On such a warm Sunday morning, the bright sun shown so wondrously into the studio room atop the townhouse at 83 Rosewood Street in the Historic Quarter of downtown Crossroads. A gentle wind blew against the large windows, some of which were open to help keep the posh living space nice and comfortable. Like the exhale from Oceania, the ancient Sea Goddess of yesterdays who either graced the sailors good fortune or jealously smashed their ships on Folly’s Point. Even with the lighthouse there, many a ship was utterly destroyed with such fervor that even the mighty Godzilla would be impressed.
The townhouse was kept up with painstaking care by the staff, hired by the owner and paid handsomely. Yet, no restrictions were put on what these people could or might say. But that was not needed. The owner had engendered such a loyal attachment from the staff that privacy was never a concern. Much to the chagrin of the tabloids, blogs, and other sources of possible disreputable information, no one was able to ascertain much more than buoyant compliments and heartfelt appreciation for the owner.
Sitting on the plush cushions of her favorite leather couch, Ricochet leans back into its embrace and snuggles happily. A wooden pencil in her dainty hand dances about the page of her beloved sketch book. The gentle scratching of the graphite tip whispers across the air, causing her wide ears to occasionally twitch. Her left hand guides the pencil with amazing grace and uncanny dexterity while her right hand balances a morning glass of orange juice. Expressive purple eyes follow the movements of the pencil behind a curious pair of damaged glasses, seeming to not hinder the copper topped tigress’s drawing.
Tilting her head to the side, the copper topped tigress paused for a moment’s heartbeat to take in her sketch. It was a wondrous picture of her partner in motion. The pose captured the sense of the PlastiCat’s uncanny grace while emphasizing the sheer power contained within the elastic form. Those eyes! Magnificently detailed! And the kind that seemed to contain a soul within even the rough sketch. The tip of her tail seemed to be suggesting another possible action while her mighty hands were more than ready to deal with anything coming her way. Ricochet had been a partner of the PlastiCat for several months now, having freed her from the odd freight car in the train yard on the edge of Crossroads. A risk to be sure, but worth it. No one should be treated like that, no matter what she might have done.
Taking a sip of her orange juice, Ricochet remembered the moment of squeezing into the freight car. The tingling sense of the tight metal, cushioned by a dense rubber to keep air out rolled throughout her body, making her toes curl and her mind so orgasmic! Yet, her mother had taught the young girl well; decipline! The process of her squeezing in took a good length of time, adapting to the molecular make up, and somehow flowing through. A curious sensation to be sure, but it only heightened the delight … the sense of triumph Ricochet felt when she stood inside the freight car. Cold it was, like a stinking draft out of a slaughterhouse. A place the copper topped tigress remembered from perhaps a nightmare, or even something from her past. Shaking it off, she managed to put her feet, one step at a time forward.
That was when Ricochet saw her. Floating within a rich fluid which occasionally bubbled or shifted was the PlastiCat, but not like she was today. Oh no. Thin and trim, with very little curves on her, yet powerful looking hands and feet, much too large for them to be on someone like her. And yet full of great potential.
Before Ricochet understood what she was doing, the young tigress had started to undo the seal. Some sort of terminal had beckoned her from the left side of the liquid chamber containing the strange purple and orange feline. Her fingers danced across the controls, soft musical sounds being heard, as Ricochet worked. It would be much later when she would wonder how she knew how to operate the system. The thought was not able to be studied, for the chamber pushed forward and then lowered backwards, putting the occupant on her back. The glass seemed to open … no, melt … melt was a far better word … melt apart, strings of the glass were spun from top to bottom before seeming to break apart and allow the occupant to float there within the liquid. The liquid chamber must have expanded some to keep the liquid from spilling out.
The soft greenish glow lit along Ricochet’s stunned features, making her purple eyes glow behind the glasses, now cracked and damaged. If she noticed, the tigress was too preoccupied to care. Reaching in, she dipped her hands into the thick liquid. At first, the liquid seemed to resist the fingers’ desire to submerge, the surface indenting and pushing inward from the force. After a moment, the surface gave way and seemed to embrace the fingers. Startlingly, the liquid was very warm. If Ricochet would have guessed, she might have deduced it was body temperature, perhaps a few degrees below. Bringing the purple and orange feline’s face to the surface, Ricochet looked over the strong, broad features … fluid oozed out of the pink nose and dribbled off of the deep purple lips before a tremendous cough brought forth a gallon or so of the liquid from within the feline. Other smaller coughs worked on clearing the rest of the stuff from the feline while Ricochet watched. That was when Ricochet noticed the strange collar. A black strap wrapped around the neck with some sort of white square in front. Not sure why, but Ricochet reached out to touch it ...
Even to this day, she was not sure entirely what happened, but if she would be in the right frame of mind and talking to people she trusted, Ricochet might be encouraged to tell more. But realistically, she is not sure what happened.
Raising an eyebrow very much like Mr. Spock off of her favorite TV show her mother introduced her to so long ago, Ricochet smiled to herself and went back to sketching.
“Fascinating,” the copper topped tigress whispered to herself.