Deep Deep Down in Kitty Town

The hood over Rrrina’s head smelled of menthol and nothing else, the world around her was muffled and her ears pinned against her head, and she was bound. Usually, when she ended up in this position, someone wanted to do something a bit naughty to her. This time… well, she wasn’t ruling it out, but she thought that “naughty” might be in a completely different context than she was used to.

And she was being carried again, carried by a skin-job, a leopard in a man’s body. This had to be the weirdest her life had been in – in – maybe in ever.

She was too turned around to have any sense of direction, the menthol in the hood made it impossible to navigate by scent, and her porter kept bouncing her, making it very hard to count steps. Had he stolen her? That’s what he’d said. But stealing slaves was – it was bad, very bad. And her head felt funny. Something in the menthol? Something… this was bad.

Rrrina came to on a cushion, in a warm place that felt like sunshine. Three sets of training came into play, and she opened her eyes only halfway while letting her other senses take inventory.

The cushion was comfortable, soft, and warm. The heat was too omnidirectional to be sunlight, but maybe a sun lamp? It was bright but not unbearably so, and the light seemed to be coming from above. Her nose was still clogged, but, even so, she could smell other cats.

She opened her eyes. The floor, the fixtures – all white. In front of her, a lab-coat person. Her eyes opened further. A lab-coat-wearing feline, jaguar spots, now that was new. Her captor was there, too, shedding out of his overalls. He met Rrrina’s gaze and smiled. It looked wrong, too feline in his human face

“Good, you’re awake. Welcome to the Feline Rebellion.”

After Down in Kitty Town, Entering Kitty Town, and Kit Town Maybe.

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I asked for something fun to write here; this is to the 4th prompt, from Lilfluff (Second generation Cali-Cats as kittens. Kittens at play, what could be cuter?)

“And this is where we… well, you can see for yourself, your Lordship.” The slave acting as a guide gestured over the half door.

His Lordship frowned. He wasn’t used to that sort of talk, especially not from a costumed moddie. “What sort of… oh.” He didn’t quite manage to hide his smile. “Ooh.”

In the well-carpeted room, four – kittens? toddlers? – small moddie children tumbled, one of them, grey-striped ears and black-tipped ears, making little baby-growl noises. “They’re…?”

“Second generation, your Lordship. The one with the Siamese markings is my get.”

Leave me a prompt here

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Transformation, a story of Cali Catpeople for the Giraffe Call

A couple people asked about the species change. I don’t think this piece really addresses either prompt well, but I wrote it, so I thought I’d share it.

“Test subject seven-one-five-three, through here, please.”

A week ago, she had been Antoinette Abaster, a mid-level secretary at a Indianapolis research firm. She’d been saving for a vacation to Paris and planning her church rummage sale.

Now she was Test Subject 7153, and she was walking through a blue door into a very sterile-looking room. She was having trouble focusing on anything except the door and the orders she was given, but the cables linked to her restraints didn’t give her a lot of choice either way.

“You have been selected for the Agency’s Transformative Project Eighty-three.” The voice was coming from behind her. She twisted, pulling her restraints to their limits, but there was nothing anywhere except white. Even the door had vanished. Her cables were connected to white ports in white walls. “Your conversion will begin now. Please describe any physical sensations you encounter.”

There were a number of physical sensations, which she described in tones from calm to hysterical. There were a number of emotional sensations, which she described only once, near the end. “This feels weird, and I’m scared.”

“Fear is to be expected. Fear is one of the three emotions we expect you will undergo in the first process.”

“First?” The words were coming out oddly through lips that felt numb. “First?” What’s the second?”

“The second will begin tomorrow. Please exit through the open door.”

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she would remember forever waking up, because the first thing she did was stretch and yawn. Her back arched in strange ways and she pawed at the bed for a moment.

Pawed at the bed… and looked down at her hands, which had more in common with paws than they had the morning before. She rubbed her nose and eyes and looked again.

Paws. Paws, and something on her head felt strange. She yowled, confused and unhappy.

“Easy, Subject seven-one-five-three. What is the problem?” The voice came from the ceiling, or possibly the walls. She twitched an ear at it.

“I’m a caaat.

“You have been put through stage one of the Transformative Process, yes.”

“I’m a cat.” She wiped at her face with a hand again. “I can’t stop acting like a cat. And I’m hungry.”

“Food will be provided.”

“Now? Now?” She put her face in her hands. Paws. “Why can’t I… what’s wrong with me?” She focused on a memory. The office. Typing in endless data, eating rice cakes and punching in formulae. The church raffle. A sound between a sob and a wail escaped her.

“You are partially transformed. Your personality remains unchanged, but your body and your instincts are now felid-hominid. The transformation goes bone-deep and has affected your brain as well as your body.”

“I’m a cat girl?” She scratched behind her ear. “You turned me into a cat?”

“You are partially transformed into a felid-hominid, yes.”

She stared at the wall. “But what does that mean for me?”

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More Please: Kit Town Maybe? A continuation of Tir na Cali

After Down in Kitty Town and Entering Kitty Town.

The big man was warm. Warmer than a human. Rrrina settled in his arms, since she couldn’t get away anyway, and sniffed him as surreptitiously as she could.

He smelled, under everything, of a bit of musk. Like holding her was making something happen in his pants. Like… She twisted upwards to peer at his face. “Skin job.”

She was quiet about it. She didn’t want to make him angry: he wasn’t wearing a collar and she was; he was bigger than her and clearly stronger; and he smelled like a tom cat that wanted to mate. Every instinct she had told her not to piss him off.

Still, he pulled her tighter against his chest, squishing her in all sorts of nearly-uncomfortable manners. “What did you say, little kitty?” His hiss was warm and angry in her ear.

She peeked up at him. “You’re a skin job.” Her ears were raked back but she kept her voice as quiet as she could. “You look human, but you’re cat.”

“Technically leopard. You’re good, little kitten. You’re going to be really useful.”

“I’m good at being useful.” The well-trained answer slipped out of her mouth, followed by a soft mewl. “But then he sold me. Are you… “

“Shh, little one. We’re almost there. Then you will understand it all.”

Rrrina fell quiet again. He smelled nice. Too nice; her body wanted him, and she wasn’t in a position to do anything at all about it. And then he slipped a hood over her face and not only could she not see anything, she couldn’t even smell anything.

She started with “hey!” and ended with a long hiss. The hood stank of menthol, like a cough drop factory. “Hey,” she repeated.

“Shh. This part’s a secret, little kitten.” He pulled the hood tight, and she could no longer hear much of anything, either. It sounded like he said “sit tight.”

Not that she had any choice.

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Lab Rat, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call (@lilfluff)

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt.

Tir na Cali has a landing page here.

“Engage in some scientific experimentation,” the Agency guy had said. “Earn your freedom,” they’d said. “Just two years in our scientific facility, and you can go free,” they’d promised.

They’s strapped Robert and Eric to tables, at which point they’d both started complaining.

“This isn’t what we meant by ‘experimentation.'”

“Weren’t we supposed to be lab assistants?”

“Lab assistants! We’re supposed to be helping you guys!”

The skinny ginger guy had just tightened the straps. “You are helping. Now sleep.”

The drugs had slid into their veins, pushing away the last of the panic and replacing it with sleep.

Robert woke twitching, jittering. He wasn’t tied to a table anymore. He was back in his room, back in the little cell he shared with Eric and two other lab assistants.

Lab assistants, ha. Assist by being a lab rat. What kind of freedom was that, if there wasn’t anything left of him after two years? Cancer? Was that what this was about? AIDS? Something worse?

They were in California, after all. There had to be something worse. Anybody as evil as the Californians had to have come up with some nastier disease.

He looked at his hands. They seemed to be oka… wait. Wait. Had he had that many knuckles before? Had he had white hair, no, not hair, white fur on the back of his hands before?

His ears twitched. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. And something was moving behind him. He darted, twisted, and…

“Hey!” He pounded on the door to their cell. “Hey, let me out. You got the wrong guy! I wasn’t supposed to be a lab rat! I wasn’t supposed to get a tail!!

“You think you’ve got problems?”

Eric’s voice was wrong. Too high. Nerves? Robert turned around, slowly. He hadn’t seen Eric when he came to. He hadn’t seen…

Erica? “You think you’ve got problems?” His oldest buddy repeated him – her – self. “They just turned you into a rat. They turned me into a girl.

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Entering Kitty Town, a story for the Rabbit Safari

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s requested continuation of Down in Kitty Town, from then January 2012 Giraffe Call

Irena sank into the cushions of her seat, letting the slow hypnosis take over as a team of Agency cover-preppers worked on her. Her body was already beginning to change. By the time she woke up, her personalty would have been shifted as well. She cursed her supervisor sleepily. She always came back from these missions with a desire to scratch the linoleum and a month of panicked nightmares.


Rrrina woke up in a crate. How had she… oh. Her Master. Her stupid, mean, heavy-handed Master had gotten bored with her. “I’m sick of Siamese.” Like she was a slipcover or something. She’d yowled and screamed, so he’d sedated her. Her butt and back hurt; he’d beaten her, too. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of him, if only it didn’t mean she was in a crate again.

Where was she going? She touched the bars of the crate cautiously – sometimes they went zzap – and peered out. A cargo hold, hrrm. Next to her, a human slave cried in her pen. On the other side, three dogs slept fitfully.

“Awake, are you?” The man looked wrong somehow, something ill-fitting about his coverall, more so than it should be, something about his hat or his gloves that didn’t look right. Rrrina backed up until she hit the wall of her cage, hissing. “Easy, easy.”

The handler knew what he was doing. Those gloves went all the way up his arms, and he had no qualms about tipping her out of the cage and grabbing her collar from behind. Rrrina wasn’t sure how he got the restraints on her; she was tumbling, she’d been grabbed, and then she was hogtied. “Easy.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t bite me, kitten, I’m the good guys.”

She showed him lots of teeth but didn’t bite. “Let me loose. I’m housetrained.”

“Not until we’ve gotten you off the plane. Come on.” He picked her up easily. Far too easily for a human. Far too easily for most Tuathan. She fell limp in his arms. There was no way she was getting away from him.


“Kitty-town. Now stay quiet, and nobody will notice we’re stealing you.”

Kitty-town. Stealing. Rrrina really wanted to fight, she really did, but something, something kept her quiet.

Deep, deep inside her cover personality, Irena wondered if Miles had arranged this. If he had, she was personally going to shit on his face when she got home.

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Down in Kitty Town, a drabble of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt.

Tír na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

“I need you to head up to Oregon City,” Miles told her.

“One of the seventeen people up there causing trouble?” she joked weakly. She’d had plans for the weekend, but Miles had a way of knowing these things and sabotaging them.

“It’s not, technically, Oregon City. Not anymore.” He passed her the data pad with the file. “Baroness Maeve deeded a square of it to a daughter of one of her slaves, a moddie. And her daughter, Baroness Sybil, expanded that to two square miles. Autonomous. Her own law there.”

“She can… yeah. She can do that, can’t she? If the Countess above her doesn’t object, she can call on the Yseult precedent.”

“Exactly. But what I’ve got now is the granddaughter of two moddies – Agency moddies, mind you, not skin jobs – who controls her own territory. And Vrrronica ni Annawrrra – don’t forget the triple R when you talk to her – who has, I’ll note, been ennobled by Baroness Sybil – Lady Vrrronica has set herself up a little moddie town.”

“Moddie town.” Irena stared at the notes. “And you want me to…”

“Put on those cat ears you wear so well and go looking into it. They can’t tell a skinjob from a deep job if the acting is good enough, and I know you can do it. You did really well in the ni Uhura case last year.”

Irena sighed. “All right. Rrrina it is. But Miles… I had hairballs for a month last time.”

“It’s a deep cover operation,” her boss smiled. “It’s good for hazard pay, and I’ll put you in for a week leave someplace with a nice big spot of sun, too.”

She scratched behind one ear. “All right. Since I can’t really say no, anyway.”

“Ain’t government service grand?” Her boss’s grin stretched to downright shit-eating. “Have fun in kitty-town.”

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Encyclopedia Californica: The Modified Humanoid in Tir na Cali Culture

This is the comment perk from the October Giraffe Call, a setting piece on the Tir na Cali cat-people. For whom I really need their own icon.

The Modified Humanoid in Tir na Cali Culture


The trend toward today’s Modified Humanoid, or “Moddies,” began as a fad for cosmetically altered slaves in the early sixties.

The first on record were a set of three cat-girls, triplets who were modified to have pointed cat-like ears, tails with some mobility, and dental work to look like sharp, cat-like fangs. The trio belonged to the tycoon Madison Arthur, a man who took great pleasure in appearing as eccentric as possible.

Others soon followed, modified with ever-increasing skill from a small cadre of experienced cosmetic surgeons and the empowered, to look like everything from house pets – dog-girls and mouse-boys – to predators – crocodile-men and wolf-women – to the fantastic – dragon-beings and, once, a failed pair of centaurs.

These slaves, altered through a combination of internal power and surgery to appear in some way inhuman, were genetically and biologically still completely humanoid. Their brain chemistry was still entirely “normal,” and their children, when they were bred, were of course still humanoid. They were no stronger, no more aggressive, no quicker than a normal human, either, and thus the purpose of their modifications was entirely cosmetic.

The trend towards owning “moddies” came and went, as with any fad, and, as with the sad accessories of any fad, the modified slaves were left by the wayside when the trend passed. Some were consigned to fieldwork who have been pampered house slaves; a few lucky ones were modified further to suit the new trend, or returned to their “natural” state. With each surge of the trend, the technology, science, and skill of the innately powered modifiers became more refined, and with each surge, the modified humanoids looked more and more realistic.

The second true wave of modified humanoids have only recently come into existence; the first genetically modified humanoid was made known to the general public in 2002. There are, of course, rumors that the Agency had been working on these genetic changes for as long as a decade earlier, and the rumors of second-generation genetically altered beings seems to lend credence to this theory.

These modified humanoids, better described, perhaps, as “scientifically produced hybrid species” are created by manipulation at the genetic level. At this date, the only producer of said hybrids is the Agency; all known attempts to make genetic hybrids outside of the Agency’s labs have resulted in, at best, failure, and, at worse, death. As such, all such experiments are illegal, save on volunteer free subjects.

The hybrids produced by the Agency are to their predecessors what a real tiger is to a children’s drawing of one. While a well-modified cat-girl might ape the behaviors of a cat, and, in modern times, have catlike ears, tail, and sometimes whiskers and claws that move naturally and serve as part of her body, the Agency’s well-protected hybrid cat-humanoids have brain chemistry and behavior patterns that, in many ways, are more feline than human.

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Giraffe Call Story – Ninja Kitty (Tir na Cali catpeople)

For ankewehner‘s prompt.

Tir na Cali, catpeople. Cali has a landing page here (or on LJ)

Commenters: 10

“I don’t mean to sneak up on people, I just forget to make a sound sometimes.”

Cob looked at Lea, her ears raked back, her tail limp, everything in her body language saying “I’m cute, please don’t hurt me,” and sighed. This adorable little kitty had been trained in combat since she was old enough to walk. The mods she’d inherited from her parents had given her sharp teeth and sharper claws, and, whether it was nature or nurture that had made her predatory, she had turned out bloodthirsty either way.

“Lea,” he said patiently. “That’s a very good skill to have when you’re in the field.” If she was ever sent into the field. For all the training, he wasn’t sure the Agency would ever use their hybrid cat-people for their ostensible purpose. They looked too cute, even licking blood off their hands, and were too human-cat creepy, even by the standards of pet-shop moddies. They, Cob’s fellow trainer Jac had muttered, were firmly in the Uncanny Valley, and, being there, were too damn freaky to send out into the general population.

Even to their trainers.

“I’m very good at it, too,” she answered sweetly. “Aren’t I? Seen and not heard, right, that’s what Lady Pia said, but I’m not seen, either, am I? Unless I want to be.”

“Aaah. Come here, sweetie. One. I’m sorry about Pia. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about – but don’t quote me on that. Two. Don’t take out your frustration with the higher-ups on me, Miss Kitty.”

She blinked at him, all innocence, but her tail was lashing. “But Cob,” she complained sweetly, “you are my higher up.”

Cob studied the charming teenaged assassin-in-training who was his primary responsibility and realized, perhaps for the first time, just how human the hate in her eyes was.

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Yet more kissing!

[personal profile] lilfluff requested Jas-who-will-be-a-boy/Rin or Girey in the kissing meme.

Notes: “Tuathan” is what the Cali royalty call themselves. Girey’s language is not actually Italian, but it’s within close enough that Jas could pick out basic words.

Not canon

Jas knew better.

There were rooms in the sub-sub-sub-basement sections of the Agency where you just didn’t go, and there were rooms where, when you had to clean something, you cleaned very carefully only where you were told to, and didn’t cross the blue lines.

You never crossed the blue lines.

This time, well, the blue line had been under something, and s/he’d moved it (Jas was still coming to terms with pronouns. Everyone here, even the cats who knew better, treated him like a boy. But there was still the little voice in the back of his/her head saying that wasn’t quite right. Yet. Yet?). Jas had moved the box, because it needed to be cleaned.

He was pretty sure he hadn’t tripped, but the next thing he knew, he was falling through a bright blue doorway…

…and landing in the middle of a campfire. He yelped, and stumbled backwards…

…into the arms of the most beautiful non-Tuathan woman he had ever seen. Heart pounding, ass mildly scorched, and still smelling slightly of cleaning products, Jas did the only thing that came to mind.

He kissed her.

He knew the logistics, of course. He’d kissed other slaves, in the barracks, boys and girls, and Lords had kissed her, once or twice, before she shifted to boy’s livery. He knew what he was doing, and, it seemed, so did the woman.

It lasted about three heartbeats before the man, chains jangling, yanked him away. “You came through there?” he asked, in heavily-accented Italian. Jas, now even more disoriented, nodded. The doorway was about four feet up in the air, shining bright blue.

“Go home,” the man grunted, and threw Jas through the doorway.

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