(DONE) Ep. 1.5 - Drama Queen [Catherine]

[Deleted]

//ooc// Set two days after Like A Stray, in Week 1 of Episode 1.5.

The cry rose to a crescendo, then to a shriek, and then to a wail of utter despair. Neatly hung was a freshly-carved door, leading into a hollowed out, dusty hole-of-a-room barely big enough for a human; from it and with a BANG, a blur of pink-red whirled out into the hallway. Sarita McCoy's face was a look of absolute, indignant fury, the girl holding up a distressed-looking ball of tabby-patterned fur. A well-fed, rather buggy-eyed cat stared at the cavernous world around him, legs stretched out and claws bracing, held up by the 'neath of his front legs. Eyes smouldering with fiery intensity, Sarita looked to the left, then to the right, and inhaled like an angry bull.

"WHOSE CAT IS THIS?!"

She looked around, the hallway echoing with the question. No one answered, leading Sarita to start storming towards the atrium. If one looked closely enough, they could see a fresh, large stain on her favourite wine-swirled shirt, the dark rose-pink darkened further to match the pattern. It smelt suspiciously acidic, and there were a few strands of wet hair on the patch; it was located just over Sarita's belly-button.

"Mister Layby?! Miz Cleaver?! SOMEBODY ANSWER ME ALREADY!!"

Thwap thwap thwap went her bare feet down the halls, calloused from years of hard work. Anything rough or sharp that was stepped on was summarily ignored, the singer too pissed to care about what happened to her feet. All she cared about was her shirt, her best and favourite shirt, and the fact that.... That.... That the obese, garbage-scented vermin that had just coughed up a hairball on her had gotten into her room in the first place. What had happened to her privacy? No lock on the door was fine, but this, this —

"MISTER LAYBY!!"

[Deleted]

Like clockwork the scent of sausages and peppers would waft through the atrium not an hour after the ambient lights began to dim for the coming evening. It was part of the routine of the DMZ — the nifty lighting trick for a human’s own instinctive body clock would wax and wane to their little slice of Africa’s timezone, daily work schedules and to-do lists getting done, and despite Cat’s habits to be everything but scheduled, she too fell into dancing step with Cleaver, Layby (and James) the way any familial group did.

It just so happened that more often than not, that happened around late afternoon. And no matter what part of the world she was in, that dance began with food.

The preparation this evening was to the rhythm of the 10-inch tv at one end of the kitchenette, opening with the energetic yet steady beat of an episode of Top Gear and giving time for the seamless joining of her own music — a beautiful rendition of ’J-pop that ran headlong into a drunken brass section’. It was to this that she added the sizzling of egg, and the pop-can brass that was the cat food. Aaah, yes, and then the high-pitch— wait, what?. Something that sounded oddly like muffled shouting… an awful… unsavory sound. Who the fuck was shouting at this hour, and about what?

Oh. There it was.

Dear Jesus. Catherine didn’t so much pause as she did gawk and squint like an intrigued bystander watching something at the zoo. It.. she? She was yelling about something, all of which she couldn’t care less about, except she did pick up Cleaver and Layby’s name in the mix of an… obnoxiously demanding tone. Catherine felt her mouth turn down slightly, exhaling heavily as she pulled her glasses down from her hair line to her nose to get a better look and — Who the fuck…

She felt that anger build up deep in her gut — not the casual temper she threw around friends and family, but rather the icy cold grip of utter dislike. Screaming, shouting, general grievances… that was fine, but the very protective woman did not at all take kindly with the way this total and complete stranger was handling the furry being that was part of Cat’s little band of family here at the DMZ.

“Hey.” She said firmly, but the ranting continued until Layby’s name reverberated in the atrium. The frying pan slammed down roughly, and suddenly she rounded with spatula in hand slamming down on the island in front of her. ”HEY!” She bellowed (trained in the art of shouting matches) looking as though she might leap over the table in a moment… or take something from the knife block. Or both. “Put. The cat. Down. Now.”

<< Musical analogy provided by the ever lovely Owlie of course! >>

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Sarita immediately stopped, and swung her head towards the sound of Catharine's voice. At the sight of the enraged other woman, Sarita's eyes widened, and she immediately dropped the furball that was James. The cat darted over to hide in a corner, peeking out with the look that had "I HAVE SEEN SOME SHIT" written all over it. The busker's shock quickly melted away, and she put her hands on her hips with a scowl.

"Is this your cat?" she snapped. "Because if he is, you need to keep him somewhere where he can't try to ruin other. People's. Property."

The woman grabbed the edge of her vomit-stained shirt, and proceeded to hold it out for Catharine to see.

"This is a $60 Wineswirl-style silk shirt from Trends America. It was part of a 2007 run and is otherwise impossible to find in stores. Your cat woke me up from an afternoon nap by puking on my stomach while I was having a rather pleasant dream, thank you very much."

With a huff, the singer crossed her arms.

"And since you are the only other human on base, and Layby would smell whatever you are cooking from a mile away, you must live here. I am Sarita, and I suppose this means I'm your new roommate."

She couldn't recall if Layby said another woman was on base, but that didn't matter. Sarita would get to the bottom of this cat lady and her pet's antics, and make sure it didn't happen again. Where was the little pest's litterbox, anyhow — wouldn't he start pissing everywhere if he didn't have something to go in?

With just a touch less cattiness than before, Sarita added, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miz...?"

[Deleted]

Ice settled along every vein in her body, her eyes coming to a narrow squint behind the bright purple frames of her glasses. Among all things to begin an interaction with… it had to ping almost every pet peeve on her list. First impressions were oh so important anyway, but for Catherine and her family, first impressions stuck for generations. And while Sarita spoke (which consisted of quite a lot of complaining actually) she had every opportunity to gather and burn into her mind all the notes of this particular meeting to form her Impression.

There was silence. And there was glaring. A lot of glaring, and no blinking, but instead a look in Cat’s eyes towards Sarita that hinted she was observing this person as a complete intruder, or more accurately, as a pest that needed to be tended to.

“Roommate.” She repeated, more to herself, as if to clarify to her own ears that that was indeed the word that had been used. It fell off her tongue like rotgut whiskey, but God Almighty, she almost felt like laughing — it was too much.

No way.

But with an absent smirk quirking up the side of her lips, a completely predatory and somewhat vicious-looking expression, Catherine rounded her makeshift island. Her hands were bare except for the plastic spatula, but she might as well have had a couple of machete’s the way she walked, that half sparked look in her eyes. “I dunno who you think you are,” She began, her voice low and laced with the beginnings of an old accent, “…and frankly I don’t care.

“You piss and moan all you want. I got head phones. Ain’t bother me none. But here’s the thing, Princess. I don’t know why the hell Cleaver’s lettin’ you stay here, that’s her business, but I’m not going to tolerate your baby brat bullshit. You are a guest. You are a stranger in our home, so lemme lay it out for you. One: Learn some god damn respect. Do not ever dare to come in here screeching their names in that god awful tone again. They are not your maids, they are not your servants, you get that? Two? Nothing about your staying here is pleasurable and we are not roommates. And three… if I ever see you handle James like that again I will tie you up and throw your body out in the Serengeti. Capiche?”

By the time she finished, the smirk was gone from her face. Her chin had tilted down, allowing her to glare over the tops of her glasses from a half-cocked hip. It was a lazy stance, an otherwise neutral expression, but there was just enough crease in her brow that dared a challenge.

“Bit a’ free advice? Get a lock on your door, Princess.”

The weight shifted from one hip to another, arms coming up to cross themselves as her expression relaxed into something half-lidded and chilled. “Questions, comments, concerns?”



<< So sorry this took so long! Sari def managed to hit all her buttons - don't think anyone's done that in a while. XD >>

[Deleted]

//ooc// Marvelous. >D

Princess.

She wasn't sure if the woman was trying to be clever, or if she was just giving Sarita an overused moniker heard too many times before. Princess — roughly the translation of her name, and befitting of one such as herself, who could be catty and snooty and all manner of unpleasantness. Make no mistake, Sarita had mellowed out as she had grown older and more experienced.... But now was not a shining example of one of those times.

And she didn't take lightly to being threatened, either. She took a step back as the Serengeti and a tied-up body was spoken of, but it was only a show of acknowledgement. This was the bitchface's turf, and she had seniority over Sarita whether the busker liked it or not. She would not disrespect Miz Cleaver and Mr. Layby by throwing that fact aside.

Crossing her arms, Sarita's next words were calm and icily neutral. Her face matched the glare with a look that, while also neutral, held its ground as she said, "I apologize. I did not mean to give you the impression that I felt Mr. Layby and Miz Cleaver were my servants. They are far from the sort — if anything, I owe them my life. I shall see to it that I make good on repaying their kindness."

She raised her chin just a smidgen. Catherine was taller than her, and she refused to look downwards or show any further submission in front of her. A mistake had been made, but if the little piss wanted to go, then Sarita would indeed go.

"I can also assure you that...James...will not be manhandled further. I also apologize for my behaviour in this regard, and I shall see to it that my reaction to this incident is not repeated within these walls."

She stepped forward, but off to the side — her interest was food, not further confrontation. Her eyes diverted to a cupboard away from where Cat was, and she gave the other woman a wide berth.

"I will also see to a lock on my door, but such things require Mr. Layby's permission first, if I am not mistaken. We have discussed my room, but not yet whether or not I am allowed to seal it up in any way."

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"...I believe you are 'Catherine', yes?"

[Deleted]

How formal. How proper. So cool and collected when just a moment before it was all chaos over a stain on a shirt. And with each passing word she found that it grated on her nerves like fingers plucking a too-taut string. Under any other circumstances, under any other meeting, Catherine would have rather enjoyed the sound, but in this very moment it was like listening to a bad mix online. But God, as much as she tried to think of the word to describe it, all she could do hate the sound of her voice.

But whatever.

Pretty Princess had, apparently, realized the error in her ways, and with her reassurances (however icy they were) Cat didn’t feel much need to dwell on them. Without any move to block Sarita’s path, Cat only turned to watch with a raised brow as she moved past. “Then I think we’ll get along just fine.” She said as she moved her way back to the stove to finish up her meal. Though by the tone her voice, it seemed to suggest that the behavior involved with ‘get along’ came in different purchase packages. The one currently available included the bare minimum - no attempted homicide or theft and a clear line in the sand of the ‘you stay there, I’ll stay here’ variety. Upgrades available (downgrades in fine print).

…And yet.

Even with the promise of food in front of her and a full pot of coffee, her skin itched and her spine crawled like someone was just pressing down on a nerve over, and over, and over, and over and… oh. That was the word she was looking for. Loathing.

Unadulterated loathing.

Curiously she tried to observe herself from the outside - wondering where this sudden snarl had come from. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have dwelled… but something about this girl irked her beyond belief, but she didn’t bother to dwell on why, (because of increased worry over Haven, MECH, and/or sleep deprivation was a probable likely definite possibility but not something she’d admit to…), only knew she wanted it gone.

God Damn it. As soon as she thought it, her conscience (which had taken the shape of Layby and Cleaver, actually Deuce popped up now and again) frowned at her so suddenly she had to fight not to flinch her shoulders back as if Layby were actually behind her. But he would be frowning, she thought. He would be frowning so hard. So much so she could feel his disappoint frown from the future. Her jaw tightening and clenching was hidden mostly by her veil of hair, which very fortunately also hid the extreme side eye she was giving in Sarita’s general direction. Fine. For The Peace, then.

“In the flesh.” She replied simply, her voice fortunately not betraying the tenseness that she still felt. With that she wanted nothing more than to pick up her skillet and carry it into her room with a polite fuck you very much and welcome to Haven, and oh I hope your first meeting with a Con goes over so, so well and…

Shoulder Layby frowned loudly.

Fucking fuck damn it.

“Layby or Cleaver give you the run-down of the place, yet?” She said instead, adding an egg to occupy herself.

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"They have," said Sarita, surveying the contents laid out in front of her. Bread, condiments, and some spices waited to be used, along with a can of differently-shaped sprinkles and a box of instantly-made breakfasts. The busker smiled at the find, reaching in and grabbing the bread to make herself a lovely sandwich with. Ooh, peanut butter! she couldn't help but think, spotting a small jar of the stuff behind the aforementioned instant breakfasts. "Layby is such a gentleman, and Cleaver's a sharp, erm...woman, for lack of a better term for the female members of the Cybertronian species. I think it's 'femme', but I'm not entirely sure."

Walking over to the fridge, Sarita managed to catch the side-eye, and threw Catherine a quick glare of her own. Don't give me that fucking look, it said, Sarita's shoulders square and her back not quite to the other woman. She had the feeling a giant target had been painted on her head, and wasn't keen on getting hot utensils walloped at the back of her skull.

Then again, it wasn't hard to start formulating a backup plan if Catherine turned hostile. Knives a few feet from me, heavy jars are probably in the fridge, could probably slam the fridge's door on something if I needed to, glass is sharp enough to —

No. No no no no no no no, she wasn't going to start thinking like she was in the middle of a seedy trailer park. Her hands reached for the fridge, searching for jam; she pushed aside a carton of milk and a bottle of sweet tea, finding the preserves hidden behind. Quickly pulling those out, she walked over to the far end of the counter, putting her ingredients down before looking for a drawer —

Which was over by Catherine. Great. Nope, nope, not going over there right now.

"Could you please pass me a butter knife, Miz Catherine?"

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Get it yourself is what she wanted to say — at least that was the thing that was at the tip of her tongue, ready to lunge out like cool venom. But just to the left she could feel the weight of Layby Angel on her shoulder yanking at the leash of some bullshit called civility around her neck. Without a word of protest or a glare (though she didn’t exactly look at Sarita or so much as smile at her either), she passed the piece of requested silverware. “Catherine’s fine. Miz is too formal, sounds weird.” She said simply and turned back around with full intent to focus on plating her food.

She got about halfway before she continued, “There aren’t any.” If Sarita wanted to know more, she could ask Cleaver or Layby — that was Cat’s figuring anyway. They would be best to explain it, in any case, but the little twitch of irritation that kept pulsing like a nerve spurred her foreword to educate. “Like male or female — Cybertronians don’t use gender binary like us because it doesn’t exist like that for them. It’s more like a… spectrum, I guess. Wherever the spark aligns on the spectrum. There’s frame type, too, but, that’s millions of years of stuff packed around a culture that’s older by a few million more. Helluva lot more complex than anything we got.” She paused, considering before honestly shrugging. “Or maybe it ain’t — but a lot more complex than anything we’re taught, anyway.”

“Ask Cleaver.” Plate in hand, she picked up a fork, and took a mouthful. “Bathroom’s there, by the way.” Beside her own door (not far from the kitchen) was the one to the (very hard-earned) bathroom. The rest of it looked like different bits and pieces picked out of various Home magazines, ordered and assembled without a terrible lot of regard for cost. Including, off from the kitchen area, a living area — desk, couch, areas Cat could hang that were fun-size outside of her own pod. “Med Kit for humans in the Repair Bay to the left. But don’t wander around in there too much ‘less you want to be melted by acid or somethin’ - ain’t exactly friendly to human flesh.” That may have been a bit over dramatic… but she allowed herself a little margin of error in behavior. “Buncha toxic shit in there, y’know?” Her face, completely straight, showed she wasn’t lying.

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"Genderfluid, with gender being not so much of a biological function as it is an identity thing, by the sounds of it. Got it."

There was a nod and a look of recognition — Sarita (roughly) knew what Cat spoke of. As a child, her friends were best described as "something that came from Tumblr", and had varied from trigendered individuals to those who identified as otherkin. She had always found something resonating in her among the "alt crowd", and the Cybertronians fascinated her to no end. Though she still thought Cat was a bitch, she appreciated the explanation the other woman gave.

But Sarita couldn't deny the urge to leave raw eggs in the woman's bed. To hear the scream of anger or wail of shock, of slimy and disgusting things to snap open and break after a long day — she resisted the urge to grin. Maybe later, she thought, a greasy and dark part of her savouring the idea of Cat being "surprised" as much as Sarita had. She could be a petty bitch herself, and wasn't above denying that fact — humble she could be not.

The mention of toxic things brought her away from her shoulder devil. She looked ready to be shocked, but logic kicked in and she surmised she shouldn't be. "It's a medical area, after all," the singer said, beginning to smear condiments on the two halves of bread she'd acquired. "Poisonous and dangerous things are to be expected, and Miz Cleaver and Mr. Layby both have an alien biology compared to ours. From what Mr. Layby has told me, Energon can kill a human almost instantly and must be avoided; I can only imagine what else from Cybertron might cause harm to a human."

She gently pressed the two halves of bread together, tying the bread bag back up. The knife was deposited in the sink, the condiments returned to their proper places before she even thought of eating. She wiped away drops of jam or peanut butter, any crumbs or blemishes on the counter — everything there had to remain neat, clean, seemly. Part of it was out of respect for Layby, and part of it was to avoid Catherine's wrath descending on her again.

One day, Sarita. One day.

[Deleted]

“Yeah.” Came her noncommittal response. She didn’t pay nearly as much attention to the clean-up, dishes only being thrown haphazardly into the sink to at least clear the cook-area surface and not much else. But by the way she poured her coffee, already seeming to focus on something else for the day (night, but Catherine was like her nick-namesake and slept whenever), she had already mentally left the conversation.

“Later. Don’t get squished.” She said by way of good-byes, padding back towards her door without looking over her shoulder. For all intents and purposes, an ‘understanding’ between them now reached, it looked like she didn’t feel at all inclined to socialize. The Stranger ordeal had been dealt with for the moment, as far as she was concerned, sending it to the back of the cue while something else more relevant (as it had for the past couple of weeks) took its place.

The door to her place was opened with a foot, before she (James darting in behind her heels) closed it with a solid click that came from metal things with rivets. The vast expanse of the cavern was then left quiet, save for the quiet clicks of machinery and systems (alien and human alike) installed to keep the place running, and the quiet drift of music coming muffled from behind Catherine’s door.

<< Fin. (Unless you wanted to close with a Sarita tag. >>