Alright, I know I haven't uploaded in a while, but I decided to put up this chapter with a little announcement of sorts.

Due to lack of interest, I haven't really been posting and updating (as you may or may not have noticed) and I've decided that I'd rather pursue other stories (Like I've been doing). There's really no point in putting effort into the fic if no one's going to read, and I've been under some stress lately in my life that also demands my attention.

I apologize to those of you who do read, but I can't post stories to a brick-wall audience.

I will keep writing, however, and I'd greatly appreciate your support in those as well. I am going to continue and finish my mpreg now that I've got a bit of spare time to work on it, and I'm considering the last chapters of my other stories ;)

I'm really disappointed it had to come to this :( In all honestly I was really excited to write this story! I've endorsed and tried to get the word out as much as I could, but I guess no one's interested in cats'n'guns ;) Maybe Misto was a little bit unsettling x)

Hopefully one day I'll come back to it. I actually have a crap-load of chapters saved up xP


Alright. It was safe to say that he was getting thoroughly pissed off right now. Not only had his plan to pop several caps in Mungojerrie's ass gone out the window, but he now had some freak breathing down his neck about to pop several caps in his ass. He wasn't sure if this was irony or just someone's lucky day, but whatever it was someone was going to pay severely.

He led his newfound friend to the hidden entrance he used to sneak in after curfew on his more rebellious nights. They were hardened criminals! They spat at the thought of being chained down like some bitchy, cigarette bumming teenagers.

His heart ran miles in his chest as he silently crept towards the steel metal door that lead to their main lobby. It didn't matter whether this guy was shadowing him, Mungojerrie still had what was coming to him! He'd just use a bit of...

He mentally smacked himself, he had magic. He had magic! No one stood a chance against him. He looked to his hands briefly before spinning on his heel and stretching them out at the featureless gunman behind him. The other tensed in preparation, raising his gun and taking aim at the centre of his chest.

Mistoffelees tensed and stretched his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching as he tried to manipulate the energy around him. Nothing came but the small chuckle of the larger tom.

"I'm so scared, really," he mused, a smile evident in his voice. Damn. He looked to his hands incredulously, just his luck that it decides to stall now. He just hated how incredibly retarded it made him look.

"Shut up!" Mistoffelees snapped before turning back to the metal door. It took a couple hard jerks before the metal wheels squealed down their track, revealing the group's main chamber; card table, whiskey bottles, magazines, and all. All, that is, except the toms themselves. He could feel the other tom tense up behind him.

"Where are they?" the shadow growled angrily though slightly wavering with uncertainty. Mistoffelees cringed a bit at the feel of the other taking aim, but he wasn't all too worried. Despite his obviously intimidating demeanor, he knew that if the tom didn't ultimately need him he would have been a goner by now... Which wasn't the case.

The tuxed tom immediately set to checking the upstairs and back rooms, not caring whether he got shot or not. Surprisingly, the other tom just followed behind him curiously, not nearly as imposing as before but certainly making his presence known. Every 'bedroom' was empty save for the desks and chairs that they found at the beginning of their time served there.

"What the fuck!" Mistoffelees screamed into the empty warehouse from the top floor. He ignored the murmured comment from the tom behind him and bolted down the metal staircase, heading for their stock closet. Every piece of ammunition and every morcel of edible food was gone, leaving dusty cans of beets and tins of powdered milk. Even the first Aid kit was gone.

He stopped, sighing mentally before turning to address his still anonymous companion. "They've moved on," he stated bitterly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means they've moved the base to another location. It'll be nearly impossible to track them down fr-" He was cut off suddenly when the gun was pulled horizontally and forced up against his small chest, pushing him up against the metal cabinet. His head snapped back, connecting with the rusty metal. Hard.

His head spun and hummed; he just couldn't catch a break! The muscles beneath the barrel stung angrily, not enough to cause him true pain but enough to make its presence known.

"What do you mean impossible?" the larger tom hissed, his face mere inches from his own. "They're your toms, call them back. Tell them their precious leader's looking up the mean end of a life of crime." Wow, Mistoffelees gasped internally, this guy had done his homework. Too bad it's outdated.

"You stalking me, buddy?"

"I'm not your 'buddy'," he spat in response.

"Fine," Mistoffelees grunted, lungs quickly growing sore and hot. "But, like I said before, I'm not your guy. I got demoted. Apparently I got fired too, as you can plainly see." The other gave a small scoff and chuckled lightly at his misfortune. Poor little tom got kicked out of the killing club. Pity.

"Alright." The gun eased from his chest, allowing him to take responsibility for carrying his own weight and returning his feet to the ground. "Now give me one good reason why I should let you live." The magician's eyes widened a fraction. He didn't have a reason, he never thought he'd get the option; when everyone's out to kill you, you just assume.

He took a minute to collect his thoughts and sort through any reason why anyone would want to let him live. This tom shows a lot of pity, he noted when the gun hovered silently in front of him patiently, it's slightly pathetic. If the tables were turned, surely Mistoffelees would of had him dead the second he saw him rummaging through the glovebox. Then again, he'd want to watch him squirm- maybe beg a little, before he killed him.

He inhaled deeply, preparing to deliver the (hopefully) winning answer. He opened his eyes, stared right past the gun's tip, and said very evenly, "Because I know how to track them down." He cough harshly, spitting up what hopefully wasn't blood. "Because I can probably help keep all your research from going to waste," he finished with a wink.

"So what's the plan?" Mistoffelees inquired cautiously as they exited the warehouse towards his car. The bigger tom waited by the door for the tux to deactivate the lock with the soft keys, nearly jumping when he turned around to find the smaller tom waiting at his side quietly. It was hard for him to see the little tom in the dark with all that black fur, even harder if he was looking away for the chest, neck, and face were the only givaways.

0284. "The plan?" He swung open the back door, tossing his shotgun in the backseat. He quickly shrugged off his backpack that the younger tom hadn't noticed until just now and, after a few minutes, produced two shiny rings.

"You'll be staying with me so I can keep a proper eye on you." Mistoffelees quickly figure that the rings were actually handcuffs. He jerked back sharply when the bigger tom reached out for his hand, missing it by a few inches and grazing his thigh.

"Back the fuck up!" the tux snapped angrily. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"I'm cuffing you... Hence the cuffs."

"Nuh uh, no way am I letting you cuff me. How do I know you're legit? How do I know you're not just going to do shit to me before killing me and dumping my body in the harbour?" He was met with dark silence. Small muscles in his stomach contracted at the deathly emptiness, blood rushing in his ears.

"You've got this all planned out, don't you?" the other laughed more light heartedly. "I'm not a pervert-"

"Well, knowing my whole life story doesn't help you any-

"Then I guess you'll just have to trust me."

Ah, trust. Mistoffelees hated the word- hell, he didn't even know the definition of trust! It was just a pathetic punchline his drug dealer offered when he told him the drugs weren't addictive, or the lie his father used before taking his virginity. Trust was just a bad joke everyone used against you when they wanted something, mainly something of yours.

"...I'm not getting in a car with anyone who says 'Trust me'. Besides, I don't even know your name."

Reaching into the car, the mysterious tom reached over the island separating the two front seats and grabbed the neglected Browning HP. Mistoffelees watched as he carefully removed the bullets and tossed the handheld into the backpack haphazardly. He gave the car a quick lookover on the inside before deeming it safe with his high-risk passenger.

"What's in the glovebox?" he asked suspiciously, turning back to the waiting tom.

"Nothing now. It's in your bag." The other nodded before crawling out of the car, straightening himself up before motioning his passenger to board.

"Get in."

The magician narrowed his eyes as his mind volleyed the idea of getting into the car. He figured that he didn't have much of a choice, he either risked going with this guy or wait for someone to recognize him and kill him on the spot.

Within minutes, they were silently driving down the main highway heading west towards the older district of town.

Mistoffelees sat silently with his canteen of fish in his lap, his one hand was detestably linked to the door handle with the lovely set of handcuffs. He opened his container to see tiny gills cutting through the surface of the sloshing water.

"What's in there?" came the now tired voice of the vague tom.

"Fish."

"Fish?"

"Yes."

An awkward silence fell between the two as they both turned their attention inwards to their own little worlds. A quick glance to the tom behind the wheel showed the tom's more simplified features in the glow of the dashboard. Passing a streetlamp, his figure was briefly saturated in the orangy glow. He could now easily say that the tom was a dull coloured tabby with black stripes, not much older than himself- though you could never tell by just looking at them since the tux's development kept him in the permanent state of adolescent size- but far more built and fit. His face was angular but mainly shaded so he couldn't say whether he was handsome or a complete troll. He turned his head to look out the windshield.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his companion cast a glance at the black bottle in his lap. He opened his mouth to speak. "I've got to ask: Why fish?"

"Well... Why a shotgun?" Mistoffelees volleyed back evenly.

"What does a shotgun have to do with you carrying a canteen of fish?"

"Why did you choose a shotgun?

"Because it's the only gun I own... and it's my favourite."

"Why is it your favourite?"

The stripped tom cast him another glance. This one seemed to say 'what are you getting at?'. It took a few minutes for the tabby to respond, trying to make sure not to reveal anything too dangerous for the tux to potentially use against him. "...It was my father's."

"He dead?"

"...No."

"Oh." Once again, the cabin was filled with an unnerving silence. God, he hated awkwardness- hadn't he suffered enough as a teenager? The silence, despite being his most savoured element, was unbearable.

"I chose fish," he began, a little too loud than what was necessary. "Because I like them. I think they are really cool but incredibly simple." He took a long pause to nervously watch a cop car zip by them; waiting until their car was pulled back onto the road before he continued. "I guess it's a bit ironic because I hate the water while these little motherfuckers can't get enough of it."

"That," the grey tom agreed. "And the fact that fish are food and not pets."

"I take pity on things too stupid to deserve such a cruel lot."

"...You're not one of those vegan activists, are you?"

"Fuck, no," he chuckled softly, closing the lid on the canteen.

"Oh, so you just believe that things without brains are too innocent to kill, and every cat deserves what they get." The tuxedoed tom looked to the bigger cat cautiously. Had he lost someone because of him? He guaged his reaction as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Cats get to make decisions. They 'reap what they sow', if you will. Fish cannot make decisions for themselves; they can't get involved with the wrong crowd and they can't try to screw around with the sharks-"

The car suddenly slammed to a stop, whipping him forward and nearly causing a wreck with the truck behind them.

Without warning, the tabby lunged from his seat to catch him by the chestfur. The pull was painful. There was more than enough force to practicaly pull out the whole patch of white fur; he dared not move or react for fear he might do just that if provoked any further. He figured that was the point of grabbing his fur and not the skin.

"You think you get to decide who deserves to live or die?" he screamed down at him, his face far too close to his. Close enough to kiss. He winced at the pain in his cracked shoulder as it was pressed up against the hard plastic covering of the arm rest.

The other tom's expression shifted into a darker shade of hatred and his voice took on a bone chilling tone. One, admitedly, he admired for its power and fear evoking undertones. "Why, Because you have a little gun? You ever wonder what it's like to watch your best friend die because fucking idiots like you think they're gods and play Everlasting Cat?"

"I'd imagine it would be just as hard as watching a buddy you've worked with your entire life get torn apart limb by limb for refusing to kill your none-too-innocent best friend," Mistoffelees rasped, sounding none-too-confident.

"You make me sick," he spat bitterly before shoving the tiny tom out of his grasp and returning to the task of getting them home.

The tux just sat silently and watched the bigger tom drive with a stone cold look about him; as if he were trying to merge his brain with the car and his body was now a lifeless shell. He smiled inwardly to himself: he had a feeling he was going to enjoy working with this tom.

The tabby pulled over ten minutes later in a McDonald's parkinglot. The engine was cut in a secluded corner of the lot that allowed for trees to conceal the car in the darkness outside the glow of the '$1.99 Muffin Deal!' sign. They sat in the dark for a good three minutes, watching uncomfortable looking cats take their orders through the squeaky 'drive-thru' window.

"Munkustrap," the silver tom stated quietly. He would have sworn the tux hadn't heard him if it weren't for the twitch of his ear silently giving away the little tom's piqued curiosity. "My name's Munkustrap."