pafp I'm just a boy with his heart pouring out of his head - The shelter

[shrewflight.]

Please wait for slate to post first!!///

Pocket was having a hard day. Well, it was the same every day. The same cell, the same sights, new cats who are confusing, but it's felt like forever since he's seen his no furs. but.. it couldn't have been that long right?

The chocolate marbled boy would paw gently at his cage, before looking up at what would be the sky if the cage and ceiling weren't in the way. He couldn't sleep, his day nap bringing bad dreams that woke him up and was hard to fight back the tears that wanted to spill. A dream of his momma, and his siblings, and papa.

A low murmur would escape his jaws. "I miss you, mama. I want to see you again, you can't hear me but I hope a good no fur picked you. Or one that will let you come see me here. I'm lonely mama," he would say, a soft sigh escaping his jaws. "One day you'll come back and you'll see me. I'll wait here. Unless my no furs come back, which should be any day now. I think they wanted me to have time with you mama."

He assumed everyone was asleep, his olive eyes peering through the bars. He couldn't see very well, though. Pocket would lay down once more and place his small chin on tiny brown paws.

He just wanted to cuddle up on his warm mama, or on his no furs chest like he used to. Or play with his papa, which he never got to with the metal walls in the way. He didn't even know what his papa looked like, just knew the gruff sound of his voice.

One day hell meet him. One day hell see his mama again, and his siblings. Or, one day his no fur would come back.

 

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — Slate was growing restless as well, albeit not for the same reasons as Pocket. He wanted to get out of here, away from the twolegs, this bone-dry kibble, these stale-smelling cells and the hysterical crying and constant complaining from the others. He never wanted to see a twoleg again after this... if he was even able to make his escape. Knowing the bipedal beasts, however, he knew that they would try to contain him one way or another. Slate had been lucky enough to slip out from underneath the watch of his masters as a kitten, but would he have that same luck now?

The humming of noise from both cats and twolegs alike is practically becoming white noise at this point, his tufted ears numbed from the many days he's spent in this living hell. However, an isolated murmur from a nearby cage causes him to involuntary prick an ear and hone in on whatever was being said. Urgh, great. Another kid. There seemed to be a lot of young cats in the shelter; to think that the twolegs had control over all of them, control over who lived and who didn't.

Slate was curled up in the corner of his enclosure, an exhausted frown plastered upon his maw. The Maine Coon is tired of all of the grumbling and protesting from his clanmates and the other strays alike — it wouldn't do any good. "Sorry to break it to ya', kid, but if your twolegs haven't come for you by now then they ain't comin' ever." The warrior grunts from his lonely prison, "Cats rot in this place for weeks, moons even, holding onto that hope." Slate had not experienced the shelter before this, though he had heard horror stories from fellow strays. It was truly spirit-killing, spending a lifetime in this place and never seeing the light of day ever again.

Perhaps his honesty hadn't been needed here, but Slate's ears were going to fall off if he heard any more hopeless whining from anyone else.​

 

[shrewflight.]

Nearby, the chocolate boy heard a voice. embarrassment flooded through him and heated his ears. He listened, and his ears flattened, and his lip stuck out and trembled.

a familiar gruff voice in his head sounded. Boys don't cry, Pocket. So he sniffled, wiped away the loose tear and tried to lift his chin up.

Ever was a long time. But the concept of time escaped the boy. "How many night of sleep is a week? A moon?" he asked, his ears still flattened sadly and his voice meek. He didn't want to know, he really didn't but part of him didn't want to believe the other tom.

But the other part... the other part says he's been waiting longer than he should have in these cages.

"So.. I'm going to be stuck here forever...?" He asked, pawing softly at the floor of the metal cage, olive eyes looking almost in defeat.

And his heart screamed in agony, but the emotions did not pass his face. He had to be strong for his mother.

 

[CHALK]

⭒✧ Plaintive murmurs crept up him, corrosive to the silence that had fallen over the shelter. Each new voice in the wall brought about a fresh calamity and Chalk had been savouring the quiet since the last arrival. When the words clarified however, the tom couldn't maintain his irritation. Another young one mourning their upwalker. He felt as his tired eyes slicked to watch between the bars, the weight of exhaustion slowing the movement. The cutter had stolen his energy as well, it seemed. Despite a brow creased with lethargy, the gaze beneath it was bright with interest.

The exchange, between the kittypet and a pine-walker, held Chalk's laboured attention. He had assumed the clan-folk held dislike for the Shelter and the confirmation served to further his opinion of the group. Fond of freedom- a fondness he shared. The stranger's tone was bleak, perhaps unhelpful to the younger cat. Propped up on a marrow paw, the loner nudged his nose closer to the bars.

"Not forever. From my understanding, new twolegs will claim us. I hear they like the small ones- you'll have another nest soon." The life of a kittypet was not one Chalk personally sought but he hoped his words would quell the other cat. Or at least quiet them.​

⭒ ———————————— ✧⭒​

 

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — "He's right. The twolegs like the young ones like you. Older cats... not so much." Slate's only saving grace—should he wish to be adopted in the first place—was his purebred heritage. His mother had told him and his littermates that they were special cats, beautiful and cherished by humans, held in high regard and treated like royalty. Other cats who weren't as special stood less of a chance of getting noticed, especially if there wasn't much of a "cute factor" to them.

It was cruel, the way the twolegs operated. To think that one's appearance and age could mean the difference between life or death. "Twolegs are selfish creatures, fueled only by greed and a need to control everything." Slate grumbled in a tone that was clearly bitter on account of his own experiences.

Slate was going to suggest that the kit run at the first chance he got. But was that life what this kit wanted?

Slate sees (or mostly hears, rather) a mirror image of himself when he was a youth — so naive, not yet exposed to the horrid truths of the real world. This boy had likely been raised in a similar manner to himself, pacified with lies about how wonderful being a house pet was and how wonderfully the humans treated cats. It had all been lies. Cats were simple accessories to the two-leggeds, discarded like rubbish and left behind when it was convenient for them. Even if you lived your whole life with the bipedal beasts, they would replace you like you weren't even there to begin with. It was a cruel cycle, no way that Slate ever wanted to live. There had to be a greater purpose for him out in the world rather than eating processed slop and viewing the outside from behind a shiny pane. He had his chance in SkyClan to start anew and forge his own destiny... but that was all gone now. Slate was doomed to be smuggled into another crate and taken to a new nest, potentially never allowed to step paw onto fresh grass again.

Would Slate have remained with his twolegs if he knew how difficult life would be on the streets? He doesn't know the answer. Slate would have been a hell of a lot safer with his twolegs, free of scars or ailments, but he also would have never reunited with Clover again. He would have never gotten to experience the taste of a juicy mouse, the feeling of the breeze running through his fur.

The Maine Coon's gruff voice softens, if only slightly, to explain through the bars of his cell, "There's more to life than chowin' on kibble and bein' dragged around like a personal plaything." Cats could be more than twoleg accessories. They had to be. He refused to believe otherwise. "There are groups of cats that live in the forest — clans. We all live in the clan closest to here, SkyClan." He refers to the large influx of feral cats that smell of pines and wilderness. "If y'ever get outta' here, run for the forest. They'll take ya' in. You'll have more freedom there than you could imagine." Slate still wasn't used to the structure and organization that a clan offered and wasn't necessarily a fan of all of the laws that he had to abide by, but it still beat the lawlessness and dangers that the city ran rampant with. It certainly beat being kept prisoner by the twolegs for an entire lifetime.

"Don't stick to the streets, and sure as hell don't stay with any twolegs. Trust me." He knows what it's like to live in both worlds. They were no place for a kitten.​

 

[shrewflight.]

New things scared him. He was nervous for a bit in the twoleg home he remembered, the noises he was used to. but, the grabby moist hands were nothing compared to the delicate tall no furs.

But these ones called them 'Twolegs'. Which made sense. They walked on twos except the little one, which walked on four.

But new twolegs sounded nice, he supposed..

He was about to speak and respond, when The first male spoke again, confirming the second males words on how pocket has a high chance of getting adopted. "What happens to older cats..?" he asked, nervous of the response. His mom was a few years old, so he was a little worried now. "Do you think my mom is with no-furs?"

Twolegs are selfish creatures, fueled only by greed and the need to control everything.

He remembered when he'd get sprayed with water, bopped on the nose, hit on the head for scratching the child. It was always when they wanted him not to do something he wanted to do. Like climb, and jump to higher vantage points. He couldn't do a lot of what he wanted to do. And definitely, he couldn't go outside, but stare out the window and what the feeling of that green stuff felt like.

Slate continued, telling him he should go to the forest, whatever that was, and find Skyclan. How they would take him in. Would they be his family then?

"You're right," He says, still a bit of sadness in his voice. He'd be leaving everything comfortable. Everything he knew. But then he wouldn't get hit on the head anymore. "I think they did abandon me here..."

"When I last seen them, I accidentally hurt one of the little ones. They grabbed my tail real hard.. and maybe.. maybe the big one didn't like my reaction but.. it hurt. The big one hit me, and soon I was brought back here.. I was.. well I was stupid to believe that they just wanted me to see my momma..." he trailed off, his voice saddened and regretful. He didn't mean to, he didn't think they were that mad at him. But .. the boy just didn't know twolegs were cruel, growing up around them.

"What is Skyclan like? Will they let me climb things? And what is a forest, I've never heard of one or seen one. Is it big?" he tried distracting his thought from being too upset, but he was scared. Was the forest dangerous? His momma always talked about scary creatures like foxes, and how he should avoid the streets, too just like the male Tom said.

 

[SNAPPAW]

The day carries on, and the chaos of the twolegs' usual arrival has wound down. Snapple's chants of "Out!" have failed once more on his jail wardens, and the golden-furred child will only try again tomorrow. They'll have to listen to him someday. Perhaps he isn't being loud enough? It's kind of difficult to be, after all, with how loud this place gets.

And, at this time of night, it's usually silent - a rarity in this place, as its abundance of cats finally get some sleep. Usually, only, Snapdragon struggles to settle into his own sleep, ears twitching at the sound of murmuring. Ears strain to listen, the child sitting up and blinking away what little sleep he'd gotten.

Snapple doesn't quite know where the conversation is coming from, or who exactly is taking part in it, but he listens anyway. It's hard not to listen to the only thing making sound, in a place like this.

It's another kid, he's certain, and... a couple others. And that word comes up again - SkyClan. Snapple's learned from the chatter about it that it's... it's kind of like the colony he'd been born to, only, much bigger, as apparent by the many cats who cry out for it. A golden tail swishes as the kid's told he's never going back home, that he'll go to a new home and it's joltingly clear the same will only happen to Snapple, right? If this was what this place was destined for - taking cats out of their homes and placing them into another, Snapple was bound to never see his own family, ever again.

His mother will never find him. She'll never know he's okay, that he's sorry for finding the silver-laced trap in the first place.

"What about SkyClan?" he points out, stepping forward to peer out of his prison, "They haven't come to get you either."

Would they ever? Or would more of them take up space here, rotting in boxes just like the rest of them? Moons even, he'd heard buried within their conversation, ears flattening at the words. Snapple doesn't know how long he's been here - he's lost count, but he knows it's been a long while.

"If y'ever get outta' here, run for the forest," the Sky-teller says. SkyClan will take them in, he promises. How can that be, if they haven't come to retrieve their own? Snapple would rather run the opposite way, to go to the safety of his own home, than to join a new one.
​

 

[CHEDDAR !!]

Cheddar was on his... oh, how many days had it been now? He wanted to say weeks, month perhaps, but realistically it may have just been two days now. Cheddar had made it outside of his owner's home for several more before he had been caged up and brought into this strange-smelling place, and he was quite proud of his adventures! So many scents discovered. Faces, friendly and not, met while ambling about the neighborhood. Many fences attempted to be climbed- he almost had it the last time!

Of course it was the temptation of a fresh open can of food that had led her here. She couldn't resist, the new taste of whatever leftovers she dug into were nothing to compare. She should have known it was too good to be true, but now she simply faced the consequences. Surely her owner would arrive any moment to swoop her in his arms and bring her back home. Open all the cans he had in the cupboard just for her.

In his delightful imaginations some of the other cats began to bicker, drawing his attention between the wired cages. "Feareth not mine own cater-cousins! This is just anoth'r adventure. Anon we shall beest on our next journey, and continueth our righteous paths." His voice was cheery and light, not a single worry about how much longer his time would be here.​

KITTYPET ✦ WHITE SPOTTED ORANGE TABBY ✦ 30 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[✧ Mottledove.]

MY LITTLE DOVE WHY DO YOU CRY
chiara | 14 months | female | she/her | physically extremely easy | mentally very hard | attack in bold #74a2a5

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The longer she spends here, the more chiara becomes convinced that she must get out. She has lost so much these past few weeks - she will not let them take this from her too. A quiet sniffling voice reaches her ears, drawing her from her thoughts and bringing her slow pacing to a halt. She listens in to the conversation, before slowly drawing closer, pressing her forehead to cool metal bars as she closes her eyes. "... what is the forest like?" She's heard only horror stories from him - the dangers, how well off she must have it as a kittypet kept inside it's twolegs nest, an endless supply of food at her disposal. But... she is desperate.

​

​

 

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — The kitten asks about his mama and Slate feels himself wince, ill-equipped to be a comforting presence (even from afar). What was he supposed to tell this kid? They all knew what his mother's fate could have been and he wasn't a fan of sugarcoating things. At least he could utter an honest response, "Don't know, kid." He would likely never know, either. He would become numb to her absence in time, learn how to look out for himself and look upon the sweet scent and fuzzy warmth of his mother as a distant memory.

The Maine Coon listens through tufted ears as the boy explains his story, one that he knows all too well. A cat that plays rough with its twolegs, especially one of the young ones, did not last very long in the home at all. Their skin was so fragile that even the slightest prick would send them wailing. It was a shame, really.

"SkyClan's whole shtick is climbing. They'll let you climb whenever and whatever." The warrior says with a flick of his tail. Hell, even he had been sharpening up his climbing skills prior to his capture. He frowns softly, knowing that there was a good chance that he would never be able to sink his claws into bark again.

Slate can make out the voice of another young cat poking their nose into the conversation. He supposes that any talking through the cages wasn't very private, after all, and therefore he can't bring himself to be bothered by it. "They don't know where to find us. Don't know if they ever will. It's a long ways away." The burly male explains. Sure, he had told them about the shelter, but finding their way to them was a major task. He has doubts that they'll end up finding their way here; Blazestar hadn't even dared venture into the Twolegplace to search for his own daughter, so why would he send more cats into the unknown with a chance that they'd get kidnapped as well?

There are more cats who speak up now. One speaks in an odd and cheery fashion, which prompts a quirk of his eyebrows. Huh, certainly the most lighthearted one here. The other, a she-cat this time, inquires about the forest. "It's free." Slate answers. He is wistful, somewhat, imagining his paws trekking through grass and fresh pine needles. His nest back in camp lay empty and dusty; was Clover looking after it? Had they gotten rid of it already? "No twolegs, just a wide open land of trees, all the birds 'n mice you could catch." Among other prey, as well, but those two were pretty common in the pines.

The Maine Coon lets a soft huff escape his nostrils, his gaze averting sideways as he explained, "I used to think that I'd live on the streets forever, just pickin' fights with other strays 'n diggin' for scraps, but... livin' in a clan made me realize that there's more to life than that."

He finds himself getting so sentimental about a place that he'd likely never return to. Foolish, dumb.

The longhaired male cleared his throat and grunted through the bars, "My tongue's gonna fall off from all this talkin'. Leave me alone now, huh?" Slate shifted his body and curled himself up, facing away from the outside now. Why fill these cats' heads with daydreams when they probably wouldn't be able to escape the twolegs, either?

// "out" ​