She called him Jack and he was smart enough to answer to it. He was also smart enough to answer when she shook the cat food bag.
The woman was old, probably older than dirt, and owned a shop with fresh clean water every day. Sometimes she’d treat him to a bit of milk.
One morning, she came to the door and fed him, leaving the door open. After Jack ate he padded inside quietly.
In the store, there was so much stuff. He was careful, making sure not to hit anything. He walked around boxes, under shelves, in between toys. A young man was at the opposite end of the store, sorting through a box.
Jack sat and watched. He listened to the woman talk, understanding most of what they said. Then the young man saw Jack. “Look at the cat.”
The old woman looked at Jack. Jack looked at her and meowed. “His name is Jack,” said the old woman.
The man was smiling and he beckoned the cat.
Jack walked over, tail held high as a question mark. He purred when the man touched him. “Can I keep him?”
“No. You’re too irresponsible for a cat.”
The young man sighed, picked up the cat. “Come on, then. Outside.”
He brought the cat to the back door and placed him outside. “Sorry, Jack.” Then he shut the door.
After that, it became a game. Jack would dash inside when the door opened, and the young man would try to find him. Sometimes he caught him. Most times he didn’t and Jack would only come out when the food bag rattled.
Jack learned every nook and cranny of the crowded store. He jumped on high shelves. One time, there was a plastic sword on the tippy-top shelf, and he put his paw on it. When he did, the strangest sensation came over him…his paw turned into a hand. He was heavier. And awkward. And bigger now.
He pulled his hand off the sword and looked down. He had no fur. It was cramped up here. And it was a very long way down. However, he swung off the shelf and landed easily on the floor. The sword came with him, and this time, it clattered on the floor. He picked it up – it had changed from plastic to metal, and easily fit his hand. The sword itself had strange symbols on it, birds and cats and dots and lines.
Then the young man turned the corner and saw Jack standing there, naked, with the sword in his hand. His ears folded back, and his tail puffed.
“Who are you?”
Jack heard and understood. In his mind, he heard what he was to respond. His mouth moved, and strange noises came out of it – “Stay back.” He crouched, the sword loose in his hand.
“Put the sword down,” said the young man.
“Henrik? What’s – Oh.” The old woman came around the corner. “I was wondering about that.”
“About what?” Henrik asked, taking his eyes off Jack.
Jack whirled around and ran.
“Wait!” Henrik started after him. Jack was unused to the heavy body he dragged along now, and bumped into a shelf. He dropped the sword. He felt the weird sensation again, like s shimmering cold coming from inside his body. He dropped to his knees, and Henrik barreled into him.
Jack touched the sword, and the sensation stopped. It had something to do with the sword. Jack turned around and came face to face with Henrik.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Henrik said, breathless from chasing him.
“This – sword? I am – like you.”
Henrik laughed and smiled, “Seems like it.”
Called the old woman, “When you’re done ogling over him, Henrik, we’re going to all have to have some tea.”
It ended up that Jack stayed with them for just over a year, and then struck out on his own. He went to Millennium City, registered as a hero so he could carry the sword with him without having to offer proof to anyone who wanted it.
And then, Bast Called him.
Note: The sword must be touching his body at all times for him to remain a human, so he has it strapped to his thigh. However, it is a large scimitar when he uses it, so he’s self-conscious about it, which is why he prefers pants.