ANIMAL CONTROL - PART III

I do not sleep a wink.

Lying all night in prostrate terror.

My colleague, and source of fear, does not sleep either. I don’t even think she blinked.

An unwitting game of chicken with my own personalised brand of sleep paralysis demon.

If only I was in the market for a succubus…

I know she’s obsessed, so it could have been protectiveness rather ill intent, or that she arrived more well rested and thus not in need of sleep, but the atmosphere in the room remains as tense as the cables on a suspension bridge even into the morning... and god does it feel like she could snap at any moment and defile me.

After a sluggish start, as unsuggestively as possible, I take Nya’lah’s measurements with a length of rope I had in my kit bag. Y’know, just in case.

She’s taller, more curvaceous than Meganie, only emphasised by her lion’s mane of untamed hair, spiked pauldrons, and black unitard.

Reminds me of the road warrior or a heavy metal music video, but it makes sense for how acrobatic and athletic she is. Not quite as built as the Amazons and Valkyries I’ve seen at the Returns Agency – how I miss the beach – more lithe, but she could still out pace me in... cough.

I sweat and shake my way through the whole ordeal as she stares and smirks.

“Mrrrrr... are we having fun down there?” the mockery in her voice is pungent while I’m desperately trying to check her in-seam without touching... there!

Nya’lah must have noticed the cause of my hesitation... she grabs my hand, presses it into herself, and leans from the waist so as to still give an accurate measurement of her long legs. “You don’t need an excuse, you kn’yow~”

Have mercy!

I recite the numbers in my head like I’m chanting prayers to keep evil at bay. A magical barrier between my innocence and the demons of lust and other foul deeds.

“Y-you stay here...” my voice cracks, “I-I’ll be back with clothes and breakfast soon.”

I do not wait for the feline warrior’s answer.

I’m blushing like a beet.

I double-check my coin purse to distract myself.

The cool dawn through my light tunic and britches settles my nerves quickly.

Stalls and stores are still setting up, so it gives me time to ask around for clothes fitting of someone around my stature. There’s basically nothing, but a lot of things like pinafore skirts are completely adjustable with drawstring closures, so I keep an eye out for the longest and broadest items on the market.

Unfortunately... “Ny’are you sure this won’t draw too much attention?” ...even the fullest skirt and most billowy of blouses are about as demure on Nya’lah’s pin-up physique as a crop-top and mini-skirt.

“Wear the cloak and keep your tail wrapped around the underside of the skirt?”, tilting my head to assess the fit, but my suggestion doesn’t help much.

I got her some leggings, which barely function as safety shorts, and a cape that only emphasises how tall she is compared to the locals. Like a lascivious and not so little red riding hood, catgirl edition.

Hopefully, between her hair and the hood, her ears should remain hidden, at least. Though there’s still more midriff on show than I’d like for this kind of protestant era.

She wolfs down breakfast like any good food motivated feline, which puts her into a more docile demeanour as we get on with the mission.

“Sooooo... all Nya’lah has to do is sniff and listen and let you know where the beast is?” She clings to my arm as we walk through the streets. Her body pressed so close I can feel everything as it all threatens to spill out of her new clothes. “Mrrrrrrr... no problem!”

A wide yawn.

A sleepy smack of the lips.

A cheek grinding into the top of my shoulder.

This feels a bit like a walk of shame, or a morning after date, and I feel guilty as hell for enjoying it when I’m meant to be working a case.

Nya’lah softly purrs through her food coma haze as we stroll around town. Her warm scent as teasing as her words.

This is too much.

By lunch, there's still no sign of the mechanical mongrel, so with our funds running low from unsuccessful attempts at jogging the locals’ memories, we sit in some shade to snack and regroup.

“Well that was a bust...” I mourn at our scouring turning up nothing.

My feline companion stretches and looks up through the tree’s canopy above us, a dappling of sunbeams playing about her lightly bronzed skin. A far healthier complexion than I’m used to from my pale lab mouse, Meganie, or myself for that matter.

Too much office work and not enough manual labour makes Ken a rickety boy~

“Ny’are you questioning Nya’lah’s skills?”

The warrior presents her point as placidly as possible, but it barely obscures the upset and uncertainty brimming underneath.

I don’t want her worrying.

As much as I may feel antagonised or overwhelmed by her aggressive interest in me, I don’t dislike her. I just don’t know how to handle someone this brazen, that’s on me, not Nya’lah.

“No, you’re doing great. I’m just frustrated that we’ve spent coin around half the town, it’s been nearly two days, and there’s next to nothing to show for it.” She instantly picks up on my wording and grins.

“Mrrrrrr...” her purr vivacious, bringing an instant smile to my face, “glad you’re enjoying yourself!”

She flops sideways into my lap, the hood of her cape falling back a little.

My courage gets the better of me and I pet the spot behind her ear that would usually make a cat try to scratch themselves.

Nya’lah tenses at first, not expecting me to give her what she wanted without prompting, a hint of rouge touching her cheeks. The vibration of her body intensifies.

This is far too much, but for now...

We while away the hottest part of the day like this, then carry on our hunt, strolling the streets interlinked. If she’d pursued me this calmly from the start, I’d have swooned by now.

Yet, by late afternoon, with still no sign of the hydraulic-hound, we complete our loop of the city. None too fussed about being back outside the inn from whence we started.

“If we’re spending another night...” an unintended implication sticks in my throat and I struggle to swallow, “we’re going to need more money.”

I look to where I busked the day before, leading Nya’lah over, and set up for another performance.

A crowd begins to gather before we have time to discuss anything and I give into the pressure of playing straight away. After a few strummed chords, I clear my throat, and quietly lilt the opening lines of a dirge. Something grungy, but an easy warm up.

“There’s a thing in the way...”

The audience, nonplussed, stick with me.

“There’s a thing in the way, yeah...”

Nya’lah, though, is transfixed.

I pick something a little more lively for the next song, which earns us a few coppers. As I go for the hat-trick, the huntress of my heart tries to strike a bullseye, breaking into a song of her own.

She stands, hands balled in fists by her sides, entering some folk ballad, and I am too enthralled myself to provide any accompaniment.

It’s haunting.

A bardic tale of heroism, of separation, of triumph, and loss.

She sings it with such passion, without hesitation, like she’s sang it a thousand times or more, and a lump builds in my throat.

The crowd stands, mouths agape.

By the end, her hands are clasped at her chest.

The final note carrying off over the market square, even echoes from the surrounding storefronts fearful of spoiling the solemnity.

Then silence; her head bowed.

Someone in the audience cheers out, the rest follow, and we are showered in praise and coin.

I cannot tear my gaze from her.

Nya’lah’s shoulders shudder.

I am on my feet before I know what I’m doing. Arms around her.

She leans her head back and exhales, sniffing back the few tears that had formed, and smiles at me. “Thanks, Daemahken...” she goes on her toes, arches even further back, and kisses my cheek.

My brain short circuits at that name being summoned at such a sensual moment, yet I'm too engulfed in emotion to cringe away.

A whole new round of cheering from the crowd. Whoops, whistles, and hollers.

We separate, all waves and smiles, to calls for more. It turns into a veritable open air festival. Nya’lah and I alternating between songs.

She accompanies mine by dancing, bending and gliding through those gathered like some reed or lilly swirling in the current. I support her with improvised chords or using the hollow body of the lute like instrument as a drum. Simple backing to give her voice a stage to stand upon more proudly.

The locals, in turn, bring out chairs, food, drink, and instruments of their own.

It’s a wild experience to have unintentionally started some snowballing community event like this, but I become swiftly intoxicated by the energy.

As our throats dry, drinks are given, as we rest, others take up song, and my head clouds with happiness and the looming hangover of tomorrow. My heart heavy with excitement, and a little shameful at its expectancy.

Nya’lah is never far from my side.

As the tide of the crowd threatens to pull her away, she always fights the flow and swims back to me.

My eyes permanently affixed.

My heart on the cusp of following suit.

KRRAAASSSSHHHHH!!!

A violent din destroys the atmosphere in one audacious act.

Scattering cries criss-cross the square.

Something thunderous approaches.

As what appear to be mounted knights traverse the market, Nya’lah reacts. Her back up, fangs bared.

I rush to calm or cover her up before the authorities get close enough to notice. Eventually resorting to holding her to my chest, hood hiding her eyes aflame.

“It’s here!” pugnacity evident in her tone.

The city guard push through the last of the people and there, at the head of the pack, is our robot-dog.

A monkey man in full plate and lance atop it.

In fact, all the knights are riding large dogs, each with some level of armour, so that the metallic limbs of our mutt in question do not stand out... not too much, anyway.

“Halt!” the captain of the guard raises his spear to signal to the others as he issues his command.

The troupe comes to a stop a few feet from us, “We heard reports of an unlawful gathering in this area and have come to force the crowd to disperse.” his tone somewhat shrill, but not insincere.

Not as tyrannical as I thought things were heading, just general law and order stuff.

I can feel the heat of Nya’lah's panting precipitate through my shirt front.

The tension in her coiled muscles ready to strike.

It takes all my strength to hold her back.

I’d rather deal with things peaceably.

“Good evening officers. My apologies for disturbing the tranquillity of your fair city. We are just passing through and our performance drew more attention than expected.”

I butter them up with platitudes and assurances of how impromptu and temporary everything is. Kinda like dealing with difficult customers in retail: let them vent, manage their expectations, then get out of Dodge.

It all seems to be going swimmingly until...

BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

The robot-dog, in all its cybernetically enhanced splendour, senses something. Something even the guards – who seemed willing to let go both the noise complaints and our unusual stature for the people of this world – had not noticed.

Something prehistoric and instinctive to canines.

That Nya’lah is a feline...

HHHIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSS!!!

...and they must fight.