Lion hissed and swiped with extended claws at the crow. It hopped back easily out of his paw's reach and croaked mocking laughter at him again. While he was distracted, its partner behind him nipped his tail in its sharp beak and yanked. The first of the birds grabbed the morsel that had started this fight in the first place and flew off to a roof. It was no prize: a dead frog that had tasted like mud even before it began to rot, and had already been picked at by some other pond creature. The crow stared directly into Lion's eye with its beady black one, threw its head back, and swallowed it whole in a few rapid, juddering gulps.

The young tomcat let out a yowl of rage and frustration, golden-striped fur standing on end. The victorious crow lifted off its perch and swooped back at him, black talons aimed squarely at his eyes. Lion pounced at it, but it changed course at the last heartbeat. He landed face-first in a lump of goose dung.

He tried in vain to wipe the foul stuff off in the grass, but heard the loathsome birds advance toward him while he was distracted. He braced himself for a sharp beak-jab to sensitive areas, but it never arrived. There was a rush of air as another creature sailed over him. The crow let out a strangled "awrk!" and fell silent. Its companion flew away, cawing sharp alarm calls as it sailed over the park fence and the roofs beyond.

Lion opened his eyes, face still twisted with disgust. Over the lingering dung-stink he detected a strange cat-scent. The crow was now limp in the jaws of a large calico cloaked in the smoky scent of HeartClan. Her yellow eyes were slitted as she glared at him holding her feathery prize high, almost daring Lion to attack her for it. She growled a warning. Even without words, her message was clear: You're hunting in our territory. Get out of here or my Clanmates and I will drive you out, stray.

He gave up. It pained him to give up; it stung his pride as badly as the crows' bites and wing-cuffs bruised his flesh. But he was in no shape to pick another fight so soon, let alone with any cats who called themselves warriors. More pressingly, it was nearly sunset and he had nothing to show for the day's hunting. His sire expected to be fed before he would allow the kit he took in to eat a single thing. "Ya call yerself a lion? Well, that's how lions have it!" he would wheeze. "No one eats before the king!"

King of what? A stinking trash heap? Lion groused to himself as he started back towards the dump. But that was all he had to return to. His mother had died shortly after weaning him and his littermate. As soon as they could eat solid food, she offered it all to them, taking only the leanest, foulest scraps for herself. She wasted away after that; she was already little more than patchy fur draped over bones by the time greencough finally took her. She sent her kits away so the deadly disease wouldn't spread to them, urging them with her dying breath to find a home with Twolegs where they could live safely and comfortably.

The brothers went in separate directions then. Lion hadn't seen Lizard since. His brother may have heeded their mother's desperate plea and sucked up to the Twolegs and become nothing more than their plaything, for all he knew. Lion would die before he would ever submit to them, for it was because of them that his mother was dead in the first place. It was because they created this world he was born into, where he had to struggle and fight for every scrap of crow-food, to skulk in the shadows alongside the filthy lower creatures, as though he were no better than a rat, a fox, or stars forbid a dog. That's what kittypets were: no better than dogs. All Lion had in this world was his freedom.

"That's it?!"

An incensed hiss sent foul-smelling saliva spraying through yellowed and broken teeth. The old tom pawed indignantly at the single dusty little sparrow laid before him. He had no name for himself. Not many cats out here did. "Yeh were out there since 'afore sunhigh!

"You know how it is out there, Father," Lion replied coolly. "That rotted Clan controls every spot where one might find decent hunting." The tip of his tail trembled as he fought not to lash it.

"Bah, who needs to hunt?! The Twolegs cast off more than enough food for us every day. If yer so i'sistent on killin' everything you eat, yeh can keep this." The old tom swatted the sparrow again, sending it rolling out from under the pitted sheet of metal where he made his foul nest. "Get back out there and find me some sausages. Now there's a meal fit for a king," he added, licking his chops.

Those foul Twoleg concoctions are more than likely why you're in no shape to even scavenge them yourself in the first place, Lion wanted to reply. But he nodded. He couldn't risk another beating when any wound inflicted by his sire was sure to become infected. "I'm afraid I don't know where the best place to find such a thing would be. If you show me where they are, I will steal them for you." Or you can just keep rotting away in this filthy dump. I don't need protection from the likes of you anymore.

Lion devoured his sparrow in a few quick bites while his sire heaved himself to his paws and lumbered out into the dump. The bird was more feathers than meat; he hardly felt any more full than he had at the day's start. He followed his sire around and over vast mounds of Twoleg refuse, through muddy puddles reeking of dung, through greystone tunnels, and under bridges. All the while, the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, setting the clouds ablaze with pink and orange. Lion stopped for a moment to take it in. Was this the Twolegs' doing too? No, it couldn't be. It was far too beautiful.

"Quit gawpin'! We just have to cross one more road and then we'll have all the sausages we can eat!" The promise of food did what few other things could and spurred the old yellow tom into a clumsy run. He was so focused on his goal that he didn't see the blindingly bright night-eyes of an approaching car. He didn't hear the low rumble or his son yowling "Wait-"

He never reached the other side.

George's heart dropped as some sort of animal ran right out into the road before him. He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. He could hear and feel his tires run over it at nearly full speed, a stomach-twisting thud thu-thud. "Oh no, no, no, no, no…" he muttered to himself, wringing his hands. He loved animals. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt them. That was why he adopted Danny, and then a kitten to keep the puppy company while he was away at work. Once his car had fully screeched to a halt, he got out to assess the damage. Maybe the creature wasn't hurt too badly, he could bring it to a vet and they could save it…

It was indeed hurt too badly. It was a gory sight, even. The animal's chest was crushed, with splinters of broken ribs standing out against a mangled mess of meat. It was a cat, George could see now, an old cat with matted yellow-grey fur now stained bright red. Rheumy yellow eyes stared now unseeing at the butcher's shop across the street.

George prayed to God for forgiveness. The stray was dead because he had been distracted, reminiscing for the umpteenth time about his late wife and her fascination with archaeology. She liked to bring home artifacts from time to time, and the last one she had procured before her untimely passing was a small stone collar, the perfect size to fasten around a cat's neck. She would never put such a valuable artifact on her own animals, so the couple hung it on their wall as a symbol of their combined passions.

There was nothing he could do for the stray now. He took a deep breath and prepared to get back into his car and continue on his way home, but then he noticed a small flash out the corner of his eye. He turned to the opposite side of the road, from which the cat had come barreling, and saw a kitten.

Its orange eyes reflected red in the low light. It had been staring, stunned, at the scene. When it saw George, it arched its back and hissed, baring large and well-developed fangs for a cat its age. But it was skinny, and its pelt shivered with irritation from flea bites. George's heart welled up with pity for it. The poor little thing's only family was now dead because of him. It looked far too young to be out on its own. And yet, there was some sort of gravitas to it, an intensity to its gaze that put George in mind of old Hollywood stars like Rutger Hauer or Marlon Brando.

Maybe there was something he could do for the old stray after all. Not to save its life, but to honor its memory by saving its baby.

A jolt of fear set Lion's fur standing on end. The Twoleg was looking at him. Was he next?! No, it seemed upset at what it had done. It must have been too stupid to realize that all it had done was put an old fleabag out of his misery. Then what could it want with Lion?!

The Twoleg crouched and made small sounds at him, a mooing mockery of the fine subtleties of cat-speech. Lion relaxed slightly, but not for the reason the creature hoped. Yes, this Twoleg was far too stupid to pose any threat to him.

But then, his legs shook and his stomach growled loudly. Even the Twoleg's dull senses surely must have been able to hear it. That one sparrow hadn't been nearly enough to last Lion all this walking after eating little else all day. Sure enough, the Twoleg cooed more kitten-talk to him, then moved closer.

A wave of exhaustion and shock crashed down on Lion. He was so, so tired. He didn't have any more in him to fight even as the Twoleg picked him up by his scruff with its creepy naked hand. He still couldn't quite believe that his loathsome sire was actually gone.

The Twoleg set Lion in some sort of box just big enough for the young cat to stand up and turn around in. Inside was a soft scrap on its floor and a fake bird with unnaturally brightly colored feathers sticking out at odd angles. Both held the stale scent of another cat: a young tom, like him. Lion curled up and resigned himself to his fate. At least wherever he was going, there would probably be something to eat and a way to escape. He could rest and regain his strength while he planned his next move.

Jojo didn't know what he was doing wrong. He ate out of his bowl as he always had, quickly and excitedly. Sure, he tended to spill some bits, but he could just lick those up too. But now, in the moon since Brando had arrived, Mr. George scolded him for that and took his food bowl away. Brando would only watch, slit eyes betraying his amusement. He took delicate, precise bites of his own food, as neatly as if he had been born in the house.

Brando liked to set his housemate up, too. The golden kitten would watch Mr. George's and Jojo's activities, make some sort of mess, and flee the scene just before the others arrived. Mr. George would see Jojo with a broken vase or a shredded pillow, assume he had done it, and berate him. He would even lock Jojo in his carrier, sometimes overnight.

All the while, Brando was the perfect house cat to Mr. George and his human friends. He sat on his owner's lap, purring, and let inquisitive hands pet him. He would even playfully sniff and grab at their long fingers. They cooed and gaggled amongst themselves at how cute and well-behaved he was. Only Jojo could tell that Brando's purrs rang hollow. The appearance he put on was as fake as the toy fish he liked to kick. And if Jojo were to come out seeking human attention? Mr. George used to happily introduce him to guests. Now, the blue kitten would be scolded for being "needy" and "clingy."

Wandering outdoors brought little respite. Brando quickly ingratiated himself among the neighborhood cats as much as he did the humans. He awed them with tricks and lurid tales from his life on the streets. The toms wished they could be as quick and clever, while all the young mollies swooned over how elegant and mysterious he seemed. All, that was, except for Erina. Even as Brando spread rumors about Jojo that led to his former friends distrusting and excluding him, she stuck by his side.

There was an oak tree in the park where the two liked to meet. They would race each other up to the lowest branch and sometimes playfully egg each other on to climb higher. But Jojo and Erina would always settle perching next to each other on a long, low bough and simply watch the birds, the butterflies, the dogs and human children running and playing. That branch was "their spot." The designation went unspoken; it simply was. Until they marked it with their intermingled scents. "Now any creature who comes by this tree will know that it's ours," Jojo purred when it was done.

"My my, aren't you two adorable," a voice drawled.

"Brando?!" Erina gasped.

Jojo leapt in front of her and arched his back. "What are you doing here?!" he hissed, unsheathing his claws.

Brando slunk out from behind another tree. "Can't I keep an eye on what my dear little brother is getting up to? Jojo, have you and Erina made anything official? Will there be even more soft useless kits running around someday?"

"Wgh- How dare you?! What are you even implying?!" Erina's silver-white fur stood on end.

"You'd best act fast, JoJo. Do you know what the Twolegs do to toms once they reach our age? If your dear Mr. George has it his way, he'll take you to the Cutter and you won't be a tom anymore."

"Don't be disgusting, Brando!" Jojo yowled.

But the golden tom pushed past him and rubbed his side up against Erina's. He pointedly ignored the disgusted curl of her lip as he wrapped his tail around hers like a snake with its prey. "Erina, have you done this with Jojo yet?"

Erina roughly shoved him. "Get off me, you vile-" she hissed through gritted teeth, and then spluttered as Brando swiped a rough, rasping lick up the side of her muzzle.

"You thought JoJo would be the first and only to do this to you. But it was I, Lion!" he crowed.

"How dare you?!" Jojo yowled, and leapt at his housemate. They tumbled and rolled in the grass, snarling and biting. Brando was nothing if not a dirty fighter, but Jojo was larger and heavier despite being a moon younger. The blue tom managed to wrestle his rival onto his back and pin him down. Jojo scowled and then dared raise his head and look for Erina.

The molly was dabbing her paw in a mud puddle and smearing it on the side of her face - right where Brando had licked her muzzle. Her movements were furious, yet delicate and deliberate. She glared at the golden tom with eyes as cold and merciless as a late frost. Then she pounced. Erina's white paw lashed out and nicked Brando's ear with dirtied claws. Then she gave one final disgusted hiss and fled, back toward her home.

"Erina, wait-" Jojo started to call after her. But then he was tackled and shoved to the ground.

"Kittypets are so easily distracted," Brando sneered. "You wouldn't last a day in the dump."

"It's a good thing we're not there, then," Jojo mewed.

Brando ignored him and glanced up at the sky. "We had best get home, too. Surely you don't want your dear Mr. George to worry, hmm?"

"Why do you stay?"

"What?" The two were walking home with the setting sun at their backs. They were done coming to blows, but tension still crackled between them like lightning among storm clouds.

"Why do you stay here? In our house?" Jojo's meow was wary. "All you ever do is complain about everything he does for us. If you hate being a 'kittypet' so much, why don't you just run away?"

So naive! Lion wanted to spit. "And do what? Go back to being a street rat? Spend my life half-starved and fighting lower beasts for every half-rotten scrap? Get captured again and sent to the Cutter, declawed, made into a fat dumb eternal-kitten for squealing Twoleg cubs to torment?!" His voice rose to a frantic screech.

Jojo blinked. "...What about the wildcats?"

"The what?"

"The wild cats that live in the forest, and the mountains. They're supposed to be vicious, but strong, proud, and free. You would fit right in with them."

"With the tales told to scare kits into staying in their gardens, you mean?" Lion scowled. "I'll wait until I see one for myself before I go off chasing fables."

"So you would?!" Jojo's eyes brightened. "We could run away together! You could teach me how to survive in the wild!"

"Bloody stars, do you hear yourself right now?! The Cutter won't have to do a thing to you. You're already just an overgrown kit," Lion scoffed.

And yet, he had to admit that the fantasy was an appealing one. He supposed that he couldn't blame a kittypet who had known nothing else for getting lost in it. He knew that there were three other Clans somewhere out there that HeartClan parlayed with; he wanted nothing to do with that particular group, though. Not when they chased strays like him away from anywhere that could be considered good territory. If he weren't city-born, he would be wild and free. Even more intriguing: he would be feared. Street rats like his runty littermate and good-for-nothing sire, and kittypets like Jojo and Erina, would cower before him. Should he deign to let them live, they would run home cowed and whisper tales of Lion - no, Lionfang - fiercest and strongest of all the wildcats, from horizon to horizon.

The cats returned home. Night fell. Mr. George went to bed, Danny sprawled out at his feet. Jojo wasn't sure where Brando had slunk off to. All he knew was that he couldn't relax and get to sleep no matter how much he kneaded his bed. The events of the day kept repeating themselves in his memory. One thought resonated louder than all the rest: I should have done more to protect Erina.

As the moon climbed higher in the sky, it all ate at him more and more until he could take it no longer. Jojo got out of bed, shook himself out, stretched, and finally stalked out into the living room, tail lashing. Sure enough, he found Brando in his favorite perch, sitting on the windowsill, staring out into the garden and the mountains beyond. The light of the full moon cast a silver glow on his golden fur. "You're up late," he meowed, not moving a whisker. A white bandage encircled the ear that Erina had torn.

"I'm not finished with you," Jojo growled.

"Oho? Is that how it is?" Brando languidly dropped to the couch seat. "Then come on. Fight me. Show me what you're capable of, kittypet."

Jojo tackled his housemate yet again, this time without a battle cry. Brando had no such reservations as he sank his teeth into Jojo's foreleg. "So weak, so weak!" he growled.

Their wrestling, hissing, and clawing took them across the living room floor, into the hallway leading to Mr. George's den. Jojo was bleeding from a torn ear of his own and a scratch across his muzzle. He licked a drop from his nose and tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. But he ramped up onto his hindlegs and grappled with Brando. Each cat tried to push the other down or over onto his back to get at his underbelly. Or that's what Jojo was trying to do, anyway, until Brando slashed at his face.

Jojo flinched at the last thousandth of a heartbeat. Brando's claw tore at his cheekbone just whiskers from his eye. More blood spilled, staining the carpet and muddying his rich blue fur to a reddish-brown. This isn't just a scuffle over a molly anymore, Jojo realized. That was a strike to blind. Brando is fighting like he's back on the streets. He's lost himself to battle-rage.

Then I have to get serious too! Jojo didn't like to use his size to his advantage, but if Brando wasn't going to fight fairly, then neither was he. He squeezed the older kitten between his forelimbs and twisted to throw his opponent into the wall. Brando's lithe body slammed into the wall with a thud. And the Stone Collar that hung on a peg six tail-lengths above them

fell

straight

d

o

w

n

and hit the floor

scarcely a muzzle-length from Brando's head.

Jojo cried out in alarm. That thing had always unsettled him, but Mr. George cherished it! If it were broken, he would be furious! And no doubt, Jojo would be the one to take the blame! Cautiously, he stretched out his neck to sniff it, turn it over with his muzzle, inspect it carefully.

A drop of blood, from the slash Brando had inflicted on his cheek, fell onto the rough gray stone.

The Collar shivered.

Jojo drew back, tail fluffed. It was moving! By itself! Like it was waking up!

Brando watched with cold interest.

Thin spines sprang out from the Collar's inner surface. They leapt with incredible speed, too quickly to even see, toward a point above the center of the stone circle like the stabbing fangs of a spider.

For a long moment, silence fell over the house. Moonlight reached silver fingers into the hallway, casting the bloodstained Stone Collar into terrible cold relief. Finally, Brando panted, "Did… Did you know it could do that?"

"No," Jojo replied, just as shaken.

"Does the Twoleg?"

"If he did, why would he keep such a horrible thing around? Why would you even put this on a cat? If they got so much as a scratch, it would hurt them far worse!"

"Because it's not meant to be a typical collar, mouse-brain. That thing must be made to kill cats."

"Kill cats?!" Jojo yelped.

A tall shadow fell over the scene. Mr. George, in his thin sleeping pelts, glared down and grumbled at his two cats, no doubt for waking him up. Then he saw the Stone Collar, spines bared, lying on the floor. His eyes shot open so wide that their whites practically flashed.

Jojo shrank down into a deep blue fluffball, eyes wide and round. Brando hesitated for a moment, then did the same. There was nothing they could do now. This fight was over, still without a winner, and the mysteries of the Collar went unanswered.