Vis avis

Oh, she's human, no question - plumage notwithstanding. Deep purple headscarf, sandy regularscarf, embroidered tunic, loose chevron leggings cut from a flowing sort of fabric which makes the pattern hard to look at. Combat boots (handpainted with flowers, huh) and a thick bomber jacket with leather gloves poking out of the pocket imply she's the motorcyclist. The gloves are a reminder, a visual cue. You're disappointed at how unremarkable actual human contact is to you. Four measly days, says a feeling in your chest that is less sinking and more pre-emptively subterranean.

"Is this your house?" you blurt out. Grimes has followed its master back through the house, sits primly on the porch.

She stiffens, and you still avoid meeting her gaze, scared of reality failing you and rendering something raptorial. She follows where your eyes are leading, down to the entranceway and the shoes scattered around her.

"Oh jeez, boots! Ugh! I knew that you take them off inside, you mentioned, and I knew this, and I go stomping around your house in these things."

She thinks this is your house. Filled with an immediate and singular determination to not associate with any kind of apocalypse-appropriate miscreant, even the personable cat-feeding kind, you turn tail and march out of the cul-de-sac. She calls out:

"Tahlass! Holy shit!"

You break into a run, not keen to find out what kind of ill-will that invective portended. Awareness retracts to the bare essentials as you flee, waiting for the sound of a motorbike in pursuit. You take a few corners at random, stop for a breather, then near jump out of your skin as that mangy white cat scrambles atop the fence behind you.

"Oh my god," exclaims Grimes, with the lady's voice. "Stop running! You're not Tahlass, are you?"

---

"So... you're not Tal. And you're definitely not 923 or Kine."

You're sitting at a kitchen table that definitely doesn't belong to Lock (you're pretty sure that's what she called herself), sipping the freshly-spilt blood of the covenant against acknowledging the end of days. The metaphorical blood is non-metaphorical tea, and its pleasant smell is a stark contrast to your scalded tastebuds and your subsequent inability to taste the barely-leafwater.

You distantly doubt that the tea belongs to Lock, but simply evaluating everything else worth flipping a shit over is enough to distract you from actually flipping any shits. Grimes is sitting sphinx-like by the kitchen door, barring entry via the wash house cat flap to the throng of hungry strays in the back yard.

Lock's hunkered into her bomber jacket now, a suburb's worth of concentrated cat purring a weird substitute for an air raid siren. Situation normal all flocked up. "You don't even know who Cat is."

You point at Grimes questioningly, and Lock shakes her head. She yanks her scarf up over her mouth, muttering what you assume are Arabic profanities.

"... Can I leave?"

"Drink your tea," demands Lock, but she seems to instantly regret it. "We wait for Tallah- Tal."

Grimes says nothing, because he's a cat and you're probably losing your goddamn mind. "Do you know nothing about what's happened?"