still prefer to live outdoors…

And this woman they set me up with…she was the most vile creature I had ever met. She was an older member of her species, complete with far too much paint on her face, perfume that caused all commotion in the veterinarian's office to cease so that everyone could sneeze simultaneously, and a shrill voice that would hurt any cat's ears. And she, too, shoved me into yet another box.

(What is it with humans and boxes? Their houses are boxes, their containers are boxes, their transportation is box-like in all aspect of design. The only thing they ever invented that had nothing to do with a box was that infernal "wheel" that caused all this havoc to begin with!) It was when I saw her box she called home that I knew I would die of boredom. The flower decals she had on her walls alone were enough to make anyone floral-phobic, and were made worse by the fresh flowers she had stuffed into vases.

Once I was sent to a "foster", I had reached the peak of my humiliation. They had shaved my rear left leg, plastered a cast on it, shaved more fur off my stomach, where they stitched up my skin, and, to top all humiliations, put a cone around my neck so I wouldn't dare bite at it.

If any of my minions saw me like this, my entire reputation as the hidden paw would be ruined. Though, technically, I did have a paw hidden under the cast, now…but that was something to marvel at later. The pain medication would give me little time to think about such trivial things. I had more important things to think about while I was momentarily incapacitated - like how many ways I could slander this woman before I run out of appropriate vocabulary.

The woman who brought me to her house (a grave mistake on her part) had set up a little basket with a pillow in it for me to sit idly by while she raced around her territory and did whatever humans do to pass the time.

It was in those long hours, in a state suspended between boredom and drowsiness from those pills she shoved down my throat, that I would do nothing but stare at the wallpaper. Sometimes I would try and think of my third name, but I had become so accustomed to my many other names, from simply "Macavity" and "Napoleon of Crime," to "Ah, not him again", that I couldn't remember what it was. The only companion I had for some time was that infernal human, who would come in to check on me, and move me around for some silly reason. She mentioned something about bed sores. However, the thought of a bed fighting me and leaving welts on my skin was too absurd.

I came to the conclusion that all humans are insane. They are a backwards creature, the whole lot of them, who would rather spend their day rushing back and forth to different places beyond their territory, where they hold power, and wasting their resources they could be using to fortify their stronghold where they live.

Being the super genius I am, I decided it was time the world of felines become aware of the world of humans. Years, I have spent, having my minions collect what the humans considered valuable, mainly to stir up controversy, but I never understood why they were considered as such. You could not eat most of it. You couldn't play with them. And from what I could understand, they used them as things to place about randomly and simply look at them. Cats use everything they have for some reason or another. It's only logical.

No, it was time I stopped living in wonder. I had two abandoned warehouses full of items, five public storage facilities I had my minions rent out under the name of James Moriarty, and many other random hideaways scattered throughout the city, yet it all had no meaning to them.

It was a scientific endeavor I was glad to pursue. What else could I do lying around with a broken leg, covered in bruises, and a contraption on my head that kept me from any natural movements? Forming hypotheses and learning more about my unharmed victims would be the perfect use of my time. Why waste it doing something as silly as healing?

"There's a good kitty!" said the elder human as she came into the room.

"Hello, my test subject," I meowed to her.

And she smiled with delight that I bestowed my attention upon her.

A/N: More chapter will come depending on inspiration. I always wanted to do a "study" satire, especially after being killed in Bio classes. And just for reference, because I couldn't fit it into the story without breaking flow, fear of flowers is actually called Anthophobia, or Anthrophobia. It bothers me because study of human culture is called Anthropology, and I am slightly peeved by the etymology there, too.

And a cookie for anyone who gets the Looney Toons reference.