Chapter 2: Less Than Human

  The stairs creak under my weight as I descend, each step a negotiation between my old instincts and this body's new requirements. My hand grips the banister, reaching up because it was built for human height rather than mine, and I force my legs to move one step at a time.

  The wood groans beneath me. Everything is so loud with these ears that will not stop swiveling, picking up conversations from rooms I cannot even see, tracking footsteps on floors above me, catching the scrape of a chair being pulled across floorboards somewhere in the building's depths. The sheer volume of information flooding my brain threatens to overwhelm me before I even reach the bottom.

  I count the steps as I descend, focusing on the simple task to keep my panic from spiraling. One. Two. Three. The railing is smooth under my palm, worn by countless hands over countless years, and I can feel the grooves where fingers have gripped it, the slight depression where thumbs have pressed. Four. Five. Six. My tail brushes against my calf through the tunic Marta provided, and the sensation makes my skin crawl. I can feel it moving, sending signals my brain still insists are impossible.

  Seven. Eight. Nine. The tail shifts with my balance automatically, adjusting my center of gravity without conscious thought. The movement is precise, calculated, instinctive, and completely beyond my control. This body knows how to move. I do not.

  The disconnect is nauseating. My mind sends commands based on old patterns, how a body should distribute weight, how legs should bend, where arms should swing for balance. But this frame executes them differently. The joints hinge at wrong angles. My knees bend backward like an animal's hindlegs. Every movement is a translation error between what I intend and what happens, like trying to write with my non-dominant hand while wearing thick gloves.

  Scents hit me like a physical wall when I reach the halfway point. Woodsmoke, roasted meat, yeast and ale, sweat and bodies and cooking food all layered over each other in complex patterns my enhanced nose picks apart into individual components. I can smell the specific ingredients in the stew simmering somewhere in the kitchen. I can smell the different types of wood burning in the hearth. I can smell individual people, their unique scents distinct even from this distance.

  My stomach clenches with ferocious hunger despite the porridge I ate upstairs. This body is starving, the metabolism burning hot and fast, demanding constant fuel. The hunger feels wrong, intense and demanding and almost painful, like I am being consumed from the inside.

  The common room opens up before me as I reach the final steps. Rough wooden tables fill the space, benches worn smooth by years of use, a massive hearth crackling with fire that sends warmth and light throughout the room. And people. So many people. All of them enormous from my new perspective.

  A man near the hearth stands at least twice my height, his shoulders as wide as I am tall. Even the serving woman towers over me. I am descending into a room full of giants, and every prey instinct this body possesses is screaming at me to turn around and flee back to the safety of the small room upstairs.

  My ears flatten against my skull without my permission, pressing down so hard I can feel the muscles strain. My claws extend, digging into the wooden banister, gouging small crescents into the old wood. The sensation grounds me, solid and real, proof that I am here and this is happening.

  Forcing myself to take the final step, my foot landing on the worn floorboards of the common room. The texture is distinct beneath the leather wrappings Marta found for my feet, the grain of the wood, old ale stains, a rough patch where someone once spilled something caustic. I can feel every imperfection through these sensitive pads.

  The room has not gone silent, not quite. But I can feel them noticing. Eyes tracking my movement across the floor, heads turning to watch the nekojin emerge from the stairs. Conversations dropping in volume, though not stopping entirely. The weight of being watched settles over me like a physical pressure.

  My ears swivel toward a whisper from a nearby table. "Another stray," someone says. I force them forward, try to stop them from betraying my awareness, but they will not obey. They track every sound, every word, every quiet comment, broadcasting to anyone watching that I can hear exactly what they are saying about me.

  "No papers, I'd wager," comes from another direction. My tail wants to lash but I clench my muscles, trying to keep it still, to control this one visible manifestation of my emotions. It flicks once anyway, sharp and agitated, beyond my conscious control.

  "Marta's getting soft in her old age." That one comes from a table of workmen near the window.

  I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Ignore them. Focus on reaching Marta, on getting through this without breaking down.

  Marta emerges from behind the counter, her weathered face showing concern that seems genuine. She sees my fear, my hesitation, the way my whole body is broadcasting my distress. But she does not comment on it. Instead, she guides me toward the kitchen with a hand on my shoulder, the touch gentle but firm.

  Her hand is warm through the thin fabric of my tunic. The contact should feel invasive, another human touching me without permission, but instead it anchors me. Grounds me in this moment, in this body, in this terrifying new reality. I lean into the touch slightly, grateful for the simple human connection.

  "There's work to do," she tells me, leading me into the kitchen. "Lunch crowd'll be here soon, and my regular girl's sick with fever. I need someone to clear tables, carry food, help with whatever needs doing." She pulls an apron off a hook. "Pay's room and board plus tips. Work's honest even if the customers aren't always kind."

  She hands me the apron, too large but serviceable, and shows me where everything is kept. The kitchen is chaos, a cook named Willem barking orders while steam rises from a dozen pots. The heat is intense after the cooler common room, and my fur prickles with sweat I did not know this body could produce.

  The work begins before I am ready for it.

  The lunch crowd arrives like a storm, workers from nearby craftshalls, travelers stopping for a meal, locals grabbing food between errands. The noise level rises exponentially, and my ears flatten against my skull in automatic response to the sensory assault. Every voice is distinct, every conversation traceable, but the cumulative effect is overwhelming, like trying to read a dozen books simultaneously.

  Marta gives me a quick tutorial on the basics. How to balance a tray on my palm rather than gripping it with both hands. How to approach tables from the left so patrons can reach their food easily. How to clear plates efficiently without lingering long enough to invite conversation or abuse. The information flows past me in a rush, and I absorb what I can while knowing I will make mistakes.

  I carry trays of stew and bread to tables, dodging between patrons who do not seem to see me until I am in their way. The trays are heavy, designed for human hands and human strength, and my smaller arms shake with the effort of holding them level. The distances seem vast, the tables impossibly far apart, every trip an endurance test.

  The first customer I serve looks at me with open disgust. "What's that thing doing serving food?" His voice is loud enough for half the room to hear.

  "Just clearing tables, sir," I say, my voice small, and he grunts as if even this minimal interaction has contaminated him somehow.

  The comments continue throughout the afternoon. "Marta's letting cats serve food now." "That's unsanitary." "Probably steal the silverware if we're not careful." I hear every word with these cursed ears, cannot help but hear them, and each one lands like a small blow.

  One woman pulls her child closer as I pass, shielding the boy from me as if I might bite him. A merchant moves his coin purse to the other side of his belt when I approach his table, his eyes never leaving my hands. An old man makes a sign against evil when I set down his food, mumbling something about curses being contagious.

  They fear me and despise me in equal measure. Fear what I might be capable of, despise what I represent. A creature that does not fit neatly into their understanding of the world, something in between human and animal that makes them uncomfortable with its very existence.

  I keep working. Because the alternative is curling up and dying, and I am apparently too stubborn or too foolish or too desperate for that.

  By mid-afternoon, my feet are screaming in agony. The leather wrappings are not enough protection for these backward-bending legs, and blisters are forming on my pads where the straps rub. My back aches from reaching up to tables built for human height. My arms shake from carrying trays that would be manageable for someone larger but strain my smaller frame.

  And I am hungry again. Constantly, relentlessly hungry. This metabolism is a curse all its own.

  I am carrying a tray of dirty bowls when someone grabs my tail.

  The sensation is shocking, intimate and violating all at once, like someone reaching beneath my clothes to touch bare skin. I gasp and spin, dropping the tray. It crashes to the floor, bowls shattering, broth spreading across the floorboards in a widening pool.

  A man grins at me from his chair. Middle-aged, red-faced from drink, his friends laughing at his table. He is still holding my tail, his grip firm, preventing me from pulling away.

  "Easy there, kitten," he slurs. "Just wanted to see if it was real."

  My claws extend involuntarily. Every instinct screams at me to slash, to defend, to make him let go by any means necessary. My lips pull back from my teeth, a sound building in my throat somewhere between a hiss and a growl. His grip shifts, thumb pressing into the base where the fur is thinnest, and the intimacy of the contact makes my skin crawl.

  But I force myself to stay still. To not escalate. To not give him an excuse to hurt me worse than a grabbed tail. Because he is huge and I am tiny and everyone in this room would side with him rather than me.

  "Let go," I say, my voice tight with barely controlled fear and rage.

  "What's the matter?" he asks, his grin widening. "Cats don't like their tails pulled?" More laughter from his table. His friends are enjoying this, enjoying my discomfort, enjoying the power they hold over something smaller and weaker.

  "Let go of me." Firmer this time despite the fear making my heart pound so hard I can feel it in my ears, my throat, my fingertips.

  He does, finally, with a last little tug that makes my tail lash in automatic response. The movement sends a spike of pain up my spine, the tail more sensitive than it looks.

  "Touchy little thing, aren't you?" He takes a drink from his mug, completely unconcerned by my distress.

  I back away, trying to bend down to retrieve the fallen tray, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip it. The bowls are shattered, the broth soaking into the floorboards, and I know I will have to clean this up and probably pay for the broken dishes out of whatever meager tips I might have earned.

  Marta appears beside me, her bulk suddenly comforting rather than frightening. "That's enough, Garrett." Her voice carries authority that cuts through the noise of the room. "Touch my staff again and you're barred."

  He raises his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Just having a bit of fun with the help."

  "Have your fun elsewhere." Marta's tone brooks no argument. She turns to me, her voice dropping. "Leave the mess. I'll have someone clean it. Come with me."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  She steers me toward the kitchen, one hand on my shoulder. Behind us, I hear Garrett's friends laughing, making comments my ears catch clearly even though Marta cannot hear them.

  "Sensitive little beast."

  "Can't even take a joke."

  "Surprised Marta keeps it around."

  In the kitchen, Marta points to a stool. "Sit. Breathe." I sit, my tail curled tight around the stool's leg, my claws still extended, my whole body shaking with adrenaline and shame and impotent rage.

  "You alright?" she asks, and I nod, not trusting my voice. My tail is still lashing despite my efforts to control it, broadcasting my agitation to anyone who cares to look.

  Marta crouches down so she is closer to eye level, a consideration I notice and appreciate despite my anger. "Men like that," she says quietly, "they're everywhere. Not just here. Everywhere nekojin go. You'll need to learn how to handle them without losing your place."

  "And that means letting them grab me?" The bitterness in my voice surprises me. "Letting them treat me like a toy?"

  "It means picking your battles." Her eyes are steady on mine. "If you fight back, if you scratch him, if you draw blood, I have to throw both of you out. The law. And Garrett has more friends than you do, more money, more influence. He walks away with a story about an aggressive nekojin. You walk away with nothing."

  I understand the logic. It is practical, rational, completely sound. My claws retract slowly, one by one, sliding back into their sheaths with reluctant clicks. But accepting it burns like acid in my throat.

  Marta continues, her voice gentle but firm. "I know it's not fair. Nothing about this is fair. But this is the reality of what you are now. Small and weak and not quite human in most people's eyes. The rules are different for creatures like you."

  "That's not right," I say, and my voice cracks on the words. "You know it's not right."

  "No," she agrees, surprising me with her honesty. "It's not right. But it's real. And you need to decide if you can live with that reality or if you'd rather run."

  Can I live with it? With being grabbed and mocked and treated as less than human? With having to control my instincts, my reactions, my very survival responses because fighting back means losing everything?

  I do not know. But I do not have anywhere else to go. And running means facing worse than Garrett's grabbing hands.

  "I'll manage," I say. "I have to manage."

  She nods. "Take a few minutes, then get back out there. Don't let him drive you into hiding. That's how men like Garrett win."

  She leaves, and I sit in the kitchen listening to the clang of pots and the cook's muttered curses, trying to calm my breathing, trying to force my claws to retract, trying to accept that this is my life now.

  Less than human. That is what I am to them. Something to be tolerated but not respected, touched without permission, mocked without consequence.

  I touch my tail gently where Garrett grabbed it. The fur is slightly mussed, and there is a tender spot where he pulled. Such a small violation in the grand scheme of things. But it feels enormous. It feels like a preview of every other violation that is probably coming, all the other ways this world will remind me that I do not belong.

  Eventually, I stand. Because Marta is right. Hiding means Garrett wins. And I am too stubborn to let that happen.

  I retie my apron and head back to the common room.

  The afternoon passes in a haze of forced normalcy. I clear tables, carry food, dodge comments and grabbing hands with reflexes I did not know I had. The work is exhausting, both physically and emotionally, but I keep moving because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling, and feeling means breaking down in front of people who would enjoy watching me fall apart.

  As evening approaches, the crowd changes. Workers head home, travelers settle in for the night, and a different sort of patron fills the common room. More locals with established seats, more conversation and less urgency, more ale flowing and more tongues loosening.

  My feet are beyond pain now, having passed through agony into a numb sort of endurance. My arms have stopped shaking, not from strength but from exhaustion so complete that the muscles no longer have the energy to tremble. My stomach growls constantly, demanding food I have not had time to eat, the metabolism burning through whatever reserves this body possessed.

  I am carrying another tray of stew bowls when a voice stops me, different from the others, gentler.

  "Thank you, miss."

  I look up to find a young woman, perhaps a few years older than I appear now, with ink-stained fingers and an earnest face. She is dressed simply but cleanly, with the practical clothing of someone who works with their hands rather than trying to impress. A leather satchel sits beside her chair, and I catch a glimpse of parchment and what might be accounting ledgers within.

  "You're welcome," I manage, surprised by the directness of her gaze. She is actually looking at me, not through me or past me or at me with disgust. Just looking at me like I am a person.

  "First day?" she asks, and there is something knowing in her smile, something sympathetic rather than mocking.

  "Is it that obvious?"

  "Only to someone who's been there," she says. She takes a sip of her ale. "I'm Lyra. I keep books for some of the merchants in town." She sets down the mug. "If you need anything—information about the town, where to find things, who to avoid—I'm usually here most evenings."

  The offer feels like a lifeline being tossed across dark water. Someone willing to help. Someone who sees me as something other than a problem or a curiosity or a beast. My tail uncurls from where it had been clamped against my leg, the first time it has relaxed since Garrett's hands.

  "May I sit for a moment?" I gesture to the bench across from her. My feet are screaming for relief, and more than that, I want to understand why this woman is being kind to me when everyone else has been indifferent at best.

  Lyra nods and I slide onto the bench, my tail curling around to rest beside me. The relief of sitting down is so intense it almost makes me dizzy. I have been on my feet for hours, carrying trays that were too heavy, reaching for tables that were too tall, navigating a world built for people twice my size.

  "You look exhausted," Lyra observes, and there is no judgment in her voice, only sympathy.

  "It's been a difficult day." Perhaps the greatest understatement I have ever made.

  She studies me for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. "Where are you from?" she asks, and the question makes my throat tighten because I have no answer to give her.

  I start to introduce myself and realize I do not actually have a name. The one I was born with, whatever it was, is lost in the void where my memories used to be. I have been calling myself nothing, answering to kitten because Marta uses it and I have nothing else to offer.

  "I don't actually know my name," I say, and the admission feels like stripping naked in front of a stranger. "I'll need to remember it or think of one."

  "You don't have to share it now," Lyra says gently. "You can tell me when you're ready." She pauses, then leans in slightly. "And if you need help with documentation issues, I know people who know people. Not always legal," she adds quietly, "but safer than some alternatives."

  The implication is clear. Forgers. Black market identification. Ways to exist officially when you are not supposed to exist at all.

  Before I can respond, another table calls for service, and I have to move on. But as I work through the rest of the evening, I glance back at Lyra's table, at this woman who looked at me like a person rather than a problem.

  Maybe there are good people in this world. Not many. But some.

  By the time Marta catches my arm and says, "You look dead on your feet—get upstairs, the late crowd can manage themselves," exhaustion has settled into my bones like lead. My small pouch contains six copper pieces from the day's tips, a pittance compared to what I would need for documentation or real survival, but more than I had this morning.

  Progress. Small, painful, humiliating progress. But progress nonetheless.

  I think about the day as I climb the stairs to my room. The cruelties I endured, Garrett's grabbing hands, the whispered comments, the looks of disgust. But also the small kindnesses. Marta's rough protection. Lyra's gentle offer of help. Willem the cook slipping me an extra roll when no one was looking, a small kindness that nearly made me cry.

  This world is not entirely hostile. There are people in it who see me as a person rather than a pest. Finding them, cultivating those connections, that will be the key to survival. Not strength, because I will never be strong in this body. Not fighting, because I will always lose against creatures twice my size. But allies. Information. The kind of power that comes from knowing things and knowing people.

  Lyra could be valuable. Her offer of help with documentation, her access to merchant accounts and the information they contain. I do not know yet if I can trust her, do not know what she might want in return. But she is a possibility. A thread to pull on when I have nothing else.

  In my room, I light the single candle on the small table and pour water from the pitcher into the basin. My reflection wavers in the water's surface, those alien emerald eyes, the ears that even now twitch at every sound from the hallway, the features that are mine and yet not mine at all.

  I study myself in the wavering water, trying to reconcile what I see with what I feel. The face looking back at me is delicate, almost beautiful in an alien way. The patterns in my fur are striking, white with black rosettes that create a unique design. My eyes are large and expressive, capable of seeing in darkness that would blind a human. This body has advantages I am only beginning to understand.

  But it is also a prison. A cage of fur and instinct that separates me from the world I remember, from the person I used to be, from any hope of normal existence. The humans who looked at me today did not see a person. They saw an animal, a curiosity, a threat. That is what I will be to most of them for the rest of my life.

  I strip off the tunic and breeches, my muscles protesting every movement. Using a cloth, I begin to wash away the day's grime, sweat from nerves and exertion, kitchen grease that somehow got on my arms, the smell of too many bodies in too small a space. The cool water feels incredible against my skin and fur, and I work methodically, cleaning my arms, my torso, my legs.

  When I reach my feet, I have to sit on the bed, the ache in them almost overwhelming. The leather wrappings have rubbed blisters on my pads, raw spots and reddened skin beneath the fur where tomorrow I will need to pad better or risk infection. I unwrap them carefully, wincing at the damage.

  My fingers dig into the muscles of my calves, finding knots of tension I did not know were there. This body is strong, quick, agile, but it demands so much. More food, more rest, more careful attention to muscles that cramp and protest after hours of constant movement. It is like being an athlete who never trained, thrown into performance without preparation.

  I work my way up, massaging tension from my thighs, my lower back, my shoulders. My tail curls around my waist as I work, and I am struck by how natural the movement feels, how this appendage that should not exist has already become part of how I balance, how I move, how I exist in space.

  Finally, I pick up the small wooden comb from the chest and begin working it through my short hair. The motion is soothing, meditative. My ears relax, no longer swiveling at every sound. For the first time all day, I feel almost peaceful.

  The purr starts again, unbidden, unwanted, but softer now. A sound of contentment rather than pleasure at food. I am purring while grooming myself like an animal, and part of me is horrified by that. But part of me is too exhausted to care.

  What am I becoming? The thought drifts through my mind as I set down the comb and examine my hands, delicate fingers, retractable claws, the soft pads on my palms. Am I still the person I was before, just in a different body? Or is that person being slowly erased, replaced by whoever this form demands I become?

  My old name, if I ever had one, feels as distant as my memories of my former life. That person, whoever they were, existed in another world, another body. They are gone now, as surely as if they had died. Maybe they did die. Maybe this transformation killed them and left me behind, a new consciousness in a cursed body.

  But I am here. I am alive. And I need a name for who I am now, not who I was.

  I look at my reflection in the dark window, at the white and black fur, the emerald eyes, the alien features that are slowly becoming familiar. I think about the day, the cruelty and the kindness, Garrett's violation and Lyra's offered help. The despair and the small glimmers of possibility. I think about Marta's rough compassion, about somehow surviving when everything seemed impossible.

  The word rises in my mind unbidden, from somewhere deep where meaning lives beneath language. Hope. That is what I need. That is what I am clinging to. That is what keeps me putting one foot in front of the other when every rational part of my brain says this situation is impossible.

  I search my fragmented memories for any scrap that might give me a name to claim, any piece of identity that survived the transformation. There is nothing. Just void where a lifetime of experiences should be. No childhood memories, no family names, no sense of who I was before I woke in this body. The person I used to be is gone completely, erased as thoroughly as if they had never existed.

  So I will choose my own name. I will create myself from nothing, build an identity out of determination and survival and whatever small kindnesses this world offers.

  "Asha," I whisper to my reflection, testing how the sound feels in this new voice. It means hope, I think, or at least it feels like it should. Hope for survival, for finding a place in this world, for holding onto some piece of myself even as everything changes. The candlelight catches my reflection in the dark window, and the nekojin staring back at me looks less frightened than she did this morning. Tired, battered, but not broken.

  The name settles over me like a cloak, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, but mine. A choice I made. A small piece of control in a life where I have so little.

  "I am Asha," I say more firmly, and this time the nekojin in the window seems to acknowledge it with a small nod.

  Tomorrow I will wake up and do this again. Serve food to people who see me as less than human. Count my inadequate coins and try to figure out an impossible path forward. Smile politely while men leer and women look away, while people grab me and mock me and remind me with every interaction that I do not belong.

  But I will also see Lyra again, maybe. Learn more about this world, about documentation, about how to survive as what I am now. Find out if there are options I have not considered, paths I have not seen.

  I pull on the simple shift for sleeping and blow out the candle, settling onto the straw mattress. In the darkness, my enhanced vision picks out details that would have been invisible before, the texture of the wooden beams, the faint movement of a spider in the corner, the way moonlight filters through gaps in the shutters.

  My hand finds the wooden pendant around my neck, the crescent moon embracing a star that Merchant Tallen left me. In the darkness, I trace its shape with my fingers, wondering what it means, wondering if it is a clue about who I was or why this happened or where I am supposed to go.

  Sleep pulls at me with irresistible weight, my body demanding rest after burning through so much energy. As I drift off, my last conscious thought is that I survived today. Tomorrow is a problem for tomorrow's version of me.

  Tomorrow, I will be Asha.

  But even in sleep, my ears keep swiveling, listening, always listening. And my tail curls protectively around my legs. Instincts that never rest, reminders of what I am now, whether I have accepted it or not.