The Cat Who Saw The World End

I was a kitten, just a few months old but something in me had already started to change. Maybe it was the early days of awareness kicking in, that growing sense of the world expanding beyond the limits of my small, warm corner on the ship. It wasn’t enough to watch from the sidelines—I had to be in it, to see the world for myself, feel it under my paws.

So, on one of Gunther's countless supply runs to Floating City, I clambered aboard after him, my tiny legs struggling to steady myself against the pull of the wind. Gunther wasn’t too thrilled to see me. His brow furrowed and his mouth set in that familiar line of exasperation. After a moment's pause, knowing that resistance was futile, he sighed and tucked me inside his heavy pea coat, my small body pressed against his warmth as the world outside turned colder and sharper.

The wind bit at us. It had a sharp edge, cutting through the air with a bite as crisp as the sea spray. The boat rocked beneath, but inside his coat, it was quiet and almost still. There, I nestled, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the muted roar of the wind lulling me into a kind of contented daze.

At the top of Gunther's ever-growing to-do list was a task that had, disturbingly, become routine—fetching rat meat from the vendor.

People didn’t use to eat rats. In times long past, it was scarcely imaginable that people would turn to rats for food. I recall the fragmented, almost dreamlike stories Jimmy would recount from his childhood—tales from the pre-Great Wrath world, when he lived on a farm. He spoke of a pastoral existence where cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, goats, and horses populated the land; their existence was as integral to life as the soil beneath one's feet.

In those days, people ate these animals. But they no longer exist. They didn't survive the Great Wrath. In this new reality, rats have become the primary source of meat, other than fish.

The rats were everywhere now, multiplying so rapidly that the city itself seemed alive with their presence, teeming with darting shadows that skittered just out of sight, lingering on the edges of perception.

Humans and cats, in a silent and unspoken alliance, worked side by side without hesitation, capturing as many of the vermin as possible. Rather than letting the carcasses go to waste, they were prepared and served for human consumption—scrubbed clean of grime, their wiry hair stripped away, gutted, and roasted over open flames.

The sizzling skins sent a smell into the air that made my mouth water. But Gunther looked torn. His expression betrayed a flicker of unease, as if this strange new food was something forbidden—something you shouldn’t crave but found yourself drawn to regardless. He wondered aloud if there was still a difference anymore between necessity and desire—or if those words had long since lost their meaning since the rebuilding after the Great Wrath.

As Gunther bent low, inspecting the live rats crammed within the wire cages beside the fryers, his attention was suddenly drawn to a figure approaching from the crowd. It was a man cradling a tattered box in his arms and he threw it before the rat vendor's feet. And from the box emerged the heads of several curious creatures– furry, short-legged, and floppy-eared. He referred to them dismissively as "mutts," declaring with a wry grin that they could potentially fast become the newest delicacy.

The vendor paused to examine the small, trembling creatures before her. Her weathered face furrowed with curiosity, and I, too, leaned in for a closer look—this was the first time I had ever laid eyes upon a member of the canine species.

She scratched her head thoughtfully, her brow knit in mild disbelief. "They don't look like they'd provide much meat," she said. “Rats are easier to fatten up, skin, and grill. They're less work, and they reproduce faster.”

The mutts whimpered. Their tails wagged furiously as though this was the moment they’d been waiting for—the moment the universe might tilt in their favor. They clambered over one another, paws scraping at the cardboard edges, trying to escape the box that held them in.

Among the pitiful assembly was one dog that stood out—a small, white creature with a striking patch of brown fur encircling his left eye, which stretched upward over his head, covered his ears, and ran down the length of his spine to the very tip of his tail. His appearance alone might have drawn attention, but it was his actions that truly set him apart. While the others cowered in their cardboard prison, this brave little dog, driven by an instinct for survival, made a desperate leap over the edge of the box. Summoning all the strength contained within his small, quivering frame, he threw himself boldly against the side of the box.

It wobbled, then tipped over. Its flimsy structure collapsed beneath the force of his will. What followed was chaos: barking, yelping, bodies skittering in all directions, minds overwhelmed by this sudden, disorienting freedom.

At that very moment, I leaped from the folds of Gunther’s pea coat. Gunther stumbled, startled by one of the frantic creatures zigzagging between his feet. Flailing his arms, he fought to regain his balance. But his efforts were in vain. He crashed into the stack of rat cages.

The impact was violent enough to jolt the cage doors open, and in an instant, the vendor’s prisoners—dozens of wild-eyed rats—seized their chance for freedom. They poured out in a desperate, squealing mass, scattering in every direction, eager to escape the foul confines of the death-stall that had, until moments ago, promised their grim end.

Amidst the sea of startled faces and stampeding feet, I spotted him again—the white dog with the unmistakable brown patch over his eye. He moved like a force of nature, weaving through the crowd, causing as much disruption as the rats now did. People shrieked and stumbled back, knocking over baskets and sending vendors stumbling. As I watched him disappear into the crowd, I felt a strange certainty come over me: this would not be the last time our paths would cross.

***

I followed Lee into a narrow alleyway, the distance between us shrinking as his pace faltered. Without warning, he dropped to the ground, rolling onto his back, his legs splayed wide, front paws pointed upward in a posture that seemed both unnatural and eerily serene. The pufferfish he'd been carrying fell from his mouth, flapping weakly on the pavement, its spiny body twitching feebly. It flapped and struggled for a moment, then gradually, its erratic movements slowed until they ceased altogether.

Lee lay there with his tongue hanging limply from the side of his open mouth. I inched closer. Was he dead? For a moment, I believed he had succumbed to some toxin and became a victim of his reckless appetite. His eyes were shut tight, his face contorted into an odd, twisted grin.

Then, his chest rose in a sudden, deep breath, followed by a tremor that rippled through his whole body. A sound, low at first, grew louder until it burst from his throat in a wild, uncontrollable laugh—a laugh so full of mirth and mischief that I could hardly believe it.

Lee wasn’t dead at all. He wasn’t even in danger. He was simply lost in some euphoric trance, intoxicated by whatever strange effect the pufferfish had brought upon him.

His eyes fluttered open, shining with amusement, and I stood there, half in disbelief, watching as he reveled in his bizarre state. Lee was not just alive—he was, it seemed, thoroughly enjoying himself in a way only he could.

“I couldn't thank those dolphins enough for this,” he managed between fading bursts of laughter.

“I thought you were dead,” I said, my voice cold and even. “You do realize that this kind of fish carries a lethal toxin!”

I moved toward the pufferfish’s bloated form, careful not to make contact, for even the slightest touch could probably kill me. I leaned in, catching the faintest odor. The creature's eyes bulged out, its mouth gaping in a final, voiceless scream. No doubt about it– it was gone.

“Yup, I'm aware of that,” Lee replied with a strange, distant gleam in his eyes, “But if you know the trick, if you know just how to press, it won't kill you. Instead, it’ll set you free.”

“And how exactly did you learn to get high off pufferfish toxin?”

Lee rolled over and got to his feet, swaying slightly from side to side. “The dolphins, of course. After I had escaped the Shelter–”

“–where a thief ought to be–”

“I bolted down to the docks and dove into the nearest dinghy like a fugitive on the run–”

“–Well, you are–”

“–figured I’d catch a quick nap, let the chase blow over. But when I woke up, I was no longer dockside—I was adrift, smack in the middle of the goddamn sea! That’s when I realized: some idiot had forgotten to tie the mooring line to the cleat. Of course, this is my luck. Stranded. Alone.”

“Oh no, what a tragedy.”

“Then, out of nowhere, a pod of dolphins swam up and asked me what the hell a dog was doing alone out here,” Lee continued to yap. “I told them, straight up, I’d broken out of the Shelter—the place was a prison—and I needed to get back to the city.”

“And how did they react?”

“My story didn’t even faze them. They nudged the dinghy, one by one, bumping me in the right direction, all cool and calm like they’d done it a hundred times.”

“I'm sure they've come across sea-stranded dogs many times before.”

“The journey didn’t take long—maybe an hour, maybe less—but it stretched out like some odyssey. Time does weird things when you’re stuck at sea with nothing but hunger gnawing at your gut and dolphins for company. Somewhere along the way, they showed me how to milk a pufferfish for its toxin. They said it’d take the edge off the hunger, give me a kick. And holy hell, they weren’t wrong! That stuff hit me like a yacht crashing into a ship—oh man, it was just enough of a kick to forget about being hungry, just long enough to keep going.”

“And now you're addicted to this toxin and have been stealing from the Blowfish Man.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Stealing? No, no, man, that was the first time, I swear! I just needed a kick, you know? Just one more. A good one.”

He stopped and eyed me curiously. “But hey, what about you?” he asked. “What were you doing up there with those cats in the Blowfish Man’s stall? Looking for a kick yourself, huh?”

I straightened up, chest out. “I’m on duty. Important investigative work.”

“Exciting!” he exclaimed, ears perking up, tail wagging furiously. “What kind of investigation?”

“I can't tell you the details. It's an ongoing case.”

His ears drooped, tail slowing. As I turned to leave, a thought struck me. I paused, glancing back. “Actually,” I started to say, “There might be something you can help me with.”

His tail was wagging again, faster this time, hope revived. “What is it? What can I help with? I’m always up for a bit of adventure and fun.”

“You know the lay of the land, don’t you?”

He nodded confidently. “Of course! I was born and raised here, you know that.”

“Right, so you’d be familiar with most of the vendors and shop owners.”

“Most of them, yes. I can tell their scent well enough to know whether I love, like, or dislike them.”

“Do you know of an apothecary owned by a strange masked man?”

Lee's face clouded with concern. “Oh, so you're looking for that man.”

“Do you know him?”

“I think I know who you're talking about, but I’ve never interacted with him directly. He always gave me a bad feeling whenever our paths crossed.”

Intrigued, I settled in, keen on hearing more. “Go on. What do you mean by that.”

Lee paced in a small circle before finally settling down across from me, his expression thoughtful. He cleared his throat before beginning his tale of how he encountered the masked stranger.

***

Nobody knew where the stranger came from or how he ended up in Floating City—he just appeared one day, like he slipped out of a dream or drifted in on a cloud of fog. One moment, nothing; the next, there he was, setting up an apothecary in some old corner shop.

And you could tell, right off, he wasn’t one of the locals. Not just ‘cause he never took off that mask—some freakish thing strapped to his face, all tubes and metal, tethered to an oxygen tank strapped to his back like he’d just walked in from another world, or another planet. He moved like a ghost, silent, distant, always keeping himself just out of reach, even though he stood right there.

He walked around like he owned the place—an air of authority, like he knew every alley and shadow in Floating City. But here’s the thing: nobody knew him, and he sure as hell didn’t know anyone. Not that it mattered to him. The locals wore what you’d expect—kelp tunics, fish scale vests, some wrapped in seal or shark skins.

But not this guy. No, he strutted around in a dark metallic blue one-piece suit that clung to him like it was vacuum-sealed—long sleeves, the whole deal. And over it, a heavy silvery coat, flapping behind him as he moved. Then there were the boots—thick, heavy, and hard as iron, each step landing with a thud that shook the ground around him.

A bizarre figure, no doubt about it. He didn’t fit, didn’t try to, but that’s what made it so damn curious. You couldn’t look away. A man out of place, out of time, stomping through the streets like he was on some kind of mission that only he knew about. Weird as hell, and nobody could figure him out.

And nobody really wanted anything to talk to him, no sir, except to get their hands on whatever strange medicine he brewed up. People whispered about his potions, swore they worked faster than anything they’d ever seen—like magic, almost too good to be true. Some even claimed he pulled a kid back from the edge of death, like snatching life right out of the jaws of the void. But that’s as far as it went—get the medicine, then get the hell away before anything about him got under your skin.

While the stranger did some good, ever since he showed up, things have been getting real strange around here. First, it was the rats. They started disappearing. Now, you'd think that would be a blessing, right? Vermin gone, problem solved!

But it didn’t feel right. When the street rats vanished—either hiding or just poof, gone—something else was going on. The rats at the vendor stalls? They weren’t disappearing; they were being stolen. Like someone was out there, collecting them for God knows what.

People are starting to worry there’s gonna be a meat shortage coming, and that’s bad news for animals like us because when the meat runs out, they might turn to us—hell, they tried to eat me when I was just a pup. I remember that all too well, the way their eyes looked at me, circling around me like vultures. So now, with the rats disappearing, everyone’s on edge. But I know who’s behind it. Yeah, that’s right—the Masked Stranger. He’s the one taking them.

I got hired by a rat vendor to guard his rats—pretty straightforward gig. He promised me a meal after every shift, but only if none of his rats got swiped. Fair deal, I thought. He kept them locked up tight, stacked in cages with a dirty sheet thrown over them, like that’d do anything.

I could still hear them, squealing every so often, and a few of the clever ones even tried talking to me, whispering through the bars. They promised me real food if I let them loose. But I didn’t bite. You can’t trust rats. They’re born liars, all of them. You can’t trust a word they say.

So there I was, circling the stall, pulling guard duty. First night? Nothing. Dead quiet. Boring as hell. Second night? Same deal. But I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t all bad; at least I got a meal out of the deal. Then came the third night... and that’s when I screwed up.

I let my guard down, nodded off for what felt like a second. Next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by this rustling sound and those high-pitched squeals. I shot up and there he was—the Masked Stranger—right in front of me, clear as day. He was taking the rats, zapping them with some kind of weird metal stick with buttons, knocking them out cold, and shoving them into a bag.

I barked at him, full force, teeth bared—“Hey, you! Stop right there, motherfucker, or I'll tear your leg clean off if you don't put those rats back!”

But of course, humans don’t understand a damn thing we say. To him, I was just some crazy dog, barking like mad. He stopped for a second, and when I tried to bark again, he pulled out the little stick with the buttons on it. Before I could react–bam!–this tiny ball of light shot out and hit me square in the throat. Next thing I knew, I couldn’t make a sound—not a growl, not a bark, just a pitiful wheezing cough. And then, the bastard bolted.

I chased him as fast as my legs could carry me, followed him all the way back to his shop, but he slammed the door in my face. The next morning, the rat vendor was pissed off, incredibly furious. He blamed me for the whole mess. He dragged me down to the Shelter, said I was a bad dog, that I let his rats get stolen. That’s how I ended up there, at the Shelter—branded as a failure for trying to stop that masked son of a bitch. It was only for a few days but a day there felt like a year.

Oh, and another th–

***

Lee came to a sudden halt mid-sentence. His spine stiffened, every sinew drawn tight. He straightened, head jerking slightly as his eyes locked onto the dead end of the alley. Something was moving there. I, too, felt it—a creeping sensation. Instinct overtook me as I rose to my full height, my claws unsheathed, ready to strike at whatever horror lay ahead.

Slowly, a form materialized, rising from the heaps of discarded filth, like a creature dredged from the blackest depths of the ocean. Its shadow stretched upward against the alley wall into the unmistakable shape of a monstrous rat. Against the grime-streaked wall, its shadow loomed monstrous, warped into the silhouette of a colossal rat. Its eyes were twin orbs of blinding white cutting through the darkness. Its movements were jerky and unnatural.

But it wasn’t the creature’s bulk that set my fur bristling and sent icy tendrils crawling up my spine. As the thing advanced, its mouth yawned open, and something worse than razor-sharp teeth emerged. A nest of thin, writhing tendrils spilled forth, serpentine and vile, quivering as they stretched toward us.

I could almost hear them, the sickening, whispering slither of living threads tasting the air, seeking flesh. They seemed to pulse with a life of their own, independent of the thing that birthed them. Whatever this thing was, it was not of our world.