Raizen's Bizarre Adventure – A Bright Calamity Side Story
Niche's House, 2:00 PM
Raizen lies in his usual sunny spot by the window. The warmth is acceptable. The silence is acceptable.
His stomach growls.
He glances toward the kitchen, already knowing what he'll find. Mrs. Sutori filled the bowl this morning, which means it contains the dry food. Brown pellets that taste like compressed disappointment and whatever sawdust they use as filler.
He pads over anyway, because hope is a disease that afflicts even amorphous beings.
The ceramic dish sits in its usual spot. The one that says "KITTY" on the side, which he will never forgive Mrs. Sutori for purchasing. Inside is exactly what he expected.
No.
He sits back on his haunches, thinking.
The clock on the microwave reads 2:00 PM exactly.
I'll be back before anyone notices.
The cat door swings shut behind him.
The afternoon sun is warm on his fur as Raizen crosses the front lawn. He's mapping the route in his head when a truck rumbles past on the street. The truck’s white panels, refrigeration unit humming on top, and painted cheerful blue letters on the side that read "CATERING - FRESH SEAFOOD DAILY” catches Raizen’s eye.
Raizen stops walking.
The truck is heading in the general direction of the station. If he follows it, he won't have to remember the exact route. The truck knows where the fish is. Efficient. Minimal effort.
He picks up his pace, keeping the truck in sight as it rolls through the residential streets. It takes a left at the intersection near the convenience store, and Raizen follows, trotting along the sidewalk with purpose. An old woman on her porch waves at him. He ignores her (what else can he do, wave at her in cat form?).
The truck takes a right.
Alternate route. Probably avoiding traffic.
He adjusts his path, cutting through a small park to keep up. The truck is moving faster now, and Raizen has to break into an actual run to maintain visual contact. Undignified, but necessary.
Another left turn. Then the truck slows and signals, pulling into a parking structure beneath a large building covered in satellite dishes.
Raizen stops at the edge of the parking garage, staring up at the sign: "CITY BROADCAST CENTER."
This is not the fish market.
A catering truck. Of course. Delivering to the studio's craft services, not to a vendor. He should have read the full text on the side.
Stupid. I'm hungry and it's affecting my judgment.
He turns to leave when a voice cuts through the garage's echo.
"Oh my god. A black cat."
A woman in a headset stands near a loading dock, clipboard in hand, staring directly at him. She has the frantic energy of someone running on caffeine and desperation.
"We need a black cat for the Tanaka shoot," she says into her headset. "And there's one right ."
I'm leaving.
Raizen turns toward the street, but another woman appears from around a concrete pillar, blocking his path. She's holding a cardboard carrier.
He's boxed in.
Hands close around Raizen’s midsection before he can react, lifting him with the casual confidence of someone who handles animals regularly. The world tilts as he's tucked against the woman's chest. Doors swing open. A service hallway. A freight elevator. By the time they reach the studio floor, he's given up struggling.
Shittt. I don’t want to be here, just let me fucking EAT.
Raizen rolls his eyes.
Whatever. Conserve energy. Wait for an opportunity.
The woman deposits him in a chair with a booster seat, positioning him at table height. Before he can jump down, someone loops red silk around his neck and ties it into a bow.
Bow tie. Humiliating.
A bowl of cat food sits on the table before him. The label reads "PurrFect Nutrition: For Cats Who Deserve The Best."
If this is the best, I would hate to see the worst.
The director claps his hands. "Simple shot. Cat approaches bowl, eats enthusiastically, looks at camera. Action!"
Fine. I eat this, they're satisfied, I leave.
Raizen approaches the bowl and sniffs the contents. The smell hits him like a physical force. Fish, technically, but fish that died disappointed and was then subjected to further indignities.
He takes one bite.
His body rejects it immediately. The texture is wrong, somehow both too dry and too moist. He gags, steps back, and knocks the bowl over. Pellets scatter across the table.
"Cut! Reset!" The director sighs.
Take 7
The director is sweating through his shirt. "Why won't he eat?"
Because I have standards.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Try a different angle?" someone suggests.
"The client wants angle!" the director retorts. "Action!"
Raizen licks his paw instead, cleaning between the toes with deliberate slowness.
"CUT!"
Take 12, 2:35 PM
Raizen checks the studio clock.
The assistant director approaches the cat during the break, crouching to his eye level. She looks exhausted in a way that goes beyond this single shoot.
"Please," she says quietly. "I just need five seconds of usable footage. Five seconds of you looking like you enjoy this food. My boss has been looking for a reason to fire me for weeks."
Raizen considers.
Raizen thinks for a minute, then blinks once slowly at the assistant director, giving her a sign of approval.
Fine. For strategic purposes.
She smiles back at him, petting him on the head briefly and returning to her station.
Once the cameras are ready, Raizen approaches the bowl. He lowers his head until his nose nearly touches a pellet. He holds the position.
"PERFECT! That's the shot! Take five, everyone!" the director instructs happily.
The crew disperses toward the craft services table. No one is watching him.
Now.
Raizen drops from the chair and moves toward the side door, propped open with a sandbag. He slips through into a narrow service alley. Dumpsters. Cigarette smoke. Freedom.
Now I just need to—
"That the cat from the set?"
A man in a gray uniform stands at the mouth of the alley, next to a van with the city's animal control logo. He's holding a net.
"Black cat, red bow tie. Matches the description." He speaks into his radio. "Found him. Tell the studio we've got their stray."
The bow tie. I'm still wearing the bow tie.
Raizen turns to run back inside, but the door has swung shut. A second officer blocks the other end of the alley.
The net descends.
Manipulation unsuccessful.
Animal Control Van, 2:45 PM
The cage smells like the anxiety of every animal that occupied it before him. A chihuahua trembles beside him.
"Where are they taking us?" The dog shivers.
Irrelevant. I'll escape at the destination.
The van stops. Doors open.
Raizen expects an animal shelter. Instead, he sees gates. Guard towers. Razor wire.
"MINIMUM SECURITY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY."
What.
"Therapy animals?" A guard peers into the van.
"Just the cat,” the driver responds. “Program coordinator said Block C needed something."
I am not a therapy animal.
"Cute bow tie. Block C will love him,” the guard scoffs, grabbing Raizen’s cage.
Prison, Block C Common Room, 2:55 PM
Twenty inmates crowded around Raizen turn to look as the guard sets Raizen’s cage on a table and opens the door.
Raizen steps out, assessing.
"YO! New cat!"
A large man with tattooed arms crouches to Raizen's level. "What's up, little guy? You got a name?"
I have many names. The One Who Remains. The Architect of All—
"I'm gonna call him Grumpy,” the prisoner concludes with a pat on Raizen’s head.
I will remember this insult until the stars burn out.
"Make him do tricks!" a prisoner calls out from the crowd.
Tricks. They want TRICKS.
"Shake hands!" The tattooed man extends his palm.
Raizen places one paw in his hand.
"YOOOOOO!"
"HE DID IT!"
"SMART CAT!"
The inmates converge on each other, high-fiving, pulling out phones. Exactly as predicted.
Raizen moves toward the door.
"Yo, where's Grumpy going?"
Damn.
"He wants to explore!"
"Nah, keep him in the common room."
An inmate steps into the doorway, filling the space with his bulk.
I could slip between his legs.
Raizen tries his idea.
"Aww, he wants pets!"
The man scoops him up before he can react.
NO. Put me DOWN.
"Listen, he's purring!"
That is not purring. That is rage vibrating at a frequency you are misinterpreting.
Block C, 3:10 PM
Raizen has been passed between seven different inmates. Each one has given him a different nickname. Currently, he's on a table while a man called "Big Tony" attempts to teach him to high-five.
The clock reads 3:10. Twenty minutes until Niche gets home.
He's been watching the guards. Shift change at 3:15. Thirty-second window where the corridor goes unmonitored.
The air vent. Loose cover. He just needs a distraction.
A stack of magazines sits on a side table, balanced near the edge. Raizen pads over casually, calculates the angle, and gives them a gentle push.
They clatter across the floor.
"Yo, Grumpy knocked over the magazines!"
Every head turns.
Raizen bolts.
"Aww, he's playing! He wants us to chase him!"
NO.
Twenty inmates converge on his position. Raizen weaves between legs, ducks under hands, and reaches the vent. He hooks his claws into the grating and pulls.
It pops free.
He's inside the duct before anyone can grab him, scrambling through narrow metal until daylight filters through another grate. He pushes through and tumbles onto grass.
A courtyard. And in the corner, a gap where the chain-link has come loose.
He's through to the other side before anyone realizes he's gone.
Street, 3:18 PM
Raizen stands on a low wall overlooking a busy street. The residential district is visible in the distance.
Too far to run in twelve minutes.
I'm not going to make it.
A van pulls up below, hand-painted UFOs and the words "TRUTH SEEKERS MOBILE UNIT” on the side.
The driver leans out and looks directly at Raizen. Wild hair. Wilder eyes. "A cat! Running with PURPOSE! THIS IS IT!"
This man is insane.
But this man has a vehicle.
"I this day would come!" The man throws open the passenger door. "I can help you!"
Raizen jumps in.
The van smells like energy drinks and obsession. Newspaper clippings cover every surface. A corkboard displays a theory connecting government cover-ups, alien contact, and the secret intelligence of house cats.
"Where do you need to go?" The man pulls into traffic with reckless confidence. "I can take you anywhere!"
Raizen considers. He's committed now.
"Drive east," Raizen says, pronunciation perfectly clear. "Fast."
The man's face cycles through shock, terror, joy, and transcendence.
"I KNEW IT! I cats could talk!" He pounds the steering wheel. "What's your mission? Are there others? Is this an invasion?"
"Just drive."
"UNDERSTOOD! Very important driving!"
The residential district appears faster than expected. The man drives like someone with nothing to lose.
"We're almost there! Should I stop? What are my instructions?"
"Stop here."
The van screeches to a halt at the corner of Niche's street. 3:28.
Raizen moves toward the window, then pauses. This man helped him. For entirely wrong reasons, but he helped.
"One more thing."
"YES? WHAT IS THE MESSAGE?"
"Throw me a fish."
The man blinks, then scrambles, digging through a cooler behind his seat. He produces a convenience store mackerel.
"Is this symbolic? Should I tell the council?" the man asks.
Raizen takes the fish in his mouth and jumps from the van.
"THE COUNCIL NEEDS TO KNOW!" the man begs as Raizen scrambles down the street.
Niche's House, 3:30 PM
The cat door swings shut behind Raizen. He drops the fish near the entrance to eat later. If Niche sees it, he'll figure out an explanation later, or he won't. Humans rarely leave a question unanswered, even if they have to come up with the most outlandish solution to satisfy their concerns.
Raizen’s usual sunny spot has moved. He finds a secondary spot and curls up, slowing his breathing, smoothing his fur. The performance of a being who has definitely been sleeping here for hours and doesn’t have any self-awareness.
The front door opens.
"I'm home!" a voice calls.
Footsteps approach. Pause at the fish. Continue toward where Raizen lies "sleeping."
"There was a weird guy in a van parked outside," Niche says, side-eying the cat. "Kept muttering about cats and first contact. Know anything about that?"
Raizen opens one eye.
The conspiracy theorist. Of course he's still there. I should feel guilty about speaking to him. Revealing myself to a human, even an unstable one. But I don't. He'll never be believed. And he gave me a fish.
"Lazy as always," Niche sighs, moving toward the kitchen. "Mom got that good salmon food. Want some?"
Salmon. Wet food. Actual sustenance.
All I wanted today was fish. I left for a few
minutes. I was kidnapped twice. I appeared in a commercial. I performed tricks for prisoners. I spoke actual words to a man who believes cats are alien messengers. And now, salmon.
"Meow."
Niche turns back. "Weird. You never meow."
And I never will again. But right now, I want that salmon more than I want my dignity.
