Till the world ends

''

3.

She watched the man choke. The stains on his body could no longer be hidden beneath his suit. If not today, then noon tomorrow at the latest, his final hour would strike.

This was what she thought, feeling nothing.

He choked a little longer before finally falling still. With a strange fascination, she watched the droplets of blood quivering on his lips.

She rose from the bed he had made for her long ago and inserted a small claw into the lock. She lifted the latch and pushed the metal bars.

She never betrayed this to him. She let him believe that through this symbolic collar and the cage he had forced her to sleep in, he had power over her.

Or perhaps...? Wasn't attachment a form of love...?

No, she didn't want to consider that. Mr. S., the greatest evil on this blood-soaked and sweat-soaked earth, had died in his bed. Not from a gunshot wound, not from a treacherous stabbing, not from poisoned food or wine. Not even from remorse. Old age had killed him. Nearly fifty years of ingesting small doses of radiation in every form. That was old age.

Now she had a dilemma.

She could run away and leave this whole mess for others to clean up. Cleanse herself. Forget about it all. Find the love of her life. Yes, she couldn't forgive Mr. S. for not letting her search.

However, this, though incredibly tempting, was unprofitable in the long run.

She could also stay and take over a slave empire. It wouldn't be difficult at first; few people didn't respect her natural ability to harm all creatures. In time, however, someone charismatic enough would emerge to draw a larger group of Traders behind her and "arrange this freak of nature" she was. Or some "hero" trying to make this part of the world a better and safer place.

She could take the risk. She knew her stuff. She had a good (ruthless, sadistic, merciless, cold, brutal, ...) teacher. The first thing she would have to do was secure her position in every possible way. And that was a bit at odds with the first "I can"... So it came down to "can I."

Could she...?

5.

"You know, I knew a man once... He was intelligent... He could quickly add even three-digit numbers... And he was rarely wrong..." The cat thoughtfully reached for her shirt and slowly began to pull it off. "He expressed himself... you know? He didn't 'speak', he 'expressed'... You could listen to him for hours... That is, as long as during those hours... Ah..."

She sighed suddenly as his lips touched her stomach. His lips were cold, yet she felt a sudden warmth.

She effortlessly pushed him back onto the mattress.

"He was so... so different..."

The young boy snorted sarcastically. She looked at him, surprised.

"Hey, kid, 'different'? Who do you think is 'different'? Did he look like a dog or something?" He laughed unpleasantly, but it didn't bother her at all.

With the tips of his long, sharply pointed fingers, she ran them over her hips, her flat stomach. Higher, higher, all the way to her neck. She gently massaged the sensitive areas behind her pointed ears, tilting her head back. She didn't have to watch him drool at the sight of her hairless, full breasts with pink nipples.

It always puzzled her. No, not why members of this species reacted so strongly to the sight. She wondered why they weren't light beige. If their fur was the color of sand, it was only natural that...

She couldn't concentrate when he kissed her like that. She knew she couldn't push him away too often. But she was sorely tempted.

"Strange vodka," she muttered, reaching with imperceptible irritation for the nightstand. Or at least, for a worn piece of cardboard pretending to be a nightstand, on which, after several attempts, she managed to arrange two bottles.

"Woman! This is wine! PRE-WAR!" he exclaimed resentfully, quickly tearing himself away from the pleasure. Life wasn't just about girls, after all.

She looked at the dirty label doubtfully. Some old memory stubbornly tried to surface. She drank about a third of the clear glass in one gulp. A few drops trickled down her chin.

She was glad this building had no roof and that she could gaze at the stars. Ceilings had their advantages, but they were decidedly less interesting. Even after staring at them for several minutes, the "body," as she always called the Non-Radiating Ones in her mind, wasn't finished. Sometimes she'd light a cigarette afterward, a stinking piece of paper with some brown weed inside, which she truly hated.

Fortunately, Fast Janek was... simply fast, and didn't have that nasty habit.

Once he was sure he wasn't about to throw the bottle against the wall, he returned to the main topic of the meeting.

"Ahem... are you there... ahem, are you down there too...?

"

He stroked the Cat's head, almost tenderly. After all, she was his child... No. His disciple... No. His creation. Yes. He had created her. Perhaps from the very beginning, for her appearance must have been the work of that cursed radiation, but he felt like a god when he looked at her like that. She owed it to him... he had found her... near... near old Gorzów..."

Mr. S. grimaced slightly. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to put his thoughts into words. However, he immediately regained his composure, as another Trader caught in a scam was being brought into his office, who didn't even know that his buddies had already ratted him out for a paltry sum.

The elder automatically straightened his back. One of his rings had unfortunately gotten tangled in her fur and accidentally yanked the mutant.

She didn't even grunt. That's how he... trained her.

Any other man in his place would have been lying in a pool of his own blood by now, frantically trying to catch his leaking intestines.

He felt decadent satisfaction, and for a moment the Trader he had brought in believed it was just a routine scolding.

After all, Mr. S. rarely smiled when it came to serious matters.

"Henry, Henry..." the head of the slave guild began, shaking his head indulgently. "How many years have you been working for me...?

" "Nine, Mr. S." Henry replied helpfully, trying not to look at the woman sitting at the older man's knee.

"Ah, nine... Hmm, that's a long time, Henry. I'm all the more astonished by your... your antics.

" Henry 'Three Fingers' pricked up his ears.

"I pay you well, I let you... play... with older slaves, and I turn a blind eye to certain consequences." Mr. S. gestured for silence. "Henry, Henry... Because of you, I've lost two maids this month alone. Not to mention how many bruised and kicked I had to return to the city... And how many new ones have you brought in, hmm?"

The merchant wanted to say something, but quickly stopped himself, seeing that this was one of those "retarded" questions the boss was so fond of. He shouldn't have answered it. He should have sunk into the ground after them, saving himself the trouble of digging his own grave.

"Henry, I want to believe you've realized your mistake. I really do. That you'll mend your ways. For the sake of the good old days..." he winked knowingly, pointing to the woman at his feet. "Take her for today and don't mess around with any more slaves. Now go. The cat will show you the way."

He breathed a sigh of relief, already mentally preparing a plan to quickly get drunk on the vile liquor.

The mutant, barefoot but in a leather skirt and a cotton blouse three sizes too small, rose gracefully from the floor and stood beside him.

When they were at the door, she glanced at Mr. S. out of the corner of her eye, wanting to make sure he was supposed to escort the Trader to the linoleum room.

Mr. S. hated bloodstains on his precious carpets.

And she hated these "last favors." Even the polluted sea lacked enough water to wash away this filth. But Mr. S. was the master.

4.

She heard and recognized his voice. Her heart leaped into her throat.

The building was old and dilapidated, for no one was building or renovating such structures anymore. It had probably once been covered in peeling paint. Now even that was gone. The New Republic of Warsaw, after its rapid development, was once again experiencing years of poverty and famine.

She had to calm down. After all, she wasn't even sure he remembered her. Much less that he'd want to return to the District with her, and... and, her hands grew damp.

She took a few deep breaths. She stepped inside, dodging a pile of rags and a dead animal along the way. The dark corridor was no problem for the cat's pupils. The problem was the butterflies in her stomach.

He stood there. A halo of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the boards that covered the windows and the gaps in the walls. His hands were raised, a faint smile on his face.

He was preaching. The son of the slave guild chief was... a preacher. A crazy one at that.

She glanced around the room. Mr. Michał's only listener was a drunkard covered in newspapers, snoring in the corner.

She felt her legs give way. Then would come the time for desperate rage and wild fury.

Did Mr. S. know? Is that why he didn't let her...? Or...

She meowed, embracing all her pain in a single sound.

The man who had stopped washing and shaving a generation ago had only now noticed her.

He, too, howled. But out of fear.

"Demon, be gone! Spawn of Satan! I adjure you! I will never fear... er, and where are your horns?

" "Horns?" The absurdity of the situation was momentarily relieved by the nerve-numbing pain.

"Yes, yes, demons have horns. Yes, yes, yes." He nodded with great eagerness.

"I'm not a demon. I'm a Cat." She sighed, feeling the air was too stuffy.

"And a tail? Do you have a tail?

Yes, now was the time for fury. Definitely in big strides.

"No! I don't have any tail! I'm a cat; cats don't have tails!" she screamed and turned on her heel to show off her shapely rear. "See...?"

The man lunged at her with a piece of broken bottle, which he'd pulled from the folds of rags the moment she turned around. His scream saved her. And his inhuman reflexes.

Instinctively, she grabbed his wrist, just before the glass was about to slam into her kidney. She punched his elbow with her other hand. The man was surprised before he screamed in pain. His elbow hadn't bent that way before.

She didn't know what she would have done if the older woman hadn't suddenly burst into the room. She stopped dead in her tracks. She did too.

The cat looked directly into the bluest eyes in the world. Then she swallowed hard and said,

"I won't kill him. You'll have to do it yourself."

With a mighty effort of will, she forced herself to move. She walked past the still-still woman, stealing a whiff of her scent. Still distinctive.

2.

She sat on the sand, trying to appear completely uninterested in the men's conversation. She had become quite proficient at it. Some of the Traders didn't even know if the mutants understood "human speech." Sometimes it was useful. Like now, for example.

The men, albeit in whispers, were talking about... Mr. Michał!

She'd waited so long to even hear that name from lips other than her own... Some sign that he hadn't died after all, that he'd made it somewhere... She

heard a call. She jumped up and was instantly at Mr. S.'s side. She knelt down, as always, so he could place his hand on her head.

Mr. S. was just finishing showing around the equally wealthy and fat lord of the "Zakopane" estate. He was a cousin of the owner of the Polish labor camps, jokingly called 'Mr. Grand Orchestra.'

"New merchandise," he said, pointing to the hungry gang of children, perhaps six years old.

He didn't even hide his sick desire.

"Kitten, organize some... entertainment for Mr. Osik." Mr. S. tapped her collar.

For a moment, she couldn't believe the order.

Every fiber of her being protested against this horror. Every fiber of her soul recoiled from obeying.

The children stood crowded together, terrified. Dirty and tired from their long and difficult journey. Only one girl looked directly into the Cat's eyes with a strange determination.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but hadn't she had light blue eyes...? Hadn't she seen her somewhere before? Much, much earlier...?

Mr. S.'s hand tightened on the collar for a brief moment, gently choking the woman, forcing her to obey.

The Cat nodded cautiously. She forced herself to swallow before screaming at the top of her lungs,

"RUN! QUICKLY!"

The children didn't hesitate. The Cat had anticipated the spot. An incomprehensible survival instinct drove them to look for escape routes right there. She didn't stretch. She wanted to end this as quickly as possible. No theater.

"What's going on?! What the fuck..."

The fat man was panicking, but Mr. S. had everything under control.

She didn't have to worry about the political and economic consequences of the Master's decision. She

only had to worry if those surprised, pained looks, those innocent faces massacred under her claws and the still-rising screams of the murdered, would let her sleep tonight. If they would let her sleep at all.

6.

"You know, I knew a man once... They called him Mr. S. 'Mr. Son of a Bitch.' Funny, I don't know why... What do you think they'll call me?

" "Nice nail polish.

" "It's not nail polish. It's the sweetness of life," she laughed, licking dried blood from her claws. "But seriously, what do you think? What kind of Master will I be?"