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Thursday, September 29th, 2253 - 5:34 am

The Mystical Menagerie.

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Jeremiah awoke with a jolt. For a few disoriented heartbeats, all he knew was the cold ache pressed into his back and the faint scent of animals and disinfectant. He blinked against the low blue glow of the incubation pod, mind foggy, and for a moment, he couldn't remember why he wasn't in his bed.

Then the memories rushed back. The frantic run through empty streets, Sissy's cries splitting the night, the kitten limp and cold in his hands. He sat up, stiff and sore, muscles protesting as he shifted his weight off the hard tile. His shoulder twinged from where it had been wedged against the side of the cat enclosure.

Only then did he realize he wasn't alone. Something warm and heavy was pressed against his thigh, and as he glanced down, he found Milo curled up beside him, chin resting on his paws, the old basset hound snoring softly. At some point during the night, Milo must have padded over to keep him company.

A crooked smile tugged at Jeremiah's lips. Careful not to disturb the dog, he eased himself upright, stretching out the kinks in his neck and back. Milo barely stirred, just let out a contented sigh, and nuzzled deeper into his makeshift bed.

Jeremiah padded quietly over to the incubator. Inside, the tiny kitten still slept, her breathing deeper and steadier than before. He checked the pod's readouts — heart rate, oxygen, temperature — all steady, the numbers glowing green. Relief washed through him, soft and unexpected, but he decided to leave her inside for a little while longer, just to be safe.

No sense in risking a setback now.

He took a last, lingering look at the enclosure — Sissy tucked around her remaining kittens, the pod humming quietly, Milo still snoring — and felt the adrenaline of the night finally begin to ebb. There was nothing more he could do for now.

Jeremiah stretched, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and made his way out of the Menagerie, shivering slightly as the first pale wash of dawn spilled across the courtyard. The city was waking. And, for the moment, so was he.

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Jeremiah arrived back at the apartments twenty minutes later, the city streets pale and silent in the gentle hush of pre-dawn. The adrenaline of the night had faded, leaving him hollow and heavy-limbed, every step an effort. His mind churned with memories of glowing numbers, feline cries, and the fragile, rhythmic rise and fall of a kitten's chest. All he wanted was a hot shower and maybe a moment to let the world stop spinning.

He fumbled his way up the stairs, rubbing at his eyes, and was halfway to his door before he realized his hands were shaking. The building was still quiet at this hour, the halls empty and echoing save for the soft creak of his footsteps. By the time he reached his apartment, a faint shiver had set in — a cold that felt less physical and more like something left behind after a long, hard night.

The door swung open under his hand, and Jeremiah stepped inside, already rehearsing excuses for why he wouldn't have time to rest. But the sight that greeted him made him pause mid-step.

Mr. Roger — broad-shouldered, midnight-skinned, head bald, and short beard in a salt-and-pepper braid — sat comfortably on Jeremiah's battered old couch, looking perfectly at home. In one big hand he cradled a chipped mug, steam curling from the surface. Billy floated nearby in his bowl atop the coffee table, golden eyes bright and tentacles waving as he chattered in bursts of soft, warbling clicks.

Jeremiah blinked, trying to catch up with reality. He vaguely recalled nearly knocking Mr. Roger over in the stairwell on his way out, but in his panic, he'd barely registered the older man's return.

"Morning, lad," Mr. Roger rumbled, raising his mug in greeting. His deep voice was as steady and warm as always, cutting through Jeremiah's lingering anxiety. "Everything all right? Billy here's been keepin' me company and tellin' me stories while you were out."

Jeremiah managed a tired, sheepish smile. "Sorry, I — there was an emergency. One of the kittens I'm looking after got sick. I just… had to run." He let the door fall shut behind him, swaying a little as the tension left his body.

Mr. Roger's gaze softened with understanding. "Handled it, then?" he asked, voice gentle.

Jeremiah nodded, sinking onto the edge of the armchair across from the sailor. "Yeah. For now, anyway. The little one's stable, but I'll need to keep an eye on her for a while. Could've been a lot worse."

"Good," Mr. Roger said simply. "That's what matters. But if you need anything — someone to watch the place, run an errand, or anything else — you just say the word. What are neighbors for, after all?" He broke into deep laughter. His grin widened. "Billy's been filling me in on how much of an… exciting weekend it's been." He aimed a mock-stern glance at the kraken, who burbled innocently in response.

Jeremiah let out a dry laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Exciting is one way to put it. Chaotic, terrifying, and… rewarding, I guess. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all." He froze, the exact meaning of the man's words sinking in.

It was then he remembered Mero's suggestion to him, and why he had been waiting on Mr. Roger's return in the first place. He looked over at the man who had first gifted him Billy and set all of this craziness in motion. "Actually… could we talk for a bit? There's some… things I need to ask you about." His eyes shifted to Billy, and the tiny kraken waved his tentacles in excitement at the attention.

Mr. Roger paused, his cup halfway to his lips, then finished his drink. He then nodded and set his mug aside. "Aye, Jeremiah, I think we should. I wasn't expecting this all to move so quickly. Had I known, I'd have been back sooner. But the Maker laughs at the plans of mortals." His voice held the weight of old wisdom, but the smile he gave was gentle. "Seems I missed a lot. Billy tried to catch me up, but I think some of the details got lost in translation." He shot a fond glance at the kraken, who spun in a slow, triumphant circle.

Jeremiah managed a genuine grin, energy stirring beneath his exhaustion. He looked around the apartment — at the stray dishes in the sink, the pile of laundry on the back of a chair, the old photographs, and scattered papers that had accumulated in the chaos of the past few days. The place felt small and cluttered and suddenly not quite right for the conversation he wanted to have. Besides, he had work that needed doing.

He pushed himself upright, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "Actually… would you mind if we talked at my shop? I need to head over there anyway, open up, check on everyone. And honestly, I think you should see it. None of this would exist if not for you."

Mr. Roger's brows arched, a spark of curiosity lighting his features. "A shop, is it? You've been busy, Jeremiah. Busier than most, by the sound of it."

Jeremiah offered a tired, crooked smile, pride flickering beneath the exhaustion. "You could say that." He glanced down at Billy, who chirped sleepily, then toward the door, already imagining the Menagerie stirring in the soft light of morning — shelves and enclosures quietly waiting for him.

Mr. Roger chuckled, rising with practiced ease and placing his mug in the sink. "Lead the way, lad," he said, pausing just long enough to give Jeremiah a head-to-toe appraisal. "Though maybe after you've had a shower."

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Jeremiah looked down. Sweat streaked his chest, dust clung to him like a shirt, and the hems of his jeans were heavy with dried mud from whatever puddles he'd sprinted through that night. He flushed, cheeks burning with sudden embarrassment, just as Mr. Roger burst out laughing — a bright, rolling sound that filled the little kitchen.

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After a quick shower and a change into clean clothes, Jeremiah locked his apartment door, Billy's bowl tucked securely under his arm and headed downstairs. Mr. Roger was waiting just outside, hands folded behind his back and a faint, knowing smile on his lips. He greeted both man and kraken with a nod.

They set off together toward Market Street. The early morning air was crisp, cool enough to chase the last remnants of sleep from Jeremiah's mind. The city was just beginning to stir; sunlight brushed the rooftops, and the quiet hush of dawn lingered in the empty streets.

Jeremiah kept replaying his questions in his head, words tangling and unspooling with every step. How did you even begin to ask someone why they'd handed you the offspring of a myth? What was Mr. Roger's role in all this, beyond what was obvious? And, at the heart of it — why him? Why Jeremiah?

Every time he tried to form the question, the words stuck in his throat, too heavy or too foolish to say aloud. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft slosh of water in Billy's bowl and the gentle tap of shoes against the pavement.

Mr. Roger made no move to break the silence. He simply walked at Jeremiah's side, his expression unhurried, content to let the younger man wrestle with his thoughts in peace.

And so, together, they made their quiet way down the street toward the waiting lights of Jeremiah's shop, the unasked questions trailing silently in their wake.

As they turned onto Market Street, the fragrant warmth of baking bread drifted from Ulrick's bakery, just ahead. The shop's golden light spilled across the walk, and the steady clatter from inside said the morning rush had already begun. The bell above the bakery door chimed as Ulrick himself stepped outside, apron dusted with flour and a fresh tray of rolls in his hands.

He blinked at the pair, surprise cutting through his usual morning cheer. "Well, I'll be! David, back already?" Ulrick's voice boomed out, drawing the attention of a few early passersby.

Mr. Roger's face split into a broad grin. "Couldn't stay away, Ulrick. Good bread has a way of calling a man home." There was an easy warmth between them, an old rhythm that felt out of place in the new day's hush.

Jeremiah looked between the two men, a note of confusion flickering in his eyes. "You know each other?"

Ulrick laughed, shaking his head as if at some private joke. "Shouldn't I be the one asking that? I didn't know you two were acquainted."

"Neighbors, as it happens," Mr. Roger replied, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "We share the same building."

Ulrick's bushy brows shot up, and he gave a sidelong glance at Mr. Roger, lowering his voice. "Merry never told me that part," he stage-whispered, then winked at Jeremiah. "Small world, isn't it?"

Jeremiah chuckled, still a little thrown. "So how do you two know each other?"

Maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised the two men were acquainted. There was a quiet kinship between them, though Ulrick was easily twice Mr. Roger's size, both radiated a sort of strength shaped by years and hardship. But where Ulrick was loud and bright, his presence as warm as a summer morning, 'David' Roger, by contrast, had a calm, steady quality, like the endless blue of a tranquil sea.

"Oh, that's an old tale," Ulrick said, a smile deepening his weathered features. "We used to sail together, back when we thought adventure was just a matter of pointing the bow at the horizon. Met during a storm off the Sable Coast. This ol' seadog plucked me from the waters after I bit off a bit more than I could chew." He clapped Mr. Roger on the shoulder, leaving a dusting of flour on the man's jacket. "Of course, in return, I was the one who recommended Tell Tales Apartments. Figured he'd appreciate the quiet." Ulrick finished with a wide grin.

Mr. Roger's lips curved in agreement, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "And you were right, as always. Good neighbors, and good bread close at hand. What more could a man want?"

Ulrick's grin widened, and he offered Jeremiah a still-warm roll from his bakery tray. "Take one for the road, lad. Shopkeeper's breakfast." He tipped his head to both of them, then ducked back inside, laughter trailing after him.

Mr. Roger lingered for a breath, drawing in the comforting scent of fresh bread. With a small nod, he gestured for Jeremiah to lead on. As they resumed their walk, the morning felt somehow lighter — mysteries and questions softened by the steady presence of old friendships and the quiet promise of a new day.

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They arrived at the Menagerie just as the early sunlight spilled golden across the cobblestones.

Jeremiah unlocked the door, letting the scent of tea and pastry drift out, and stepped aside to let Mr. Roger in first. The old man paused on the threshold, studying the hand-painted sign, then smiled.

"Welcome to the Mystical Menagerie," Jeremiah announced, a touch of humor in his voice as he held the door. "Not quite the corner shop you might be used to."

Mr. Roger's eyes swept the space, taking in the warm wood shelving, the cafe nook with its comfy chairs, and the wide sunlit window enclosure where Sissy watched the world. Billy perked up from his bowl as they returned to a place that was quickly becoming just as familiar as Jeremiah's apartment. The puppies — Tish and Tosh — immediately yipped from their enclosure, their tails wagging so hard their bodies wobbled.

Milo, ever dignified, cracked open an eye from his place atop the Dreamshell cushion, giving a low, satisfied groan as the sunlight warmed his grey-muzzled head. He yawned and stretched, his tail beating a steady, lazy rhythm against the floor.

Mr. Roger paused, his gaze softening. "You've done well for yourself, Jeremiah." His voice was warm, a low hum in the quiet shop.

He crouched beside Milo, his large hand gently scratching behind the old hound's ears. Milo's tail thumped harder in approval, and the old man's laughter rumbled out, a sound that seemed to settle into the wood and glass of the Menagerie itself.

Then he moved to the puppy enclosure, barely getting his hands over the edge before the siblings launched themselves at him, a blur of pink tongues and paws. Mr. Roger only laughed, letting them scramble and tumble over his arms, patient as Tish gnawed on his sleeve and Tosh wriggled into his grasp, nosing insistently at his hand.

Jeremiah grinned from the counter, watching the chaos unfold. "Careful, they're more trouble than they look," he called, unable to hide his amusement.

Mr. Roger glanced up, blue eyes crinkling with mischief. "Always the way with the young," he said, voice thick with memory. "But worth the mess."

Jeremiah, heart lighter, left the man to play with the puppies and turned toward the cat enclosure, remembering the more delicate charge he had left in the medical pod overnight. Sissy watched him approach, her tail thumping once against the glass. He could still feel a wary nervousness bleeding through their attunement, but it was tempered by a small, quiet hope.

The pod's interface glowed softly. Jeremiah checked the readouts: stable heart rate, steady breathing, temperature normal.

He exhaled, the tense stress in his shoulders he hadn't been aware of suddenly vanishing. With a soft click, the pod's latch disengaged. Inside, the smallest kitten blinked sleepily, golden eyes half-lidded in the gentle morning light.

"Time to go home, little one," Jeremiah whispered, cradling the drowsy kitten in his hands and gently laying her down beside the pod, then picked up the pod and pulled it out of the enclosure. Sissy darted over the moment he did so, her posture shifting from wary to hopeful. Sissy began to groom the kitten with rapid, loving strokes, her rough tongue coaxing out a tiny, purring mewl from her child.

Jeremiah watched for a moment, caught between relief and wonder at the simple reunion. He carefully cradled the medical pod, giving the family some privacy as Sissy picked up the wiggling kitten and carried her back into the cat house.

With the animals settled, Jeremiah placed the medical pod on a shelf near the enclosure and joined Mr. Roger in the cafe nook. The morning sun caught in Billy's glass bowl, scattering rainbows on the tabletop as the little kraken watched the humans with open curiosity. Tish and Tosh, already tired from their earlier excitement, sprawled on the sun-warmed floor, gnawing at a squeaky toy.

Jeremiah poured two cups of coffee, setting one across from Mr. Roger before sliding into the chair with a grateful sigh. For a few heartbeats, the shop was all contented noise — the scrape of chair legs, the jingle of a collar, the quiet hum of the city beyond the door. They drank in silence, the sort that comes from comfort rather than distance.

It was Jeremiah who finally broke it, the words rolling out carefully, more measured than before.

"Mr. Roger… David — can I call you David?" He hesitated, searching the older man's weathered face. "Who are you? Why me?"

David Roger set his cup down, steam curling between his fingers. He didn't look away, but neither did he answer at once. The light shifted across his features, drawing out the lines of laughter, loss, and old storms weathered.

The man was silent for a moment before finally speaking. "For a long time, I wondered that myself," he said at last, voice low and thoughtful. "I'll be honest, lad. I wasn't expectin' to have this conversation so soon. Not for a couple of years at the earliest." He grinned at Jeremiah, bright and full of humor. "And definitely not after only a couple of weeks." He burst into laughter.

His laughter died down and he stared deep into his cup. His gaze turned and landed on Billy. "If you're askin' me these questions, then I assume you already know what little Billy is." David nodded, more to himself than Jeremiah. "But the question you're not thinking to ask is who Billy is."

He looked back to Jeremiah. "As for the answers to your questions… well, that's not an easy tale to tell. Not without a bit of understandin' to go along with it."

He folded his hands on the table, a story on the cusp of breaking the morning wide open.

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