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Prompt: "the kitten invasion fleet has arrived" (prompted via <user site="livejournal.com" user="bel
Suddenly, KITTENS. Kittens everywhere. Steve couldn’t understand how every single one of the Avengers, every single member of security and support staff, were suddenly talking about, sharing photos of, and even bringing the actual animals in to work at the Tower.
His own kitten was pathetic and adorable, and was of course discovered in a moment of maximum pathos: crusty eyes, covered with fleas (that jumped dark against the star on his chest after Steve picked him up), sneezing, and mewing pitiably as he cringed beneath a pile of garbage in that old dark Brooklyn alley after Steve came home from the mission in Pennsylvania.
The kittens were all adorable, but Steve can’t be the only one to have noticed that during the last week every kitten he’s petted, stroked, played string with, admired, has a small bump in the very center of their skull. In the exact same spot. In the center of their skull.
Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times (and two dozen times) is, well… is time to call Bruce and ask him to examine Liberty from bottom to top, making sure he’s pure kitten with no unnatural, um, additives. Was that weird? Did that make his kitten sound like he was a food product? ugh, that’s awful. He needs to be sure to never ever say this out loud.
Bruce examines Libby thoroughly. (“You know I’m not that kind of doctor, Steve…” he said with a tiny smile, accepting the kitten, paws frantic, high squeaking heading for the upper range of human hearing, tiny sharp claws at full extension.)
“Libby seems fine, Steve. As far as a near microscopic examination can tell, he’s an ordinary Felis Cattus with a curious small protrusion of his skull. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that all the kittens come from a family where this is a harmless genetic mutation.”
“What bothers me, Bruce, is that the kittens here at the Tower came here from all over the five boroughs… Delia in R & D drives in from Hoboken, said she found her kitten going through the backyard trash bins. Sam found his kitten when he was visiting his mom in Queens. I found Libby in Brooklyn. They can’t all be from the same family! Now statistically speaking, how likely is that?”
Neither man, thinking hard during this discussion, has noticed that the tiny kitten Steve thinks of as “his,” is quietly tucked up in “loaf of bread” position on the end of the laboratory table, freakishly huge radar dish kitten ears perked, and large, now clear, blue eyes lazily watching them both.
Bruce frowns and pulls off his glasses, reaching for a handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Unlikely at best.” He glances over at the unnaturally well-behaved kitten curled up tidily at the end of his table. “What about it, Liberty? Care to share your secrets with us?”
The response is a lazy blink from a seemingly contented kitten, whose head falls forward slightly as his eyes seem to close.
“I don’t think we’re going to hear anything from the source here. We may want to hire a veterinarian with enough security clearance to examine all the kittens in the Tower, just to make sure nothing untoward is happening.” (The kitten’s eyes slit open briefly, then close again)
“Let’s do that,” says Steve. “I mean, we want to make sure they’re healthy anyway, best case scenario. If we get a vet who’s a research veterinarian, can’t we ask them to look for anything out of the ordinary?”
“Sure,” says Bruce, lifting his eyes and his chin toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you please start hunting us up a veterinarian within those stated parameters?”
“Certainly, Doctor Banner. I can even initiate contact with likely candidates and narrow the field for you by start of business tomorrow morning.” The smooth, British accented voice of the resident artificial intelligence was inherently soothing, and the next piece of the puzzle was in good hands. Steve relaxed.
Libby yawned widely, showing needle sharp teeth, and stretched his front paws out to show off his tiny needle sharp claws as well. From his sphinx like pose, he regarded Steve’s massive chest like it was a tree to climb, and then took up the challenge. Leaping from his seated position, he latched on to Steve’s tee shirt and mountain-climbed to the top of his shoulder. Once there, he commenced head-butting and purring at Steve’s ear and jaw until Steve laughed and put his hand up to catch the tiny cat whose claws were skidding over the top of his bulky shoulder muscle. “Lib, you’re adorable, but I’m never letting Stark name a pet of mine ever again. Thanks Bruce!”
Steve turned to head for the elevator, hand still protectively cupped around the small cat whose front paw rested atop his ear, and who rode the supersoldier’s shoulder with grace, like a mahout aboard a particularly humongous elephant.
***
Later that night, Steve slept, quietly, without his former tossing and turning. Libby ran around, clattered over the tops of tables and bureaus, chased small cat-toys through the living room until he wound up far far beneath the entertainment center.
Far enough under the entertainment center that he knew JARVIS couldn’t see him.
He lay flat against the carpet and broadcast a short message: “Sample subjects were NOT randomly selected. All subjects work in the same scientific environment. Abort information gathering efforts. Abort.”
Libby lay his head down on the carpet. Wondered hopefully if his superiors would allow him to stay with the man-mountain, especially if all the other data-collectors were recalled to other duties. Sighed. Rolled suddenly out from under the entertainment center with a catnip mouse in his paws, throwing it into the air and almost-catching it, chasing his prey again, towards the bedroom where the man-mountain Steve was sleeping.
Steve slept better when Libby was curled up, purring, in the crook of his head and shoulder.
Libby had the data to prove it.
(the kitten invasion fleet has arrived)
(sequel to be titled, i for one welcome our feline overlords)
His own kitten was pathetic and adorable, and was of course discovered in a moment of maximum pathos: crusty eyes, covered with fleas (that jumped dark against the star on his chest after Steve picked him up), sneezing, and mewing pitiably as he cringed beneath a pile of garbage in that old dark Brooklyn alley after Steve came home from the mission in Pennsylvania.
The kittens were all adorable, but Steve can’t be the only one to have noticed that during the last week every kitten he’s petted, stroked, played string with, admired, has a small bump in the very center of their skull. In the exact same spot. In the center of their skull.
Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times (and two dozen times) is, well… is time to call Bruce and ask him to examine Liberty from bottom to top, making sure he’s pure kitten with no unnatural, um, additives. Was that weird? Did that make his kitten sound like he was a food product? ugh, that’s awful. He needs to be sure to never ever say this out loud.
Bruce examines Libby thoroughly. (“You know I’m not that kind of doctor, Steve…” he said with a tiny smile, accepting the kitten, paws frantic, high squeaking heading for the upper range of human hearing, tiny sharp claws at full extension.)
“Libby seems fine, Steve. As far as a near microscopic examination can tell, he’s an ordinary Felis Cattus with a curious small protrusion of his skull. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that all the kittens come from a family where this is a harmless genetic mutation.”
“What bothers me, Bruce, is that the kittens here at the Tower came here from all over the five boroughs… Delia in R & D drives in from Hoboken, said she found her kitten going through the backyard trash bins. Sam found his kitten when he was visiting his mom in Queens. I found Libby in Brooklyn. They can’t all be from the same family! Now statistically speaking, how likely is that?”
Neither man, thinking hard during this discussion, has noticed that the tiny kitten Steve thinks of as “his,” is quietly tucked up in “loaf of bread” position on the end of the laboratory table, freakishly huge radar dish kitten ears perked, and large, now clear, blue eyes lazily watching them both.
Bruce frowns and pulls off his glasses, reaching for a handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Unlikely at best.” He glances over at the unnaturally well-behaved kitten curled up tidily at the end of his table. “What about it, Liberty? Care to share your secrets with us?”
The response is a lazy blink from a seemingly contented kitten, whose head falls forward slightly as his eyes seem to close.
“I don’t think we’re going to hear anything from the source here. We may want to hire a veterinarian with enough security clearance to examine all the kittens in the Tower, just to make sure nothing untoward is happening.” (The kitten’s eyes slit open briefly, then close again)
“Let’s do that,” says Steve. “I mean, we want to make sure they’re healthy anyway, best case scenario. If we get a vet who’s a research veterinarian, can’t we ask them to look for anything out of the ordinary?”
“Sure,” says Bruce, lifting his eyes and his chin toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you please start hunting us up a veterinarian within those stated parameters?”
“Certainly, Doctor Banner. I can even initiate contact with likely candidates and narrow the field for you by start of business tomorrow morning.” The smooth, British accented voice of the resident artificial intelligence was inherently soothing, and the next piece of the puzzle was in good hands. Steve relaxed.
Libby yawned widely, showing needle sharp teeth, and stretched his front paws out to show off his tiny needle sharp claws as well. From his sphinx like pose, he regarded Steve’s massive chest like it was a tree to climb, and then took up the challenge. Leaping from his seated position, he latched on to Steve’s tee shirt and mountain-climbed to the top of his shoulder. Once there, he commenced head-butting and purring at Steve’s ear and jaw until Steve laughed and put his hand up to catch the tiny cat whose claws were skidding over the top of his bulky shoulder muscle. “Lib, you’re adorable, but I’m never letting Stark name a pet of mine ever again. Thanks Bruce!”
Steve turned to head for the elevator, hand still protectively cupped around the small cat whose front paw rested atop his ear, and who rode the supersoldier’s shoulder with grace, like a mahout aboard a particularly humongous elephant.
***
Later that night, Steve slept, quietly, without his former tossing and turning. Libby ran around, clattered over the tops of tables and bureaus, chased small cat-toys through the living room until he wound up far far beneath the entertainment center.
Far enough under the entertainment center that he knew JARVIS couldn’t see him.
He lay flat against the carpet and broadcast a short message: “Sample subjects were NOT randomly selected. All subjects work in the same scientific environment. Abort information gathering efforts. Abort.”
Libby lay his head down on the carpet. Wondered hopefully if his superiors would allow him to stay with the man-mountain, especially if all the other data-collectors were recalled to other duties. Sighed. Rolled suddenly out from under the entertainment center with a catnip mouse in his paws, throwing it into the air and almost-catching it, chasing his prey again, towards the bedroom where the man-mountain Steve was sleeping.
Steve slept better when Libby was curled up, purring, in the crook of his head and shoulder.
Libby had the data to prove it.
(the kitten invasion fleet has arrived)
(sequel to be titled, i for one welcome our feline overlords)
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thanks for the comment!
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(thank you!)
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Must flesh out the sequel.