[Open] Catgroove.

[regalduchess]

The cat; small, lithe, and scared; runs through the aviary chased out by chirping birds, their beady eyes vindictive.

Once upon a time, there was a cheerfully tinkling bell on her collar. Now, it lies on the aviary floor as a trophy to the birds. The entire castle she runs through has a strange feeling to it, like everything is dead. Or asleep, or in mourning.

She finally comes to the throne room. Even cobweb-encrusted as they are, the silk seats are soft and comforting. The musty warmth reminds her of Bonfamille and her pink boas, her soft skin, the perfume she always wears-- always used to wear.

With a soft sigh, Duchess curls into a circle with her tail hanging off the edge of the throne, and tries to sleep.

Comments

[antitemporal]

She may have said it before, but it needs repeating, because they're both so much older than him that the full truth of the matter somehow seems even more impossible than before.

"...oh." The small skeleton nods in comprehension. That actually puts matters into terms he can understand, for entirely the worng reasons. "can you have a lot of owners, then? i think i had a lot of owners, back home."

His life for a while was something of a team effort, even if Gaster provided the start.

"...i don't think i was a pet, though."

[dustless]

Frisk listens, pursing their lips. Even with Duchess, talking of owners sounds...suspect, even if cats do normally have that kind of thing. It seems wrong since she's not like the usual animals, just like it'd be weird to have someone claim they owned, say, Doggo. Even if he liked leashes.

Sans-Serif wasn't a pet, either. Except the people at the lab probably saw him as something even less. A thing. But they don't know how to say that, or really want to try. So they just amble along beside him, feeling protective.

[regalduchess]

"Oh." She rubs up against Serif, trying to communicate some sense of support. "You two don't need owners. You need parents. And I couldn't speak human when I was with Bonfamille, either."

She feels just as protective over Serif, and a good deal of it towards Frisk as well; even if their trajectory towards the door is worrying to her. She doesn't want to leave the throne room just yet.

"You two stay safe, alright? I'm going to explore in here for a little longer."

[antitemporal]

This time, Sans-Serif finds himself drawn up short with surprise rather than a lack of balance. "w-what?" He stares down at the cat in some concern. "but...we were going to find food for you. and less dust!" After a moment's hesitation, he kneels down to pat the cat gently on the head. "you don't have to be scared. a lot of people here are nice! and we can run away from the one that isn't." Just like he promised Frisk.

[dustless]

Frisk pauses at the doorway, glancing between the two.

"...Maybe we can bring her food, instead? Most everybody's nice, but it's still...a lot, being new and far from home all of a sudden."

[regalduchess]

"I wouldn't mind that." She looks down on them, tail twitching, and sniffs the air. "Would you, please?"

[antitemporal]

"okay." Sans-Serif looks a little depressed to have to leave Duchess behind, so he reaches down to pet her just a little more for a minute. "um, we'll be back as soon as we can." He straightens up again and motions to Frisk to follow. "c'mon."

It's not until they're out the door and in the hallway that he thinks to ask: "so, um...what do cats eat, anyway?"

Do cats eat vegetables?

[dustless]

Frisk smiles at him sympathetically, following close.

"...I don't think the castle would have...cat kibble..." they say, mostly to themselves. It's probably not even called cat kibble. "I know cats're supposed to catch mice and birds and stuff, but...don't think she's the kind to eat that. Doesn't look like a hunter. Any meat? And milk to drink?"

[antitemporal]

Without really thinking about it, mostly since Frisk is close enough to do so, Sans-Serif reaches out to try and hold their hand as they walk. He doesn't look all that encouraged as Frisk explains what cats eat, especially since he finds himself agreeing with their assessment that Duchess doesn't look like a hunter at all. Even he can see that much. She's clearly used to having people feed her.

He can relate.

But not all is quite so hopeless. His eyelights glow a bit brighter with a sudden rush of enthusiasm.

"oh! i know where the milk is! i drink it all the time." Sans doesn't have access to everything he'd need in order to make the two experiments less fragile, but he's been making do where he can.

[dustless]

They willingly wrap their fingers around his. They're not exactly used to holding hands outside of Toriel's, but it's still nice.

"Good! I don't know what meat might be around, but there's probably something in the kitchens. Or...maybe she can have some smaller pieces of cake?" They just know cats don't really eat their greens.

[antitemporal]

"or we could find some spiders. spiders are meat, right?" And spiders eat other spiders. So it's probably okay if cats do, too. Otherwise, most monsters are vegetarian, so this is naturally far outside his area of expertise.

Sans-Serif passes by a door that even he knows didn't lead down to the kitchens yesterday. Yet he gets the familiar itch in the back of his skull that tells him it leads to the kitchens today. He stops, tugs on Frisk's arm to make sure they've noticed, and then stands on tiptoes to open the door.

Sure enough, on the other side are a set of stairs leading down.

[dustless]

"Think so? Or we could try...catching a bird..." Frisk isn't sure if they like that idea. Since they'd need to kill it. Though it might reset, too, they don't know if they'd want Sans-Serif to see that kind of thing even if they were completely sure.

They walk down the stairs beside him, absently squeezing his hand. "Pretty good at finding things."

[antitemporal]

"i don't...i don't wanna catch a bird. not even the colorful chickens." He likes the birds. They're one of his favorite things about being outside. Not all of them are nice. But all of them are pretty. He doesn't want to hurt one, he doesn't want to hurt anything, but he also doesn't like the idea of catching one. Birds have wings, and so birds should be able to use them. Even so, he finds himself adding a mumbled: "sorry" as though in penance for this hesitation.

He squeezes their hand in turn, making his way carefully down, trying not to think too much about how he wound up in the lead of this little expedition in the first place. "not really. i mean, um, the castle has a plan for how it moves around. i can just hear what the plan is. so can the other me. we all kind of...ignore time the same way, i think."

[dustless]

"'S okay. I don't really either. Maybe I can show you Gretel later, they're a bird I'm friends with." Though he might be disappointed in how relatively boring that particular bird's plumage is.

"Didn't know that. That's cool. Although--" they give him a sidelong glance. "I'm not...hurting you, by being close, right? 'Cause of my...time stuff?"

[antitemporal]

"yeah, that'd be great. gretel sounds like a nice bird." Any friend of Frisk is a friend of his.

Though Sans-Serif does find himself stopping halfway down the stairs at Frisk's next question. The skeleton stares at nothing for a moment, rocking back on his heels, before replying carefully:

"it's okay. you, um...you kinda used to." And they sometimes still do, but if he focuses, he can make the feeling go away. "but i don't think they wanted my time stuff to get along with your time stuff, anyway. so i'd wanna fight you." And he had, before. Though Sans-Serif doesn't like thinking back to how he'd felt back then. "and the other human, i guess. i don't think they really knew which one of you would come to the underground."

He starts carefully down the steps again. "i'm glad you think i'm cool, though."

[dustless]

They gently tap their thumb over his fingerbones.

"...glad I don't now. You're a nice friend to have." Another wave of dissatisfaction washes through them at the thought of the 'they' he was referring to. Those scientists really should've done better.

Once the pair get to the door, finally, Frisk pushes it open with their foot. "Okay. If there's anywhere that's colder than the rest, there's probably gonna be meat there. So it doesn't rot."

[antitemporal]

Because all Sanses are more than a little prone to embarrassment where strong motion is concerned, Sans-Serif is suddenly, piercingly grateful that he's in the lead all of a sudden. That way, hopefully Frisk can't see the overjoyed smile that breaks out over his skull at their words. The skeleton doesn't know what a fistpump is. But he's seized with the urge to do one, anyway.

"you, too, frisk." He's very, very glad everyone stopped him from hurting them.

Once Frisk gets the kitchen door open, Sans-Serif moves without hesitation. There's a pile of barrels and sacks against one wall, haphazard enough that the gap might not be immediately apparent. However, he's taken this path enough times to know where to look. He hops up onto one barrel near the wall, and then drops down onto a small segment of empty floor on the other side, between that and another barrel. There on the floor is a trap door that, with a bit of hauling, he's able to heave up and over with a loud clatter of wood and creak of hinges. Colder air wafts up from below.

[dustless]

And they don't. He might be pleased about it, but Frisk would doubtless enjoy seeing it. Maybe some other time.

They follow his climb a bit more clumsily, climbing over the barrel instead of hopping up. "That looks right. Thank you for showing me the way." They squint--it's sort of dark--and start descending.

Ah. There is meat down there, hanging from hooks. Frisk makes a face. They're not sure what kind they are, but they all look kind of disgusting like that.

[antitemporal]

Sans-Serif makes an identical face, because it all looks quite disgusting hanging like that. "that's meat?" He points at it, staring skeptically at Frisk. "people eat that?"

Cats are weird. He shakes his head wearily, before moving over to a line of clay jugs along the opposite wall. "milk's over here," he adds, glancing back over his shoulder.

[dustless]

"Usually after it's cooked, though." At least for humans. Maybe cats in Duchess' world?

"Can you get it?" Frisk asks over their shoulder, creeping towards the nearest whatever-it-is. They can probably rip off a chunk with their fingers...or one of those big square-looking knives. They hum, thinking.

[antitemporal]

"maybe."

First, he has to remember where the almost-empty jug was. The full ones are too heavy for him to even move, let alone lift back up out of the pit.

On his third attempt, he finds one where the sound of milk is just the barest sloshing at the bottom. Perfect. Sans-Serif heaves it up into his arms, just barely managing to wrap them all the way around, before pointing the best he can towards the ladder. "if you go up first, i can pass it up to you." This is good. A lot of meat, a lot of milk. Duchess will be full up in no time.