Summary:May, currently a cat for reasons she has yet to determine, does NOT acclimate well Log Info:Storyteller: Melinda May |
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Someone is going to die for these indignities, May thinks. She thinks it repeatedly.
As if being carted around swaddled in her own jacket, hearing the amusement in Fury's voice, and then being stuffed into a CAT CARRIER (jacket and all) wasn't enough of an indignity, she'd then been locked in a BATHROOM. With a LITTERBOX. No. Just no.
Wrangling the doorknob without thumbs took a bit of effort, but then she had free run of the residence other than ducking behind furniture to hide from the stompy footsteps of three different persuasions. It was the food, though, the smell of roasting chicken, that was her downfall.
Normally, she could ignore hunger pangs until after missions, but the smells were so much MORE that she found herself slinking towards the table where the family was sitting for dinner. She stood as tall as possible and there, on the plates. Chicken.
She waited underneath the man's chair — Keiko's tattoos were too observant and the child's feet wouldn't stop swinging — until one of the three stood up from the table for something, then as fast as she could manage she jumped onto the vacated chair, hooked a piece of chicken from the unattended plate with one paw, and with the pilfered meal still clutched in her claws fled three-legged from the loud human exclamations to hide under the sofa. It was dusty under there but she ate the chicken quickly regardless, only partly chewing each bite.
She'd just barely swallowed the last bite when the sofa abruptly moved, and hands clamped around her ribs. Feline instincts took over again and she yowled and hissed and struggled, but it was no use. Metal hand. AGAIN. Wait, two metal hands. What? There were other voices in the background, but the instinctual panic kept her from making sense of them until she realized she was back in the bathroom.
Someone is going to die for these indignities.