Four Moons
Four moons.
Prologue: The Moons Shall Rise
The sky of Beshtal was burning.
From orbit, the Grays watched in silence, their fleet a cold and precise specter against the dying glow of the planet below. Fires stretched across the jungles and oceans, turning green and gold into charred black. The Felivar home-world, the cradle of their people, was breaking beneath their feet.
The Grays did not speak as they advanced. They did not gloat or rage. Their war was mathematical. Merciless. A siege that had stretched across generations, grinding the Felivar down with cruel precision. They struck during breeding cycles, poisoning nurseries with fear, suffocating hope before it could be born. When their strategy was complete, when Beshtal’s people could do nothing but claw and bleed for every inch of ground, they escalated.
This was extermination.
The Felivar fought until their claws were stripped to the bone. Until their spears shattered, their cities fell, and their warriors, once proud and untamed, collapsed under the weight of it all. Their allies; Nordics, Vedics, and others lost to time, had died beside them, fighting the inevitable. Even their greatest enemies, the Reptilians, had burned in the struggle.
Or so they had thought.
As the Grays closed in for the final culling, the sky was torn apart. A rip in the void, coiled in emerald light and ancient power, a wormhole. The last there would ever be.
From it came a voice, hissing through the storm of destruction.
“The moons will rise!”
The Felivar turned their ears skyward, disbelief flickering like embers in their chests. The words were sacred. Their ancestors had cried them out before the hunt, before battle, before death itself. And yet, here they were spoken by an old enemy, by Sobek the Fifth, High Commander of the Reptilian fleet.
He stood upon the bridge of his ship, bloodied but unbowed, gripping a Felivar’s spear in his clawed hand. Beside him, battered Reptilian warriors locked weapons into place, opening the last path their technology could forge. It was not surrender. It was not mercy. It was defiance.
Below, among the ruins, one Felivar still stood tall. Protector Oorow Bobtail, leader of the last resistance, cradled their infant child against their chest. The child did not weep. They did not know they were watching the death of their home.
In their free hand, Oorow raised a blade, Sobek the First’s scimitar, taken in battle centuries ago. By Bobtail the Great after he cut off his own tail to defeat the Reptilian. A symbol of their people’s endless war, now repurposed for salvation.
With fire raining down and the ground shaking beneath their feet, Oorow roared their reply:
“The Suns shall shine!”
Their roar was echoed by Reptilians who were willing to die not just for their people but for those they once called ‘enemy.’
“Oorow!” The Reptilian captain called out, “You showed us the way, let us take it from here!”
Oorow felt a lump in their throat and a warmth in their heart. They took their child and joined other members of their kind as the Reptilian’s held off the apocalypse for just a little longer.
Pods, like the moons of their homeworld, ascended into the rift, breaking through the planet’s gravity well in a desperate rush. The last of their kind. The last of their history. The last of their war.
Behind them, Beshtal collapsed, its four moons wreathed in fire as they fell into ruin.
But not all who fled were warriors.
Within one of the largest escape pods, a chamber of stone and gold stood unshaken amidst the chaos—a temple carried into the stars. Inside, High Priest Niikri Softpaw knelt before an ancient altar, their robes flowing like liquid shadow, fur dusted with the ashes of their world. Their voice was steady as they pressed their forehead to the cold metal beneath them, whispering the last rites of a dying planet.
“O Moons, we are your children. We rise from your ruins, we carry your light. O Two Suns, you are our guardians. Shine upon our path, though we know not where it leads. O stars of Beshtal, remember us.”
They paused, ears flicking at the wails of cubs in the distance, at the heavy breathing of the wounded. Then, a prayer for the ones they had never called allies.
“And to the scaled ones, our rivals, our blood-stained brothers. Let them be remembered, too. For their claws held the gate when ours had no strength. Their fangs tore into death when ours had dulled. May the Moons remember them. May the Suns bear witness.”
A deep rumble shuddered through the pod as it passed through the wormhole, the final tear in space closing behind them.
And the moons fell again—this time, toward a new world.
A shower of light in the night sky, mistaken for a cosmic event, a passing storm of forgotten gods.
But the Felivar knew.
Their home was gone.
Their war was over.
**Chapter 1: The Roommate Situation**
Riley woke up to his alarm going off. Another day of filling out job applications. His English and Business majors didn’t seem to mean anything in this job market, and his degrees were some of the few things hanging on the wall in his apartment—right next to a picture of him and his parents at graduation.
He was too old to be in this situation, no matter what his parents said.
There was another thing he had to worry about. His old roommate had finally moved out to live with her boyfriend. No love lost, but no help with the rent either. At least she had a friend stopping by. A potential new roommate would be greatly appreciated because he had been on his own paying for everything for months now and it was slowly killing him.
What time was it?
He glanced at the clock. **8:20.**
Alright, maybe he had time to check his email
“I can be there at 8:30."
Oh no.
She was probably almost here.
The door buzzed.
Oh great, she liked to be early.
Riley yanked a shirt on as fast as he could and went to the door. He was thankful he had at least slept in his pants as he pulled it open.
She was short, maybe five feet tall, with her hair pulled back.
“Hi, I’m—oh my god! Hi!” She recoiled slightly, then forced a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Sophia, Taylor’s friend. Sorry, it’s just… when she said you were a cat person, I thought she meant…"
Riley sighed. "You thought she meant that I liked cats, not that I was a Felivar." He barely remembered to force a smile of his own.
Sophia nodded slowly, her smile wavering.
“It’s okay. I’m Riley."
“Nice to meet you, Riley. Taylor only had nice things to say about you. ‘They keep to themselves. They’re really nice and quiet.’"
“He," Riley corrected.
“I’m sorry?"
“He. I switched," he said flatly.
Riley was a Felivar—an upright, feline, non-human person. Most Felivar used they/thempronouns, but occasionally one identified differently.
His species’ concept of gender and sex was quite different from humans. When they revealed themselves to humanity, there were plenty of awkward moments. Especially with the no-nonsense Protector Oorow Bobtail.
“So are you a mister or a miss?”
“I am a Felivar. What’s the difference?”
“One can have children.”
“I have one child.”
“No, I mean one can… carry children and the other can… give them…”
A translator made a series of cat-like noises to the Felivar representative.
“Oh, I see. Yes, that’s private."
*That’s private?"
“Yes. Next question."
It had been nearly three generations, a human lifetime, a third of a Felivar’s since the Felivar arrived but there were still some awkward moments.
Moving In
Riley expected Sophia to be hesitant, to say she’d think about it, maybe even decide on another place. Instead, she dropped her bag on the floor inside the door and clapped her hands together.
“Alright, show me the place."
Riley blinked. “You’re not going to ask any more questions?"
“What’s there to ask? It’s a good deal. You don’t seem like a serial killer, and worst case scenario, if you are, I have a solid five-foot frame to fight back with."
He wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or confidence, but either way, it was impressive. He turned and gestured stiffly for her to follow.
The apartment wasn’t much. It was small, with a basic layout—a living room with a couch and a coffee table covered in neatly stacked papers, a kitchen that had clearly been wiped down recently, and two bedrooms down the hall. Sophia peeked into the extra room, finding it empty except for a cheap dresser and a window that overlooked the street.
“Clean. Quiet. You actually wipe down counters. I’m impressed."
“I shed."
“Fair enough."
She tossed her bag onto the mattress. “Alright, I’ll move the rest of my stuff in this weekend."
Riley narrowed his eyes. “So that’s it? Just like that?"
Sophia grinned. “Just like that."
Sophia adjusted faster than she expected. She noticed some things about Riley. Like all cats, he purred when he was comfortable. The first time she heard it, she thought something was broken in the apartment. He kneaded things when he was stressed but often it was more like punching. One time, she walked in on him aggressively and rhythmically bringing a fist down onto the arm of the couch as he looked through job applications then pretending like it never happened.
Riley seemed to prefer loose clothing and this was something Sophia could appreciate. Loose shirts, hoodies, and relaxed pants he never wore anything constricting. It wasn’t like the Felivar in history class or the Orthodox with their robes and kilts.
He was obsessively clean and this made him the best kind of roommate. Sophia had stayed with people before that would leave dishes, ignore the liquid seeping from the garbage, and pay no mind to any odd smell. Riley made the apartment look spotless and this made Sophia extra vigilant.
Every night, he groomed his fur like it was a religious ritual, maybe it was. He didn’t use his tongue like a common cat but brushes. He used to use the bathroom but switched to his bedroom after the time Sophia nearly wet herself waiting on him to be done.
Their personalities began to reveal themselves more. Riley was terrible at small talk but always brutally honest and Sophia loved having an honest opinion except when he said her outfit for her date was ugly. Sophia had no concept of personal space but it kept Riley out of his own head. She would lean on him, offer casual touches. She acted like it was normal, she acted like a Felivar, just not one like Riley.
Now that there were two people in the apartment, meals were being cooked again. Sophia talked to herself when she cooked, full-on conversations. He found it both fascinating and mildly concerning. Sophia always shared her food though. It started off as knocking on his bedroom door and saying she cooked too much and hoping he wasn’t lactose intolerant. He was, he didn’t care, he was grateful and slowly blinked as a reflex of gratitude as well as to keep from crying.
Sophia and Riley both had habits that made them much more alike than anyone would think. They would both be eating food straight from the container. No plates. Just chopsticks or a fork and zero shame. They always had music playing. If they were awake, there was some kind of background noise.
Sophia laughed at everything and Riley loved to annoy her. When Riley was annoyed with her it was especially hilarious. If Riley’s ears were flicking in irritation it was comedy gold.
They weren’t best friends overnight. But living together? It was weirdly easy.
⸻
Chapter 2: The Job Hunt and the Tuna Incident
Riley had expected job hunting to be difficult. He had not expected it to be soul-crushing.
Every night, he filled out applications, tweaked his resume, and checked his email for rejection letters. Every morning, he showed up to work at a degrading fast food job he swore he’d never return to but had no choice.
Riley should have been able to land an office job years ago but he was never the right fit. He had two degrees; English and Business. He had the experience through internships, entry-level work that should have led somewhere but never did. He had done everything right.
He never wanted to assume it was white-collar discrimination but there was no other answer. He wasn’t told outright that they wouldn’t hire Felivar. That would be illegal. He wasn’t laughed out of interviews.
But somehow, the job always went to someone else. Every single time.
He would see humans with half his credentials walk into positions he was more than qualified for. It happened again and again.
So now he was working at a fast food job supposedly meant for teenagers, but there were several adults in a similar situation.
And he hated it.
Fast food wasn’t just miserable, it was actively humiliating. Because of his fur he had to wear a hairnet, a beard net, gloves, and a long-sleeved shirt under the uniform. His tail wrapped around his waist under the shirt, creating an awkward lump that looked like the worst kind of muffin top.
He always ran too hot in addition to constantly smelling like grease. He was underpaid and overworked. His human coworkers made comments.
“Don’t shed in the fryer.”
“Hey, does your species even eat this garbage?”
Customers were even worse. Some wanted to pet him. Some pointed at him like a zoo attraction. People stared constantly; making him wish he could just disappear. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to snap but thank the gods he was about to be home.
Riley smelled it before he even opened the door. The last of his tuna. His stomach ached. That was it; the one thing he’d been saving for when there was nothing else left.
He pushed the door open, expecting to collapse onto the couch, let the exhaustion of the day sink into his bones. Instead, he stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the sight before him.
Sophia stood at the kitchen counter, fork in hand, eating straight from the can.
She barely looked up. “Hey, welcome home.”
Riley didn’t move. The sweaty uniform clung to his skin, the dull ache of another shift pressing into his shoulders, but suddenly, none of it mattered.
His voice came out tight, slow. “Is that… my tuna?”
Sophia chewed, nodded absently. “Mm-hmm.”
His tail puffed under his shirt, ears twitching. “That was my last can of tuna.”
Sophia shrugged, still scraping at the bottom of the can. “You can get more, right?”
Riley’s chest constricted. “No. I can’t.”
The words were out before he could swallow them back, sharp and final. His hands curled into fists at his sides, claws pressing into his palms.
Sophia frowned, finally giving him more than a passing glance. “Okay, jeez. I’ll replace it.”
That snapped something inside him.
He laughed. A bitter, broken sound. “That’s not the point, Sophia!” His voice cracked, rising, all the exhaustion curdling into something sharper. “That was the last of the food I could afford! Do you think I like living like this?! Do you think I don’t try? That I don’t want to walk into a store and buy what I need like everyone else? But I can’t! Because no one will hire me! No one takes me seriously!
And now after sweating all day in this shit, after getting turned away from another interview, after wondering how long I can make the rent stretch, you’re eating the one thing I was saving for when I had nothing left!”
Silence.
Sophia stared at him, can still in her hand, caught off guard.
Riley’s breath hitched. His chest heaved. His tail, hidden beneath his shirt, was fluffed up so hard it hurt.
His throat burned. His hands trembled.
And then, without warning.
He broke.
Tears burned down his face, and he couldn’t stop them.
When the Felivar first arrived on Earth, more people feared and resented them than pitied them.
The government had called them temporary relocation sites. Some governments said it was for the Felivar’s protection. Some governments were more honest. Then people started asking why they looked so malnourished. Rows of tents, barbed wire fences, and guards standing at the borders.
A representative of the United Nations sat across from an elderly Felivar, their fur thin and patchy, their voice careful, exhausted. Some governments wouldn’t even allow that much because they argued the Felivar had no earthly nation and were not human so they didn’t need to bother answering to the anyone.
“How would you describe conditions here?”
“We are given food.”
“Enough?”
“Enough to live.”
“And work? You have been here for three years now.”
The Felivar hesitated, then said, slowly, “We ask. They say, ‘Not yet.’”
“Do you feel you are being helped?”
A pause.
Then, in the Felivar tongue, subtitled beneath the screen:
“A house without doors is a cage.”
The footage cut away. Pundits debated whether Felivar “ready” to integrate into society. Not whether humans were ready to accept them. Not if they should be treated with dignity. Sometimes it was as if High Priest Niikri Softpaw and Protector Bobtail were the only ones worthy.
In the present, something in Sophia’s expression shifted. She understood. She understood that it wasn’t just about the tuna, it was about the hunger, the exhaustion, and the endless cycle of rejection.
She let the can drop to the counter and, without hesitation, stepped forward. Her arms wrapped around him.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured.
Riley stiffened at first, but then he sank into her. His claws dug into the fabric of her hoodie, grip tight, desperate. He didn’t mean to cling to her, but gods, he needed this.
His body trembled against hers. He let out a shaky exhale, his breath hitching. His purring, weak, broken, and barely made it past his throat. Sophia didn’t let go, she just held on.
After that, something changed. One day, at work, Sophia found herself talking to her Felivar coworker, Kiko.
“Hey,” she asked, trying to sound casual. “Weird question. What kind of burger do you usually order?”
Kiko raised a brow. “Why?”
Sophia shrugged. “Just curious.”
Sophia started bringing home extra food from 3-Johns Bar and Grill. Not in an obvious way; not pitying.
She’d just drop a takeout bag on the counter, casual as anything, and say, “Someone didn’t pick up their order, want it?” Riley always took it and always said thank you. He knew better; she just didn’t want to make it a big deal.
That’s when things shifted between them; from roommates to friends. Sophia saw Riley for who he was, a person struggling just like her and she refused to let him fall.
⸻
Chapter 3: Our Neighbors.
At 3Johns Bar & Grill the lunch rush was now a memory. The kitchen was finally quiet. Not silent, the hum of the fridge, the low sizzle of something still cooling down, and the occasional clatter of a dish in the sink kept it from feeling empty but compared to the lunch rush it was practically peaceful.
Sophia wiped the sweat from her forehead, dropping onto a stool near the service counter. “God,” she muttered, “I’m gonna start seeing burgers and the ‘trio’ in my sleep.”
Kiko didn’t answer. They were busy humming—a soft, rhythmic tune as they wiped down the drink station.
Sophia squinted. The melody was familiar, tickling something in the back of her mind. Where have I heard that before?
Then it clicked.
She sat up. “Wait. That’s from a really old kids’ cartoon. Daniel Tiger.”
Kiko flicked an ear, tail lazily swaying behind them. “Hmm?”
Sophia pointed. “That song. Won’t You Be My Neighbor? It’s from Daniel Tiger.”
Kiko stopped wiping, head tilting so fast it was almost comical. “No,” they said, with the tone of someone politely correcting an idiot. “It’s a hymn. My younger sibling sung it with the choir at temple last night.”
“It’s not a hymn.”
“It’s a hymn written well over a hundred years ago by a human named Fred Rogers. A human that met High Priest Softpaw, may they be blessed, before my babas were born. Before my grandparents immigrated! Back when they were back in the ‘Old World.’”
Sophia stared. “Wait. Wait. You’re telling me Mr. Rogers is a religious figure?”
Before Kiko could argue back, the door to the back office swung open, and Jonno emerged—all girth, fur, and authority, stretching with a deep rumbly sound. Their eyes, half-lidded with age, still carried the sharpness of someone who had once stood against extinction but chose kindness. Their massive paws rested on their belly as they surveyed the two younger workers with amusement. Their weight was rare for a Felivar but was a testament to a connoisseur of good food.
“Kittens,” Jonno said, voice like a purring engine, “yer both rrright.” Jonno’s accent was like many first old Felivar, lots of R’s and syllables that slid together. At 146, they were ancient to humans but middle aged to Felivar.
Sophia turned in her seat, looking between them. “Oh, this I gotta hear.”
Kiko’s ears perked and they placed a furry hand on a hip. Sophia leaned forward.
Jonno grinned, sharp but warm, like an old soldier about to spin a tale that could last the rest of their shift.
“Now then,” Jonno rumbled, settling into a comfortable lean against the counter, “lemme tell ya about the Journey… ’cause back in my day, I werrren’t just some fat old cook—I was a warrior underrr Protector Oorow.”
And with that, the old solder’s story began.
The escape pods trembled as they drifted through the wormhole’s collapsing edges, hurtling toward the unknown. Everything behind them was gone.
The warriors had fought. The elders had guided. The priests had prayed. And yet, in the end, all that remained was this—a fleet of survivors, carrying ashes and memories into a future that had never been promised.
Inside one of the larger pods, Ekoko Tornclaw sat cross-legged on the floor, their tail curled around their feet. Around them, cubs huddled close, their ears twitching at every distant creak, every shift of the vessel’s hull.
They were scared.
Ekoko had spent their last years on Beshtal as an Advisor and Educator. They had spoken to young Felivar about the importance of remembering their history, their ancestors, their people. Then the blockade became a siege and the siege became a war of extermination.
Now there was no history. No home. Only them. If the old chain of command meant anything Ekoko would’ve been chancellor but there was no question about who their leaders were; Protector Oorow Bobtail and High Priest Niikri Softpaw.
“Protector” was not a rank. It was a title. And if there was any justice, it should have been “Hero.” But Niikri knew Oorow would loathe such a word. The truth was undeniable though; Oorow had stood alone atop the ruins of the last great city, gripping an anti-aircraft cannon meant for a team of warriors, and brought down a Gray battleship.
That single act had bought the time needed for the survivors to flee. It had cost them everything and now, what remained of their people hurtled toward a planet spoken of in old myths, one last chance at life among their distant cousins: humans. Tailless, hairless, flat footed and known to treat each other the way the Grays treated the Felivar.
Inside the vast escape flotilla, a voice broke through the intercoms—steady, unwavering, the voice of faith itself, Niikri Softpaw.
“We will arrive on Earth. Our ancestors walked side by side with their people, the humans.
They will not know us.
But we must remember… we know them.
So be patient with our new neighbors.”
Ekoko sat back, their ears twitching as they listened. Ekoko flicked their tail, trying to ease the tension in the air. Then, slowly, they began to hum. A low, soft vibration at first. Just enough to steady the cubs, to distract them from the weightlessness, the fear. Then, in that moment of silence, they had an idea. A fantastic idea.
They rose to their feet, shaking out their fur, stretching their arms in an exaggerated motion to catch the children’s attention. Then, with their best false smile, they began to sing.
🎵 It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood… 🎶
A song they had learned years ago, during a scientific excursion to Earth. A human melody, from an old television broadcast.
The cubs looked up, ears perked. Some recognized the tune—their caretakers had sung it to them before sleep, in quiet moments of comfort.
One by one, they joined in.
🎶 A beautiful day for a neighbor…
Some voices were soft and hesitant. Others, braver.
Across the pod, a tall, battle-worn figure shifted. Protector Oorow Bobtail sat against the far wall, their infant cub curled up against their chest. Oorow did not sing. They only rocked their child, their eyes fixed on the darkness outside the viewport.
They had not allowed themselves to grieve. Not when the fleet was falling.
Not when the final battle raged. Not when entire cities were being erased.
Not when they held their partner’s hand as the light left their eyes.
They had been the last to stand. The last to fight. Here, in the quiet, Oorow took a shuddering breath. They rocked their cub, their grip tightening not in fear, but in something deeper. Something they had held back for too long. Their eyes burned, but they refused to shed tears. They had already lost too much. They would not lose this, too. For the first time since Beshtal’s fall, they allowed themselves to be still and listen.
🎶 Would you be mine? Could you be mine? 🎶
The cubs weren’t the only ones singing anymore. The elders joined in next, their voices cracked and weary. Then the caretakers, those who had survived with cubs clinging to them, the ones who had lost cubs and carried only ghosts.
The warriors, Jonno among them hesitated. This wasn’t a warrior’s song and yet, Jonno’s ears flicked as they watched Oorow finally let their shoulders sag, finally breathe. They had known the Protector since the war began had fought beside them and had watched them defy the inevitable.
To see Oorow let themselves feel, even for a moment caused Jonno to swallow, then added their voice to the hymn. One by one, the remaining soldiers followed.
🎶 Won’t you be… my neighbor? 🎶
And then, at last, a final voice joined them all, High Priest Niikri Softpaw. Softpaw hadbeen a different kind of warrior. They rallied spirits and wielded the power of prayer. They had not met the legendary human named Rogers but they had seen his broadcast when they were younger. They had watched his gentle lessons, his unwavering kindness. They had carried his words across the stars. They had sung to cubs like Rogers sang to human children. Now, here in the cold of space, they sang along with their people once more.
🎶 Won’t you please… won’t you please… please won’t you be… my neighbor? 🎶
The last note lingered.
The pod was silent.
Then, from a cub, a tiny voice murmured a Felivar blessing. The first prayer spoken after the fall of their world, with Earth in sight.
“O Moons, guide our path.”
Softpaw closed their eyes. “Yes,” they whispered. “O Moons, we rise again.”
And that night, for the first time since their home burned, the Felivar did not feel alone.
⸻
Back in the Present, at the 3Johns Kitchen; Jonno leaned back, their tail curling lazily.
“That,” they rumbled, grinning at Kiko and Sophia, “is why it’s both a kids’ song and a damn fine hymn.”
Sophia blinked, processing all of that.
Kiko beamed, ears flicking proudly. “See? Told you Curious Georgette.”
“Ok Garfield ok,” Sophia just exhaled, shaking her head with a stunned laugh. “Man. History is weird.”
Jonno let out a deep chuckle, pushing themselves off the counter. “That it is, kitten. That it is.”
“I can’t believe a children’s song became a religious hymn,” Sophia said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
Jonno shrugged, gesturing lazily with their tail. “Stranger things have happened. Ain’t that how Bastet Graycloaked ended up a deity?”
Sophia nodded, remembering elementary school as she restocked the napkins and condiments with Kiko. Kiko smiled at her and said “thanks neighbor.”
Sophia smiled and looked at the two of them, an ape and a cat working together. Even their jeans and boots were the same. Doc Martens 1460’s for Sophia and 1460DL’s for Kiko. DL for digitigrade legs. Levi’s 505 and Levi’s 505FF, Felivar Feet. To top it off, the same black polo shirt with the same logo of the restaurant founded by Juan, Jonathan, and Jonno; three Johns, three neighbors.
Chapter 4: Sophia’s Home.
Sophia’s car wheezed into the 3Johns parking lot, the front left fender rattling like it wanted to make a run for it. For a second, the check engine light flicked off for once. She blinked.
“Gonna be a good day,” she smiled softly. “Knew if I just ignored it-“ the light came back on.
“No. You don’t get to play games,” shutting the door with a firm thunk that was half encouragement, half punishment.
She leaned against the hood, feeling the heat of the Houston air wrap around her like a wet towel. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled—grease or the city itself. Maybe both. The faint coastal breeze reminded her ‘You’re not in East Texas anymore.’ The air was different here. Louder. Oil, asphalt, fried food, cologne, smog, and the vaguely floral smell of crepe myrtles clung to her in layers.
She thought about back home, where you had to drive half an hour just to get to a Walmart. In between, there was nothing but pine trees, cow pastures, rolling hills, and the occasional faded billboard about hell.
Here, she passed more people in a single day than existed in her hometown. She used to be able to name everyone in her graduating class. Now, she barely remembered the names of her coworkers. It was overwhelming sometimes but god, it was so much better.
Houston was like the entire nation to itself and the closest thing to New York she had ever been to.
She remembered that first week. She’d walked into a grocery store the size of her entire high school, blinking like she’d just entered a sports arena. The ceiling was too high, the lighting too bright, and the layout made no goddamn sense. There were whole aisles for things she’d never even seen before.
Fruit and vegetables she couldn’t pronounce. Some looked like alien brains in disguise. Jackfruit? Absolutely not from Earth. Bins of spices with colors that didn’t exist back home. White pepper? Definitely not a real spice. These city folk had to have made that up.
And the people, so many different people. They weren’t just fellow shoppers, they were stories.
A woman in a full sari and platform heels arguing with her kid in perfect Houston-accented English.
A white guy in a kilt and a Latino cowboy buying every brand of IPA known to man together.
A Black woman with electric blue braids pushing a cart with twin girls, singing along to whatever pop song was drifting overhead through the speakers.
Sophia pushed her cart slowly, trying not to look like she was overwhelmed. She failed. Then, she heard it. Something strange, not human.
Not a bark, not a meow, but something in between. A sound that sat somewhere between purring and speech.
Like a vocal cat trying to imitate a vowel.
She turned her head casually at first.
And then she saw them.
A little family of three made of cat people.
She hadn’t noticed them until she heard them, because out of the corner of her eye, they looked normal and that was because here, they were normal.
They looked more human than some of the humans she’d passed in the produce aisle.
And that? That made it hit harder.
A couple of parents in soft T-shirts and practical shoes designed for their feet.
A kid in Crocs and a Spider-Man shirt tugging on a sleeve.
The parents walked upright on digitigrade legs, tiptoeing on long, furred feet with a smooth, rhythmic grace.
Their heads were unmistakably feline: muzzles, whiskers, wide golden eyes that tracked movement like a predator.
Their ears flicked and twitched with emotion, just like a cat’s.
One of them was cream-colored with black and orange splotches. The other nearly white, with faint gray tiger stripes.
Their child was a perfect blend of both; white and orange, round-cheeked, bright-eyed, trailing behind them with a snack in their mouth.
The kid growled with frustration and tried to bite into the corner of a juice pouch.
One parent sighed and gently helped them thread the straw through the top.
The other snorted and muttered something that sounded like purring dipped in sarcasm.
Their partner smacked their arm and gave them a smirk that said ‘cut it out, but also that was funny.’
They weren’t dressed in flowing robes like Niikri Softpaw wore in the old textbook photos.
They weren’t wearing a sleek diplomatic suit like Attorney General Sobek Bobtail, all steel posture and inherited dignity.
And they sure as hell weren’t dressed like Ekoko Tornclaw, the sassy TV queen with a bejeweled cane, burn scars proudly framed by dozens of earrings, and enough eyeliner to kill a man.
No, these weren’t public figures. These were people.
Just a couple of exhausted parents and a kid who clearly needed a nap.
Sophia stood frozen in the juice aisle, cart halfway between sale apples and bulk ramen.
The child looked up at her. Their ears tilted sideways—alert, but not afraid.
Then they lifted a small, paw-like hand and waved. Not with their whole hand, but with their fingers—opening and closing them like a human toddler would.
Sophia blinked.
One of the parents noticed her, gave a soft half-wave and a tired smile.
And it hit her, not in her chest, nor in her head; but in her soul.
It reminded her of grocery trips with her mom.
Her little sister always complaining she was hungry. Her older sister glued to her flip phone. Their mom sighing like the cart was just one more burden she didn’t have the strength to carry.
It wasn’t foreign. It wasn’t alien. It was familiar. She waved back—awkward, a little stiff.
The Felivar adult blinked slowly. A long, deliberate blink. Not sleepy. Not dismissive.
Like a cat saying: I see you. I’m not a threat. We’re alright.
Then they nodded with a little wave
Sophia left her cart. Got in her car. Sat there for ten full minutes with the keys in her hand.
Finally, she whispered:
“What the fuck.”
Then again, a little louder, with more breath than voice:
“What the actual fuck.”
Now, Houston wasn’t a new, foreign land. Just loud and big and occasionally weird as hell. It was finally starting to feel like home… sort of.
3Johns Bar & Grill was her little corner of it. A place with rhythm and grease and steam and over spiced fries that put everyone else’s to shame.
Sophia clocked in, tied her apron, and pulled her hair back. The bar was humming. The kitchen clattered with prep noise.
And at the register, Jonno was leaning over a tablet, ears slightly back, reading something with the slow, deliberate care of someone born in another century.
Their voice carried low—so low it almost rumbled sometimes. It was the kind of voice you felt. A good bit deeper than most Felivar but not deeper than most human men. Some customers said “sir” without thinking. Sophia had called them “Mr. Jonno” for weeks and Jonno would murmur “they.” One native Houstonian coworker, Taylor sat her down and said that Felivars don’t follow human gender. “They are they, not he or she.” Sophia felt like so ignorant.
She later learned Jonno had inhaled something nasty during the War; a mix of fire, toxic air, and collapsing machinery. Their voice never recovered.
They didn’t always correct people, didn’t waste the energy and most didn’t mean harm but Sophia always corrected herself after that.
A customer came in—Felivar, short fur with beautiful green eyes and a soft accent she couldn’t place. They were smiling, tail curled politely, speaking quickly and warmly in a language she didn’t understand.
She nodded along, praying for context clues. She got none and she started to panic.
She stared into those big eyes like she was trying to become a telepath. When that didn’t work, she looked around for a Felivaren coworker. She looked for the thin body and black and white fur. “Kiko!” she half-whispered, half-yelped across the counter. “Kiko, I need your help! I don’t speak Felivaren, I don’t know what they’re saying!”
Kiko blinked, deadpan. “Sophia… I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Spanish? Why would a cat speak Spanish?”
Kiko looked at her like she just said the earth was flat.
“Really? One that’s from Mexico or South America? A Feluna?”
Her brain stuttered like a broken vending machine.
Before she could respond, Jonno waddled over, tail flicking with their usual slow amusement.
“¡Buenas noches, gatite,” they said, smooth as silk, sounding more fluent in Spanish than English.
The customer’s ears perked and their tail gave a delighted flick.
“¡Buenas noches, Abuele Jonno!” They embraced in a warm hug and a cheek nuzzle.
Sophia just stood there. Mind blown.
Jonno spoke Spanish. Felivar spoke Spanish. What else did she not know?
The day moved on. Sophia moved with it.
The bell over the door chimed. Sophia didn’t look up—until she heard the voice.
“Sophia? Well I’ll be! Sophia Smith, is that you?”
She turned, blinking. It was someone from home. Same nasal accent. Same smile. Same khakis. Joanna and Geryl. She used to babysit their niece or maybe went to church with their cousin.
They caught up in that weird Southern way where people act like nothing’s changedeven when it has.
Then Joanna pointed, eyes lighting up.
“Well lookit, hunny—it’s one of them cat people. A Feely-Fur!”
Sophia froze. She’d heard that term her whole life. Thought it was a cute nickname for cat people. Some Felivar even used it affectionately. But now she was looking at Jonno.
And Jonno didn’t flinch but they heard it. Their face didn’t react but their tail slapped at the air. They turned and just kept working. That wasn’t good.
“Does it work here Sophie?” Geryl asked.
Sophia swallowed hard, “that’s Jonno, the owner; the last of the three Johns the restaurant is named after.”
“Well that was cute of them to leave it to it.” Joanna chuckled.
Sophia didn’t.
Sophia hoped they wouldn’t be staying long.
“So what can I start y’all off with?”
She looked up at the photos behind the register.
Jonathan in his US Army uniform.
Juan with his son, Gerson, in his Marines dress uniform.
And Jonno, lean and muscled like a bipedal lion; standing in full battle gear, spear over one shoulder, something alien and deadly in the other hand.
The sign beneath it read:
“VETS GET 20% OFF. Thank you.”
By the time her shift ended, the city had cooled just enough to stop steaming. Her car still sounded like it was running on willpower and a prayer.
She parked at home. Riley was on the couch, scrolling through something, ears twitching occasionally, tail curled like a comma around one leg.
She didn’t say anything. Just walked to the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle, leaned against the fridge.
She realized she’d been here longer than she expected.
Longer than she planned.
And for the first time in a while,
she didn’t feel like she was just passing through.
