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Commissioned by , based on an RP between me and her with our characters, The Cat and Berlin respectively. This was an exercise I like to call "let's see how much bullshit Fable can dump into a piece of writing while still being entertaining".

"Fiddles"

Berlin had come out here hours ago. He had made sure no one had seen him before he came, and had hiked himself up to a tree that was a bit further from the complex than he usually went, but today was an even more special day. Today, the sun was high, it was bright and warm.

Today was also the day he would finally get some practice in with the only real best friend he knew he had no matter what happened.

The warm instrument fit snuggly under his chin, the soft cushioned support between him and the violin's base was like a cloud. His well trained fingers reached up, and gently slid over the neck, and his hand plucked up the bowstring from the bag hanging off the branch he was currently resting on.

And proceeded to run his bow over the bridge, eyes closed as he played familiar tunes he had in his heart. He didn't know where they were from, or how he even knew words to them, or if the words were right. They just seemed right.

So he played, whether he was happy, or sad, and today, it was a melancholy tune, reflecting the thoughtfulness he felt, upper torso slowly swaying with the lulling sound, like a comfortable lullaby, his shoes off, and clawed feet dug into the branch, keeping him steady.

---

“C’est un vaillant chanson, sugah.” A long, lean form sporting an ivory suit perched next to Berlin. The man picked at a red sash around his collar, trying to keep sweat pooling down the exposed tendons of his neck. In Berlin’s concentration, he hadn’t noticed The Cat’s approach, or how long he’d been sharing a branch with the giant.
“Where ya pick up such a fascinatin’ little ditty?”

---

Berlin had been about to slide the bow forward, when the sudden voice forced his hand to jut further than he’d previously anticipated and it nearly impaled the branch next to him, his claws gripping the branch tighter, and he took a second to steady himself, turning to look up to Michael.

From the orange jacket, to black slacks, he was in atypical Berlin wear. Bright colors, and always in shape, save for today his light gray shirt was untucked for the first time in a long time.

“....Michael.” His eyes darted around for a small second, before slowly trying to shuffle his feet under his body, to keep them less noticeable. “....didn’t see you..... climbing up here.”

He avoided the subject of his best friend entirely, slowly starting to put the bow in the bag, while he talked, distracting the Cat in favor of hiding his instrument.

----

“Oh now dun be shy. It’s unbecomin’, so contraire to the petite peacock yah doll yahself up as. Ah haven’t heard much fiddlin’ since mah walk up north. Course not many have such a talent, quel souffrance, to strum them flutterin’ cords like they was yah very heartstrings.” He smiled and leaned back against the trunk, trying to catch as much sun that filtered through the canopy top as possible.
“Y’all almost as good as Boug.”

---

Trying to decipher what the man was saying, was like wading through middle school french homework. Time consuming and almost entirely impossible. Instead he just went with what little meaning he picked up from the Cat’s words, and raised a brow, turning to put the instrument in the bag next, tugging on his jacket a bit, eyes looking down to his shoes at the bottom.

“I don’t know who that is.” He said finally, almost attempting to say the word, but figured he’d just let it drop and stick to smoothing out his bright jacket instead.

---

“Eh? Ah nevah mentioned Boug before? Yah’d think we spent no time together, sugah. Ah would’ve thought the topic might come up, seeing as yah seem to like colorful things so very much.”

----

“We don’t spend time together Michael.” Berlin corrected with a serious face, staring over at the zombie with an arched brow, and a tight line to his mouth. He could have carried on as to why that was, but Berlin rather liked his head. And his organs. So he just opted for silence on the reasoning.

---

“Oh? We really ought to,” he tapped at Berlin playfully with one white shoe (matching his outfit). “Ah man of yah interests would appreciate someone like boug. Mah Boug, he were somethin’ right special. Looked like he coulda been in the movies,” Michael pluck a flower from a bough, twirling it between his fingers as he considered. “Had a face even death couldn’t ruin. Mah god, it were like he was dipped in liquid honey.” He buried his nose in the blossom, breathing in deeply.

“Good lord, he was some kinda perfect.”

---

Berlin just stared. And stared longer, after pushing the shoe away from him with a single finger, unwilling to touch with anymore of his hand. He’d have probably pushed the foot away with a stick, if he had one. “....are you describing a typical zombie, or Adonis, there, Robert Frost?” He asked in a dry manner, before shifting to get a bit more comfortable, sitting up further, and looking down to the ground. Jump was an easy one to make. Provided leaving without offending The Cat was possible.

Then looked right back up to Michael waiting for him to either carry on or leave, staring with an unamused face.

----

“Could Adonis be undead? Ehehe,” The Cat chuckled low, “well if he were, then call me one o’ his disciples.” He stuck the flower in his mouth and chewed on the stem thoughtfully for a few quiet moments.
“Yah know yah ain’t dissimiliar, sugah. He had a right mouth on him too. There weren’t no one who Jackson couldn’t take a crack to, give ‘im enough time. The choses what came outta that pair of pink lips be enough to make a fearsome pack of wolfish zombies get frothy in the mouth.”

“You gals ah looking real pretty fah a bunch of maggot-factory pus piles, Jackson say,” the Cat mocked a Massachusetts accent, “Oh wait, my mistake. Seems my glasses had a smudge on them. Oh pewwww, how ‘bout you look in the Gay district, dolls? The trannies mighta left enough clown cake to cover those ugly mugs.”

----

Berlin couldn’t help it. He let out a choked snort, that turned into a small chuckle. “Aye?” He asked curiously for once, sitting up a bit more, staring up to him. “Sounds like he had quite the punch in the personality then.” He observed, eyes drifting over to the field just outside the tree leaves, and settled back more.

“I assume you’re going to tell me more about him then. You have my attention.” He finally stated to the cat, turning a bit till his clawed feet were no longer buried into the trunk, and his legs dangled over the side, looking a lot more relaxed, and keeping his eyes on Michael, actively listening.

---
“Ah dunno, cher,” he sniffed, then pulled down the black stetson perched on his head until only the wry smile beneath showed, “seems to me y’all were just looking to depart. Why evah would yah want to know ‘bout the time mah Boug and Ah hunted down the last of the Marauders?”

---

“Because you’re dying to tell me anyways.” Berlin replied confidently, looking up to him with a half-lidded stare, and a small, cheeky grin. His legs swung faintly while he leaned in a bit closer, humming, clawed hands pressing down on the branch.

“Come on then, Cat. Weave your story, I’m all ears.” The blue undead murmured in a provoking manner, his eyes sharpened, leaning further in, in anticipation, legs even stopped moving for a moment.

---

“Tu es adorable. Fine. Yah familiar with Nawlins any, sugah?”

“Never been that far down south, sorry.”

“Well down there, whatevah the rest of the world experienced when the Wendigo ran rampant, La Ville got it fiercer than any o’ them.
Truly no mobs are more vicious than those pulled from them what up and abandoned civilization to indulge in pure, righteous sin in mah fair city. It was, if y’all don’t mind the cliche, truely dog eat dog. Somethin’ vicious lives in the hearts of those who call Nawlins home and we soooo wanted to get it out. Keep huntin’ the good hunt. Keep findin’ a new place to indulge our appetites for a life long left behind.

It breeds some of the worst, cher. And Ah ain’t talkin’ zombies.”

There was a small pause on Berlin’s part, before raising a brow. “Go on.” He said softly, crossing one leg over the other, and resting his elbow on his knee, staring for a moment. It was a tad bit hard to follow, with the accent. “What did it breed then?”

“Killahs”

“Oh?” He leaned his head to the side.

“Some humans make the worst of us seem like saints, cher,” he flipped the flower to the other side of his mouth, then plucked a stick from the bough and started picking at the bark around it. “Ah’m sure yah heard of a little practice called ‘voodoo’, yeah? Let’s just say the main ingredient became Wendigo in their sanguine stew pots.

Them folks make it kinda hard to make a livin’, especialment in the Bayou. Yah could say the worst of human kind makes its home in the swamps, or maybe they just become the swamp. Anyhow, before long this--dare Ah call it--cult makes its way through Louisiana, claiming all sorts of unseemingly things about our kind. Namely how consuming our flesh preemptively discourages us folk from spreadin’ our seed ‘round like we oughta.

Damn drigaille. They only took from the weakest and most undeservin’ too.

A little group of them marauders come filterin’ through Nawlins. We had it pretty tightly locked down most times; not a zombie hunter among most who could tip a toe in without gettin’ hisself made part of our fine fanfare. Mais c’est plus mal, Marauders are a different kind of determined. Believe themselves sent by heathen gods and so propell forward, speakin’ the name of our Good Lord like they don’t recognize his hand already decided.

False prophets and all that. Ah’m sure yah know. Ah’m Catholic, but Ah nevah abide by Leviticus. What use is there in denying somethin’ fundamental? Y’all know, don’t yah, sugah? That special pain yah bear when some upstart preacher be tellin’ yah to give no mind to what yah heart tells yah? The self-same heart The Lord granted yah?

Hell even dead, we still know what we is.”

Berlin shifted uncomfortably at the mention of religion. Not that he minded it, it wasn’t a problem. Up till he died, and came back to life. Then he’d become worried. What if this was some sort of religious propaganda? His mind flinched a bit, as he remained still on the outside, staring.

“I must say, I myself have never been to church. So I wouldn’t know.” He replied to him, blinking slowly for a moment. “And... I actually don’t believe I’ve run into one, at least one who wasn’t already dead, mind you.” He said with a small shrug.

----

“Nobody ever call yah out on yah,” he flipped a hand, waving it through the air, “inclinations?”

----

Berlin stared at him for a moment, and he paused before leaning back. “Nope. Not at all.”

But of course he was lying. His parents were divorced. His father an overly religious man, who would verbally, mentally, and sometimes, physically abuse him. Berlin was never good enough. Never did enough. His dad, who claimed religion was ‘salvation’ and yet was so overtly racist, and an alcoholic, that Berlin grew disgusted with him. With his father, and himself.

“I guess I’m one of those lucky few, I suppose.” He shrugged, and kept his face relaxed, breezy and thoughtful.

No. He was just one sob story in a sea of many.

----

Michael paused with his twig fiddling, giving Berlin a minor glance under the brim of his hat, before continuing.
“Anyway, so the drigaille be comin’ into the city and makin’ a mess of things. Absolutely shameful, they actually managed to decapitate a few good men patrolling the business district before we even realized they were there. Turns out some of our cousins were takin’ some favors from these pirates in exchange for fare passage.
Well that simply cannot be, sugah. Yah don’t trade the sanctity of La Ville for personal gain. Betrayin’ yah own race? C’est mal pris.
And of course The Master thought so too.”

----

Berlin frowned, as he held a hand up. “Hold... hold on a moment.” He said finally. “I can’t hardly understand your gibber gabber one second, and the other, I can’t make out the story. So...” He cleared his throat. “What I got so far, is that there’s a... group of undead, like you and me, who is hunting us down, or rather, just killing us off, and then there’s your group, who makes trade with another group. And who is the Master?”

He frowned.

---

“Non cher, keep yah ears open. Ah explained mah’self. Weren’t no zombies that were pickin’ us off. It were humans! Salir humans! The creatures who we, by the natural order o’things, do catch, herd and infect to give our existence meanin’.

The drigaille, the chattel, they were pushin’ into the city and givin’ us a right hard time. Like the Underground, cher, except so much worse. At least dat monkey’s soldiers only kill us. These men, sugah, these men would eat us.

They come into the city, catch or slaughter a few of our brethren, then retreat back into their hidey-holes. We’d find the bones later. T’was shameful. An insult to the organization Ah headed there at the Master’s behest.

Course Ah’d rule Nawlins even without playin’ to the Master’s wishes, but it helps to have a man known best for splittin’ skulls of the unrefined at yah back. He was the tent pole under which the whole of La Ville’s undead population did scurry. And me, cher, Ah was the ringleader.”

---

“You certainly would fit the profile.” He replied seriously.

---

“Anyway, if Ah be the ringleader of La Ville, then surely Boug was the lion-tamer. Fella had a devilish streak longer than a rattler crossin’ the freeway at rush hour. He give me quite the start when Ah first meet him. Forward fella, got himself blades comin’ outta each arm like a natural jacknife. And legs a kangaroo would envy. Well the feet were, the rest was something better. ‘Specially that derrière. Unnff, when that man had his clothes off, Ah--”

---

“Okay, okay, enough. I get it.” Berlin held his hands up, recoiling back a bit. “I don’t need a description, thank you. Please, just.... go back to the story, if you will.” He pleaded, brows knitted while he stared at Michael with a look between ‘eek’ and ‘uhg.’

---

“What,” he chuckled, “no interest in the firmer sex? Yah surprise me, shoog.”

---

Berlin looked to him, and raised a brow, before shaking his head. “It’s Berlin.” He corrected, sitting up further. His eyes looked down to the ground below, then back over, with a raised brow. “And I’m proudly interested in the masculine sex. I’m not interested in a description though, thank you. We’re reciting a tale, not a Harlequin romance here.”

----

“But this is the best kind of romance, Ber-lin” he over enunciated his companion’s name, teasing. “This is action movie romance. Guns, explosions, protagonists the likes of which you have the great fortune of interactin’ with aujourd’hui.” He scratched at the red sash around his neck, loosening it slightly to allow his skin to aerate.
“Mais c’est vrai, the meat of the story ain’t the ‘meat’, as it were. But Boug, he my partner in crime. We canvas Nawlins many a time trawlin’ for good eats or troublemakers. Usually troublemakers. A few fine dames take care of the eats. They could cook up a storm.”
But it was never quite good enough, the sudden thought twinged. Like a little spike shooting through his chest briefly. He paused momentarily, then continued.
“Anyways The Master put me to task cleanin’ up the neighborhood of these ruffians. Right unkind folk they were. Bullets scatterin’ all over the place. Sugah, it was like somethin’ right out of an action movie. Yah might think Ah be exaggeratin but BOOM!” he smacked his hands together dramatically, “tossin’ grenades straight for us! An all we doin’ is marchin’ down the street. Now sugah they dun call me The Cat for nothin’. Ah dodge that firey brimstone like a cheetah with an espresso shot. Mais Boug, he a bit slower. Kicked right up in the air an had his feet dun burned. Frightful! Ah weave in an out of bullet sprays gettin’ mah way to him while he moan ovah one sore foot. And the drigaille, they advancin’.”
He fanned out his fingers, spreading out his arms and mimicking the posture of a stalking predator, eyes whipping back and forth as if searching.

----

At that point, Berlin’s eyes were enormous, enraptured with the story, even jumping when the Cat’s hands clapped together. He’d turned a bit, till his claws gripped onto the tree branch, and he could stare, starry eyed and waiting for the build up, waiting for him to say it. Almost impatiently.

“....and then...?” He asked, prodding the Cat for more.

----

“These Maurauders marchin’ down the street, right? This bein’ the early days of our triumph, the humans still have a few tricks up their sleeves. Ammo be everywhere, weapons ain’t jammin’ yet, and more importantly, gasoline still exist in sizeable quantities.”

He leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret.

“Well cher, they got themselves a tank.”

----

There was a short pause, before Berlin sat up, mouth in a tight line, staring hard, at the larger creature before him. “Really? A tank?” He asked in almost strained disbelief, one brow arching.

“....alright, so... go on.” He finally, settled down, resting elbows on his crossed knees, clawed feet digging firmly into the branch he was precariously balanced on, now, invested enough into the story, to not want to stop. “You’re going to tell me someone was destroyed next, correct?”

---

“Oui cher,” Michael plucked the flower out of his mouth, aiming the stamen at Berlin like a gun, “one blast from that tunnel o’ destruction an we be in a heap of trouble. Mais,” he stuck the blossom in Berlin’s flop-sided mane, “Boug course got the drop on ‘em. Turns out the hurt foot were just a feign, a fake, a possum play dead and get the hound come and bite ‘im on the nose. They aim that dread gun straight at us. Why? Because overkill is what humans do, cher. They run ‘round willy-nilly killin’ without much reason for what they do. Least we hunt, boy. We got the manners to drop that nonsense when we cross to the other side.”

“Not that Ah don’t have mah fun occasionally, but least Ah have the good sense to preserve the fuel to our fire. Nevah go ‘round killin’ drigaille without aimin’ to make somethin’ of them, sugah. It’s insensible.”

“Anyway we sittin’ ducks out there and Ah’m gettin’ ready to give them the ole snarl and last words of the triumphant martyr, when suddenly Boug launch hisself up STRAIGHT into the air. Ya coulda sworn he were a bird, sugah, the way dat man flew. Them crasse pop his head out of the tank just to get a good look at our scared faces. Well weren’t HE surprised when he see not two dandy creatures staring down the barrel, but just innocent ole me.”

“The massive weight of mon amoureaux showed him where the other go. SLAM! He get smashed by a pair of purdy claws. The gore was beautiful.”

---

The story had Berlin raising his body up a bit more, with the tension, before slouching again at the loud climax, staring at Michael for a bit longer, before shaking his head, and waving his hands, sitting up a bit more. He felt himself shifting uncomfortably, which usually meant he’d been in one position too long, one leg restlessly starting to bounce, and he shifted a bit more finally settling again.

“Hey, Michael. What is the point of this story?” He finally asked, looking at the hat to the larger creature’s face, more in a curious gesture. “And does it end, or, you have more under that wide brim, am I correct?”

---

“Ehhhhhh naow sugah, hold yah horses.” He waved a hand in the air, as if brushing aside the waves of impatience emanating from his audience. “Attelez cheval, dun yah nevah listen to a southern man talk before? There be a point, dun rush now sugah. Ah set up mah stories. It go somewhere.”

“Anyway that sticky sweet stuff spreadin’ out ovah the tank top like jelly jam on a biscuit. And while it look mighty temptin’, we dun stick ‘round long enough to enjoy that flavor.”

“Boug say ‘We gotta run, Michael! Those jerks are heading our way and they’ll turn us into zombie cold cuts if we don’t move our asses!’ Mais moi, Ah has an idea.”

“ ‘Non amour,’ Ah say, ‘don’t yah see? We have the greatest of fortunes before us thanks to yah quick feet.’ And he look down and get the biggest grin yah evah seen on a man’s face (who don’t have the cheeks ripped out anyhow). So we hop in that tank and cuddle up in those tight quarters. It weren’t really made for two bodies such as we, mais cher,” Michael scootched closer to Berlin, “not like we minded the contact none. Eheh.”

---

Berlin’s face fell, and stared up to him, before putting a hand promptly on his arm, and giving it a good, hard shove. “No touching, Michael. Let’s keep the hanging out, pleasant. Please, do continue.” He waved his other hand, looking at him seriously. Though his patience was looking like it was wearing thin, waiting for the next exciting thing to happen.

---

Michael held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “Woah now sugah yah gettin’ ahead of yahself ‘gain. We were talking ‘bout mah Boug, not yahself.”

“Mais consider me sorry for gettin’ too into the moment. The story get me right excited and Ah plumb forget mah surroundings. Désolee, désolee.” He cleared his throat to continue.

“Now we seatin’ ourselves in that contraption and of course it hotter in there than a dog on a barbecue. This get things a bit tense and we arguin’ slightly ‘bout whether to keep the top up. Well a grenade decide that for us. BAM! It go off near by. ‘CLOSE IT CLOSE IT!’ shout Boug, and Ah shut the heavy thing overhead and we go proddin’ the instrumentation.”

“Mind Ah got many talents sugah, mais tank drivin’ ain’t one of them. It’s complicated business and me being the kinda person who take more stock in clothes than weaponry, mais, it just weren’t quite to mah knowin’. Boug keep screamin’ in mah ear to do somethin’ as the onslaught get worse. Tanks be tough sugah, but that many explosions is somethin’ to reckon with.”

“But soon enough, miracle of miracles Ah manage to get the thing movin’ forward. It lurch up a few feet as Ah get mah bearin’, then suddenly we blastin’ full tilt down city avenues. Ah try avoidin’ the fancy French exteriors of mah town, but Ah must admit there’s a few notches of cement missin’ ‘ere an there from la rue. But the upside is we squash the invaders. Them Marauders weren’t bankin’ on us taking their secret weapon. An so we got a mighty fine parade of hostages round up by ce soir.”

“Parties be had dat night, cher. A few new heads added to our menagerie and kudos all ‘round. Rue Bourbon be lit up once again like the tourists come back to town. The streets lined with colors and beads and life again, or unlife. It a sight what bring a tear to yah eye. The beauty return once more.”

“So forgive me, sweetheart. Ah enjoyin’ yah bluegrass so much.” He dipped his hat low to hide his eyes once more, his barely preserved lips twisted in a strained frown. “Them sweet tunes bring to mind the good times in mah life. Like a street come alive. And a man called friend.”

----

Berlin looked to him further, and frowned, reaching a hand up to rub at his neck, in a low growl. At first he’d almost snapped, for Michael’s accusations of him talking about himself, before he settled for the rest of the tale, and he sighed. Most of it sounded like a movie he’d seen. Perhaps John Wayne might want rights to talk to Michael. Could make plenty of great movies, with the stories he was sure came out of that mouth.

“Hn.” He paused, and sighed some more. “If you can keep quiet for a moment or two, perhaps I’ll play you a diddle.” He said flatly, a bit of twang coming out from the strictly northern enunciation he’d trained himself into, reaching down to pull the violin up from the bag below him, looking to the glossy finish. It looked well-played.

“After all, you’re a masterful story weaver, with that tongue of yours and all.” He mused, pulling the bow out, and tapping the horse hair against the thick strings. “But I myself, prefer a more... direct approach to stories. The kind that don’t take forty minutes to get out. Five at most, does it for me.”

---

“After all, you’re a masterful story weaver, with that tongue of yours and all.”

My tongue does more than that, sweetie. The words perched on the tips of his teeth, but Michael wisely held them back. Instead, the thought twisted his face into a suggestive grin.

“The best stories last, sugah. The best stories take their sweet time, like a piece of music or an aromatic wine, to really breathe and get the best notes out.” He leaned back against the tree to relax.

---

“And some of us just don’t have patience for long folk tales. Or strong wine.” He replied, before settling the instrument under his chin, and taking a breath. He didn’t play for people, rarely. It was a personal venture, and he felt his chest tighten, like a heavy weight, tapping the boy for a moment or two, before sliding it down, making quick, light movements, accompanying himself into an oppressed twine. It was a bit more contemporary, than the piece from earlier, but was soon followed with a throaty, deep voice.

Berlin didn’t sing for many people, if anyone. But he weaved his tale, about Rome, and the lost, more of a winding metaphorical tale, than anything else.

Which all winded down to a fantastical ending, more of a thought provoking silence, than a bang.

----

After a few beats, waiting to feel the song and recognize the words, The Cat joined in.

Unlike his namesake, the dead man’s voice had none of the yarbling twang of a feline in heat. This was the deep, rich sound of a fellow who grew up surrounded by jazz and country singers. The barrel chest of the creature lent depth to his emotion. This melancholy inflection joined with Berlin’s chorus. Where the vocals paused, he hummed lightly, bobbing his head to the beat. And as the words came back, he joined again.

“Where can a dead man go?
A question with an answer only dead men know.
But I'm gonna bet they never really feel at home,
If they spent a lifetime learning how to live in Rome.”

----

Berlin nodded along with the singing, and his eyes looked over, before bowing his head in respect to the tenor, even finding himself grinning some. Relaxing. Something he didn’t find himself doing often either, in front of others. While the silence sat there for a second, he quickened his tune into another, upbeat and bright, a jig, really that set his lips into a wider smile.

These things were familiar to him. He barely remembered where he’d learned them from, but ever since he’d picked up that violin outside of Berlin, he’d known he could play it with an earnest manner. He lead the cat through a few more bright jigs, before ending on something unintentionally personal.

“Gone tomorrow, here today
Just in case, you have something to say.

I’ll be waiting with the rest of--
Goodbye is all we have.”

Every note was played almost lovingly. Every note sang with an underlying meaning to it, and his face held a melancholy tone, even so far as swaying along on the branch comfortably, his clawed feet keeping securely on the branch.

By the time he’d finished, he was more still humming the words, thinking absently, whether he’d keep playing, or not, usually finishing his solo gigs outside with the same country tune of abandonment.

----

And when Berlin opened his eyes once more, The Cat was barely a hand's breadth from his face, eyeing him under a dark hat that nearly touched the tip of Berlin’s head. A weak buffer to his physical intrusion.

“Dat’s sweet, sugah.”

----

“Ooooooo-kay, and here we go with the personal space issue again.” He said, nearly falling from the tree in surprise, leaning back, as he stared, reaching a finger up to put it to the cat’s nose, pushing gently, in a motion to get the man back a bit. “Remember when I said let’s keep this nice? Let’s go back to that. Oh, and it’s Berlin. Not Sugah, sugah. Remember? I do.” He absently looked down to the ground below, and back up again.

----

Michael followed the lean until Berlin found himself pressed back into the branch, The Cat’s own claws sunk into the branch around him. Trapped around limbs, the large man leaned over the meager Half-Dead like a tiger hovering over a quivering rabbit.

“But Berlin,” he enunciated carefully, “it’s why Ah call yah sugah.” He pressed closer, the hat now tipping back as their proximity forced it up. “Yah smell so sweet, Ah can’t help but get close”

“Donne-moi un petit bec doux, cher.”

----

“And maybe some of us, like our space. Perhaps I should take up rolling in the dirt.” He bit back, not liking one bit, the sensation of being cornered, pinned and precariously waiting either mauling, or a cruel jesters laugh.

Alright, so perhaps, masochistically, he was mildly enjoying the pinning, and the sense of impending doom. But mildly. MILDLY.

“I also didn’t catch that last bit. Was that french?” He raised a brow. “Because, I’m impressed you didn’t spit on my face while saying it.”

---

“Ohhhh désolee. Allow me to translate...”

The gesture was abrupt, but not rough. It couldn’t be, given how carefully he had to manage his teeth and raspy tongue. He had only half a pair of lips and the front of his tongue to work with but damn, ‘A’ for effort at least. Extra credit if you were also undead and didn’t mind the inevitable taste of dinner in your throat.

---

At first, it was a desperate response, an arch of the back, and one hand grabbing at a lapel, before sliding right up and pushing at his face. “Crackers and fish sticks, Michael!” He snapped, turning his face away, letting out a sharp pant, before coughing. “That was a terrible translation!”

Before he was laughing, letting his head thunk back against the branch. “I know no more of the words you said, than before, and have more spit in my mouth than when you spoke. Well now, that got us nowhere indeed.”

---

He rumbled, chuckling. “Mais it got me somewhere...”

---

“Yes, indeed it did. And now, if you’ll please let me up, I really don’t want to drop this fine instrument.” He said, holding the violin still in his hand, the bow having fallen down to the ground already, more just waving the instrument in the air mostly.

---

“Ah’d nevah break that sweet device, sugah.” He gripped the hand holding the violin tightly and bending Berlin’s arm until it pressed against the underside of the branch. Michael rested a little more weight on the tiny man. “Why would Ah evah damage a hair on anything that be so electrifying?”

Waves of anxiety, fear, and more rolled off Berlin’s body. He dug his nose under the man’s jaw, breathing in deeply to bring the scents into focus.

---

“Ohhhh-hhooookay.” Was all Berlin could muster after that, more in a shiver running down his back to his knees and back, eyes looking up to the leafy canopy overhead, and blatantly ignoring the defiantly growing ‘interest’ south of his chest. “Uhm, yeah... so, I’ve got nothing left to say and--”

Just don’t let him know your stomach’s gonna growl. Came the thick, italian accent of the pizza sitting on a branch above them.

Oh, now his mood was just entirely killed, and his stomach, he felt flip flopping. Not to mention there was actually a guy, not any guy, but Michael. Probably the worst kinda guy ever. No, not probably. Literally. “Actually, this whole thing you have, doing right now, can we just, you knowwww, stop? Seriously. Cause, I got to tell you, I hear Cindi Lauper calling my name, and she’s telling me I need to boogie it down to the grounds for some missions. You know, real important, work stuff.”

----

“You lyin’” Michael whispered, “Ah can smell it.”

---

“Oh, he can smell can he? Just great!” Berlin thumped his head back against the branch and twisted as best he could with a bent arm, his free one gripping back at the lapels, stopping himself from crushing them in his spike of temper. Just because one was mad, did not mean clothes had to suffer for it. What did they ever do to the world?

Before just grabbing at the side of Michael’s face and pulling it up so he could look at him seriously. “Okay, so you win. YES I have a massive boy crush on you. You happy? Now really, let me down. You win, okay? Win win win win win. Now really, let me down. Or what, can you smell that if you let me down, I’ll just break my neck on the fall?”

---

“Ah could let yah down some other ways.” He shifted his hips, making his own intentions exceptionally obvious.

---

“FIREEEE! That’s what you’re supposed to call out, in a rape situation right? No one comes to rape. Just fire---FIREEE!” He called out again, thumping his head back with a tired groan, covering up the rumble from his stomach, laughing in almost hysterics, especially at his own betraying body when his lower spine rolled up encouragingly, clawed feet dragging through the wood a bit, in a scraping noise.

He would punish himself later, for betraying himself. Totally.

----

“Pauvre child,” he snickered, bringing a finger up to Berlin’s chin to angle his face up. “Yah dun know what yah want...or yah won’t admit it. Here, Ah make it easy.” The second time was a little rougher. It required it, given the hefty force of expelling worms and eggs into Berlin’s mouth. An Uber’s “kiss” wasn’t something another colony could refuse. Free meals and wendigo being all too rare.

----

It was gross. The grossest of gross. All that slimey squirming, the force. And the fact that he swallowed it. “I think I’m going to throw up.” He gagged, turning his head to the side, ‘urp’ urping, but alast, nothing came out.

“By far, the grossest, thing to ever.... ever come out of you. And you put it in my mouth. Whlep. I’m poisoned. That’s it. I will die by projectile vomit in a kiss. Lamest way to go.”

---

“Chatty thang.” Michael’s grip lifted and Berlin, in his struggle, twisted off the branch zooming towards the ground.

---

The next thing Berlin knew, he was sailing down to the ground, landing on his feet and hands, similar to a cat, and looking up, glaring, before standing up. “You didn’t know I was going to land properly! You could have ruined my Michelle’s threaded jacket you--...” He stopped, and patted around.

Looked on the ground, picking up his bow, then turning his head up to Michael. “.....that’s mine.”

----

Michael jiggled the violin high above Berlin’s head.

“Yah know this a fine fiddle, Ah think Ah’ll keep it for a bit. Always wanted to learn how to play mahself.” He picked at a string and the instrument complained with a twinge.

----

“Oh... oh go--- MICHAEL!” He yelled, hands on his hips, glaring up at him. “You stop abusing that instrument this instant! That is mine, so go get your own!”

While he snapped, his voice took on a rougher, more southern twang to it, coming out when he got especially pissed off, a special kind of pissed off, that involved his ‘special’ things that Berlin didn’t like sharing.

“Now, don’t make me climb right back up there, and kick yer ass from here to the next tree.”

----

“Can’t give up a fiddle full of soul, Berlin.” He plucked a few cords, then swung off the branch landing like a drop of water, standing up just as he squashed to the ground in one liquid motion.

“Ah gotta offer yah can’t refuse, sugah. Ah can smell it, Ah could feel it,” he started strutting towards home, “and Ah know yah just would love it, hrmm hrmm,” like he was figuring out a tune of his own. The violin screeched and shrieked as he forced a few notes from the furious wooden box.

---

“You can feel my fist in your face.” He muttered angrily, and gripped his bow, storming after him, forgetting long about the bag still dangling up there, only pausing to grab up his shoes, hopping as he put one shoe on, after the other.

“Alright, what offer you---you.” He asked, as if that were the worst insult he could think of, without getting flack in return.

----

He sashayed over the rocks and logs, long strides carrying him far from Berlin as the man struggled to armor his splinter-filled feet.

“Don’t make me use language, cher.” Michael called over his shoulder, “It ain’t fit to describe. Yah come by sometime. Ah oblige. Hrmm hrmm.”

That poor violin screamed against abusive claws.

----

Berlin nearly shrieked. “STOP!” He yelled, and ran up to grab at his arm, staring at the poorly abused violin, staring at it. “I can’t very well play any more, if you go up damaging my violin, now can I?!”

---

Michael stopped, looking down at Berlin. Considering something. The whining ceased.

“Ah nevah damage an instrument of such sorrow and vigor, sugah. Destruction of the beautiful things? It weren’t what Boug would want.”

“But Ah got a friend for the day, and Ah appreciate her company. This instrument be by mah side for the rest of the afternoon. But--” his ears pricked forward, “Ah can return her later.”

“Go on, retrieve yah trinkets,” pointing to the bag still hanging from the tree. “Ah’ve got things to do and yah fiddle be safe in my hands. But yah must stop by mah office if you be wantin’ her back. And assist me with...other things...”

“Dun think Ah didn’t notice Ah ‘peaked’ yah interest.” His gaze ventured down, eyeing the bulge still evident between Berlin’s legs.

----

He stood there, staring back, and refused to cower down, or cover himself, putting hands back on his hips, and glaring. “.....hnnnnnnn.” It was more a growl, before turning sharply on his heel, and storming back to the tree, to climb up and gather his things, sitting up on the branch longer, mostly for clawing at it, in frustration.

Since throwing things seemed a tad bit obvious. But then again, by the time he looked up, and the giant was gone, he just shrieked to himself and threw the bag, before tearing branches off, and pitching those around as well, in heavily boiled rage.

Description
Commissioned by , based on an RP between me and her with our characters, The Cat and Berlin respectively. This was an exercise I like to call "let's see how much bullshit Fable can dump into a piece of writing while still being entertaining".

"Fiddles"

Berlin had come out here hours ago. He had made sure no one had seen him before he came, and had hiked himself up to a tree that was a bit further from the complex than he usually went, but today was an even more special day. Today, the sun was high, it was bright and warm.

Today was also the day he would finally get some practice in with the only real best friend he knew he had no matter what happened.

The warm instrument fit snuggly under his chin, the soft cushioned support between him and the violin's base was like a cloud. His well trained fingers reached up, and gently slid over the neck, and his hand plucked up the bowstring from the bag hanging off the branch he was currently resting on.

And proceeded to run his bow over the bridge, eyes closed as he played familiar tunes he had in his heart. He didn't know where they were from, or how he even knew words to them, or if the words were right. They just seemed right.

So he played, whether he was happy, or sad, and today, it was a melancholy tune, reflecting the thoughtfulness he felt, upper torso slowly swaying with the lulling sound, like a comfortable lullaby, his shoes off, and clawed feet dug into the branch, keeping him steady.

---

“C’est un vaillant chanson, sugah.” A long, lean form sporting an ivory suit perched next to Berlin. The man picked at a red sash around his collar, trying to keep sweat pooling down the exposed tendons of his neck. In Berlin’s concentration, he hadn’t noticed The Cat’s approach, or how long he’d been sharing a branch with the giant.
“Where ya pick up such a fascinatin’ little ditty?”

---

Berlin had been about to slide the bow forward, when the sudden voice forced his hand to jut further than he’d previously anticipated and it nearly impaled the branch next to him, his claws gripping the branch tighter, and he took a second to steady himself, turning to look up to Michael.

From the orange jacket, to black slacks, he was in atypical Berlin wear. Bright colors, and always in shape, save for today his light gray shirt was untucked for the first time in a long time.

“....Michael.” His eyes darted around for a small second, before slowly trying to shuffle his feet under his body, to keep them less noticeable. “....didn’t see you..... climbing up here.”

He avoided the subject of his best friend entirely, slowly starting to put the bow in the bag, while he talked, distracting the Cat in favor of hiding his instrument.

----

“Oh now dun be shy. It’s unbecomin’, so contraire to the petite peacock yah doll yahself up as. Ah haven’t heard much fiddlin’ since mah walk up north. Course not many have such a talent, quel souffrance, to strum them flutterin’ cords like they was yah very heartstrings.” He smiled and leaned back against the trunk, trying to catch as much sun that filtered through the canopy top as possible.
“Y’all almost as good as Boug.”

---

Trying to decipher what the man was saying, was like wading through middle school french homework. Time consuming and almost entirely impossible. Instead he just went with what little meaning he picked up from the Cat’s words, and raised a brow, turning to put the instrument in the bag next, tugging on his jacket a bit, eyes looking down to his shoes at the bottom.

“I don’t know who that is.” He said finally, almost attempting to say the word, but figured he’d just let it drop and stick to smoothing out his bright jacket instead.

---

“Eh? Ah nevah mentioned Boug before? Yah’d think we spent no time together, sugah. Ah would’ve thought the topic might come up, seeing as yah seem to like colorful things so very much.”

----

“We don’t spend time together Michael.” Berlin corrected with a serious face, staring over at the zombie with an arched brow, and a tight line to his mouth. He could have carried on as to why that was, but Berlin rather liked his head. And his organs. So he just opted for silence on the reasoning.

---

“Oh? We really ought to,” he tapped at Berlin playfully with one white shoe (matching his outfit). “Ah man of yah interests would appreciate someone like boug. Mah Boug, he were somethin’ right special. Looked like he coulda been in the movies,” Michael pluck a flower from a bough, twirling it between his fingers as he considered. “Had a face even death couldn’t ruin. Mah god, it were like he was dipped in liquid honey.” He buried his nose in the blossom, breathing in deeply.

“Good lord, he was some kinda perfect.”

---

Berlin just stared. And stared longer, after pushing the shoe away from him with a single finger, unwilling to touch with anymore of his hand. He’d have probably pushed the foot away with a stick, if he had one. “....are you describing a typical zombie, or Adonis, there, Robert Frost?” He asked in a dry manner, before shifting to get a bit more comfortable, sitting up further, and looking down to the ground. Jump was an easy one to make. Provided leaving without offending The Cat was possible.

Then looked right back up to Michael waiting for him to either carry on or leave, staring with an unamused face.

----

“Could Adonis be undead? Ehehe,” The Cat chuckled low, “well if he were, then call me one o’ his disciples.” He stuck the flower in his mouth and chewed on the stem thoughtfully for a few quiet moments.
“Yah know yah ain’t dissimiliar, sugah. He had a right mouth on him too. There weren’t no one who Jackson couldn’t take a crack to, give ‘im enough time. The choses what came outta that pair of pink lips be enough to make a fearsome pack of wolfish zombies get frothy in the mouth.”

“You gals ah looking real pretty fah a bunch of maggot-factory pus piles, Jackson say,” the Cat mocked a Massachusetts accent, “Oh wait, my mistake. Seems my glasses had a smudge on them. Oh pewwww, how ‘bout you look in the Gay district, dolls? The trannies mighta left enough clown cake to cover those ugly mugs.”

----

Berlin couldn’t help it. He let out a choked snort, that turned into a small chuckle. “Aye?” He asked curiously for once, sitting up a bit more, staring up to him. “Sounds like he had quite the punch in the personality then.” He observed, eyes drifting over to the field just outside the tree leaves, and settled back more.

“I assume you’re going to tell me more about him then. You have my attention.” He finally stated to the cat, turning a bit till his clawed feet were no longer buried into the trunk, and his legs dangled over the side, looking a lot more relaxed, and keeping his eyes on Michael, actively listening.

---
“Ah dunno, cher,” he sniffed, then pulled down the black stetson perched on his head until only the wry smile beneath showed, “seems to me y’all were just looking to depart. Why evah would yah want to know ‘bout the time mah Boug and Ah hunted down the last of the Marauders?”

---

“Because you’re dying to tell me anyways.” Berlin replied confidently, looking up to him with a half-lidded stare, and a small, cheeky grin. His legs swung faintly while he leaned in a bit closer, humming, clawed hands pressing down on the branch.

“Come on then, Cat. Weave your story, I’m all ears.” The blue undead murmured in a provoking manner, his eyes sharpened, leaning further in, in anticipation, legs even stopped moving for a moment.

---

“Tu es adorable. Fine. Yah familiar with Nawlins any, sugah?”

“Never been that far down south, sorry.”

“Well down there, whatevah the rest of the world experienced when the Wendigo ran rampant, La Ville got it fiercer than any o’ them.
Truly no mobs are more vicious than those pulled from them what up and abandoned civilization to indulge in pure, righteous sin in mah fair city. It was, if y’all don’t mind the cliche, truely dog eat dog. Somethin’ vicious lives in the hearts of those who call Nawlins home and we soooo wanted to get it out. Keep huntin’ the good hunt. Keep findin’ a new place to indulge our appetites for a life long left behind.

It breeds some of the worst, cher. And Ah ain’t talkin’ zombies.”

There was a small pause on Berlin’s part, before raising a brow. “Go on.” He said softly, crossing one leg over the other, and resting his elbow on his knee, staring for a moment. It was a tad bit hard to follow, with the accent. “What did it breed then?”

“Killahs”

“Oh?” He leaned his head to the side.

“Some humans make the worst of us seem like saints, cher,” he flipped the flower to the other side of his mouth, then plucked a stick from the bough and started picking at the bark around it. “Ah’m sure yah heard of a little practice called ‘voodoo’, yeah? Let’s just say the main ingredient became Wendigo in their sanguine stew pots.

Them folks make it kinda hard to make a livin’, especialment in the Bayou. Yah could say the worst of human kind makes its home in the swamps, or maybe they just become the swamp. Anyhow, before long this--dare Ah call it--cult makes its way through Louisiana, claiming all sorts of unseemingly things about our kind. Namely how consuming our flesh preemptively discourages us folk from spreadin’ our seed ‘round like we oughta.

Damn drigaille. They only took from the weakest and most undeservin’ too.

A little group of them marauders come filterin’ through Nawlins. We had it pretty tightly locked down most times; not a zombie hunter among most who could tip a toe in without gettin’ hisself made part of our fine fanfare. Mais c’est plus mal, Marauders are a different kind of determined. Believe themselves sent by heathen gods and so propell forward, speakin’ the name of our Good Lord like they don’t recognize his hand already decided.

False prophets and all that. Ah’m sure yah know. Ah’m Catholic, but Ah nevah abide by Leviticus. What use is there in denying somethin’ fundamental? Y’all know, don’t yah, sugah? That special pain yah bear when some upstart preacher be tellin’ yah to give no mind to what yah heart tells yah? The self-same heart The Lord granted yah?

Hell even dead, we still know what we is.”

Berlin shifted uncomfortably at the mention of religion. Not that he minded it, it wasn’t a problem. Up till he died, and came back to life. Then he’d become worried. What if this was some sort of religious propaganda? His mind flinched a bit, as he remained still on the outside, staring.

“I must say, I myself have never been to church. So I wouldn’t know.” He replied to him, blinking slowly for a moment. “And... I actually don’t believe I’ve run into one, at least one who wasn’t already dead, mind you.” He said with a small shrug.

----

“Nobody ever call yah out on yah,” he flipped a hand, waving it through the air, “inclinations?”

----

Berlin stared at him for a moment, and he paused before leaning back. “Nope. Not at all.”

But of course he was lying. His parents were divorced. His father an overly religious man, who would verbally, mentally, and sometimes, physically abuse him. Berlin was never good enough. Never did enough. His dad, who claimed religion was ‘salvation’ and yet was so overtly racist, and an alcoholic, that Berlin grew disgusted with him. With his father, and himself.

“I guess I’m one of those lucky few, I suppose.” He shrugged, and kept his face relaxed, breezy and thoughtful.

No. He was just one sob story in a sea of many.

----

Michael paused with his twig fiddling, giving Berlin a minor glance under the brim of his hat, before continuing.
“Anyway, so the drigaille be comin’ into the city and makin’ a mess of things. Absolutely shameful, they actually managed to decapitate a few good men patrolling the business district before we even realized they were there. Turns out some of our cousins were takin’ some favors from these pirates in exchange for fare passage.
Well that simply cannot be, sugah. Yah don’t trade the sanctity of La Ville for personal gain. Betrayin’ yah own race? C’est mal pris.
And of course The Master thought so too.”

----

Berlin frowned, as he held a hand up. “Hold... hold on a moment.” He said finally. “I can’t hardly understand your gibber gabber one second, and the other, I can’t make out the story. So...” He cleared his throat. “What I got so far, is that there’s a... group of undead, like you and me, who is hunting us down, or rather, just killing us off, and then there’s your group, who makes trade with another group. And who is the Master?”

He frowned.

---

“Non cher, keep yah ears open. Ah explained mah’self. Weren’t no zombies that were pickin’ us off. It were humans! Salir humans! The creatures who we, by the natural order o’things, do catch, herd and infect to give our existence meanin’.

The drigaille, the chattel, they were pushin’ into the city and givin’ us a right hard time. Like the Underground, cher, except so much worse. At least dat monkey’s soldiers only kill us. These men, sugah, these men would eat us.

They come into the city, catch or slaughter a few of our brethren, then retreat back into their hidey-holes. We’d find the bones later. T’was shameful. An insult to the organization Ah headed there at the Master’s behest.

Course Ah’d rule Nawlins even without playin’ to the Master’s wishes, but it helps to have a man known best for splittin’ skulls of the unrefined at yah back. He was the tent pole under which the whole of La Ville’s undead population did scurry. And me, cher, Ah was the ringleader.”

---

“You certainly would fit the profile.” He replied seriously.

---

“Anyway, if Ah be the ringleader of La Ville, then surely Boug was the lion-tamer. Fella had a devilish streak longer than a rattler crossin’ the freeway at rush hour. He give me quite the start when Ah first meet him. Forward fella, got himself blades comin’ outta each arm like a natural jacknife. And legs a kangaroo would envy. Well the feet were, the rest was something better. ‘Specially that derrière. Unnff, when that man had his clothes off, Ah--”

---

“Okay, okay, enough. I get it.” Berlin held his hands up, recoiling back a bit. “I don’t need a description, thank you. Please, just.... go back to the story, if you will.” He pleaded, brows knitted while he stared at Michael with a look between ‘eek’ and ‘uhg.’

---

“What,” he chuckled, “no interest in the firmer sex? Yah surprise me, shoog.”

---

Berlin looked to him, and raised a brow, before shaking his head. “It’s Berlin.” He corrected, sitting up further. His eyes looked down to the ground below, then back over, with a raised brow. “And I’m proudly interested in the masculine sex. I’m not interested in a description though, thank you. We’re reciting a tale, not a Harlequin romance here.”

----

“But this is the best kind of romance, Ber-lin” he over enunciated his companion’s name, teasing. “This is action movie romance. Guns, explosions, protagonists the likes of which you have the great fortune of interactin’ with aujourd’hui.” He scratched at the red sash around his neck, loosening it slightly to allow his skin to aerate.
“Mais c’est vrai, the meat of the story ain’t the ‘meat’, as it were. But Boug, he my partner in crime. We canvas Nawlins many a time trawlin’ for good eats or troublemakers. Usually troublemakers. A few fine dames take care of the eats. They could cook up a storm.”
But it was never quite good enough, the sudden thought twinged. Like a little spike shooting through his chest briefly. He paused momentarily, then continued.
“Anyways The Master put me to task cleanin’ up the neighborhood of these ruffians. Right unkind folk they were. Bullets scatterin’ all over the place. Sugah, it was like somethin’ right out of an action movie. Yah might think Ah be exaggeratin but BOOM!” he smacked his hands together dramatically, “tossin’ grenades straight for us! An all we doin’ is marchin’ down the street. Now sugah they dun call me The Cat for nothin’. Ah dodge that firey brimstone like a cheetah with an espresso shot. Mais Boug, he a bit slower. Kicked right up in the air an had his feet dun burned. Frightful! Ah weave in an out of bullet sprays gettin’ mah way to him while he moan ovah one sore foot. And the drigaille, they advancin’.”
He fanned out his fingers, spreading out his arms and mimicking the posture of a stalking predator, eyes whipping back and forth as if searching.

----

At that point, Berlin’s eyes were enormous, enraptured with the story, even jumping when the Cat’s hands clapped together. He’d turned a bit, till his claws gripped onto the tree branch, and he could stare, starry eyed and waiting for the build up, waiting for him to say it. Almost impatiently.

“....and then...?” He asked, prodding the Cat for more.

----

“These Maurauders marchin’ down the street, right? This bein’ the early days of our triumph, the humans still have a few tricks up their sleeves. Ammo be everywhere, weapons ain’t jammin’ yet, and more importantly, gasoline still exist in sizeable quantities.”

He leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret.

“Well cher, they got themselves a tank.”

----

There was a short pause, before Berlin sat up, mouth in a tight line, staring hard, at the larger creature before him. “Really? A tank?” He asked in almost strained disbelief, one brow arching.

“....alright, so... go on.” He finally, settled down, resting elbows on his crossed knees, clawed feet digging firmly into the branch he was precariously balanced on, now, invested enough into the story, to not want to stop. “You’re going to tell me someone was destroyed next, correct?”

---

“Oui cher,” Michael plucked the flower out of his mouth, aiming the stamen at Berlin like a gun, “one blast from that tunnel o’ destruction an we be in a heap of trouble. Mais,” he stuck the blossom in Berlin’s flop-sided mane, “Boug course got the drop on ‘em. Turns out the hurt foot were just a feign, a fake, a possum play dead and get the hound come and bite ‘im on the nose. They aim that dread gun straight at us. Why? Because overkill is what humans do, cher. They run ‘round willy-nilly killin’ without much reason for what they do. Least we hunt, boy. We got the manners to drop that nonsense when we cross to the other side.”

“Not that Ah don’t have mah fun occasionally, but least Ah have the good sense to preserve the fuel to our fire. Nevah go ‘round killin’ drigaille without aimin’ to make somethin’ of them, sugah. It’s insensible.”

“Anyway we sittin’ ducks out there and Ah’m gettin’ ready to give them the ole snarl and last words of the triumphant martyr, when suddenly Boug launch hisself up STRAIGHT into the air. Ya coulda sworn he were a bird, sugah, the way dat man flew. Them crasse pop his head out of the tank just to get a good look at our scared faces. Well weren’t HE surprised when he see not two dandy creatures staring down the barrel, but just innocent ole me.”

“The massive weight of mon amoureaux showed him where the other go. SLAM! He get smashed by a pair of purdy claws. The gore was beautiful.”

---

The story had Berlin raising his body up a bit more, with the tension, before slouching again at the loud climax, staring at Michael for a bit longer, before shaking his head, and waving his hands, sitting up a bit more. He felt himself shifting uncomfortably, which usually meant he’d been in one position too long, one leg restlessly starting to bounce, and he shifted a bit more finally settling again.

“Hey, Michael. What is the point of this story?” He finally asked, looking at the hat to the larger creature’s face, more in a curious gesture. “And does it end, or, you have more under that wide brim, am I correct?”

---

“Ehhhhhh naow sugah, hold yah horses.” He waved a hand in the air, as if brushing aside the waves of impatience emanating from his audience. “Attelez cheval, dun yah nevah listen to a southern man talk before? There be a point, dun rush now sugah. Ah set up mah stories. It go somewhere.”

“Anyway that sticky sweet stuff spreadin’ out ovah the tank top like jelly jam on a biscuit. And while it look mighty temptin’, we dun stick ‘round long enough to enjoy that flavor.”

“Boug say ‘We gotta run, Michael! Those jerks are heading our way and they’ll turn us into zombie cold cuts if we don’t move our asses!’ Mais moi, Ah has an idea.”

“ ‘Non amour,’ Ah say, ‘don’t yah see? We have the greatest of fortunes before us thanks to yah quick feet.’ And he look down and get the biggest grin yah evah seen on a man’s face (who don’t have the cheeks ripped out anyhow). So we hop in that tank and cuddle up in those tight quarters. It weren’t really made for two bodies such as we, mais cher,” Michael scootched closer to Berlin, “not like we minded the contact none. Eheh.”

---

Berlin’s face fell, and stared up to him, before putting a hand promptly on his arm, and giving it a good, hard shove. “No touching, Michael. Let’s keep the hanging out, pleasant. Please, do continue.” He waved his other hand, looking at him seriously. Though his patience was looking like it was wearing thin, waiting for the next exciting thing to happen.

---

Michael held up his hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “Woah now sugah yah gettin’ ahead of yahself ‘gain. We were talking ‘bout mah Boug, not yahself.”

“Mais consider me sorry for gettin’ too into the moment. The story get me right excited and Ah plumb forget mah surroundings. Désolee, désolee.” He cleared his throat to continue.

“Now we seatin’ ourselves in that contraption and of course it hotter in there than a dog on a barbecue. This get things a bit tense and we arguin’ slightly ‘bout whether to keep the top up. Well a grenade decide that for us. BAM! It go off near by. ‘CLOSE IT CLOSE IT!’ shout Boug, and Ah shut the heavy thing overhead and we go proddin’ the instrumentation.”

“Mind Ah got many talents sugah, mais tank drivin’ ain’t one of them. It’s complicated business and me being the kinda person who take more stock in clothes than weaponry, mais, it just weren’t quite to mah knowin’. Boug keep screamin’ in mah ear to do somethin’ as the onslaught get worse. Tanks be tough sugah, but that many explosions is somethin’ to reckon with.”

“But soon enough, miracle of miracles Ah manage to get the thing movin’ forward. It lurch up a few feet as Ah get mah bearin’, then suddenly we blastin’ full tilt down city avenues. Ah try avoidin’ the fancy French exteriors of mah town, but Ah must admit there’s a few notches of cement missin’ ‘ere an there from la rue. But the upside is we squash the invaders. Them Marauders weren’t bankin’ on us taking their secret weapon. An so we got a mighty fine parade of hostages round up by ce soir.”

“Parties be had dat night, cher. A few new heads added to our menagerie and kudos all ‘round. Rue Bourbon be lit up once again like the tourists come back to town. The streets lined with colors and beads and life again, or unlife. It a sight what bring a tear to yah eye. The beauty return once more.”

“So forgive me, sweetheart. Ah enjoyin’ yah bluegrass so much.” He dipped his hat low to hide his eyes once more, his barely preserved lips twisted in a strained frown. “Them sweet tunes bring to mind the good times in mah life. Like a street come alive. And a man called friend.”

----

Berlin looked to him further, and frowned, reaching a hand up to rub at his neck, in a low growl. At first he’d almost snapped, for Michael’s accusations of him talking about himself, before he settled for the rest of the tale, and he sighed. Most of it sounded like a movie he’d seen. Perhaps John Wayne might want rights to talk to Michael. Could make plenty of great movies, with the stories he was sure came out of that mouth.

“Hn.” He paused, and sighed some more. “If you can keep quiet for a moment or two, perhaps I’ll play you a diddle.” He said flatly, a bit of twang coming out from the strictly northern enunciation he’d trained himself into, reaching down to pull the violin up from the bag below him, looking to the glossy finish. It looked well-played.

“After all, you’re a masterful story weaver, with that tongue of yours and all.” He mused, pulling the bow out, and tapping the horse hair against the thick strings. “But I myself, prefer a more... direct approach to stories. The kind that don’t take forty minutes to get out. Five at most, does it for me.”

---

“After all, you’re a masterful story weaver, with that tongue of yours and all.”

My tongue does more than that, sweetie. The words perched on the tips of his teeth, but Michael wisely held them back. Instead, the thought twisted his face into a suggestive grin.

“The best stories last, sugah. The best stories take their sweet time, like a piece of music or an aromatic wine, to really breathe and get the best notes out.” He leaned back against the tree to relax.

---

“And some of us just don’t have patience for long folk tales. Or strong wine.” He replied, before settling the instrument under his chin, and taking a breath. He didn’t play for people, rarely. It was a personal venture, and he felt his chest tighten, like a heavy weight, tapping the boy for a moment or two, before sliding it down, making quick, light movements, accompanying himself into an oppressed twine. It was a bit more contemporary, than the piece from earlier, but was soon followed with a throaty, deep voice.

Berlin didn’t sing for many people, if anyone. But he weaved his tale, about Rome, and the lost, more of a winding metaphorical tale, than anything else.

Which all winded down to a fantastical ending, more of a thought provoking silence, than a bang.

----

After a few beats, waiting to feel the song and recognize the words, The Cat joined in.

Unlike his namesake, the dead man’s voice had none of the yarbling twang of a feline in heat. This was the deep, rich sound of a fellow who grew up surrounded by jazz and country singers. The barrel chest of the creature lent depth to his emotion. This melancholy inflection joined with Berlin’s chorus. Where the vocals paused, he hummed lightly, bobbing his head to the beat. And as the words came back, he joined again.

“Where can a dead man go?
A question with an answer only dead men know.
But I'm gonna bet they never really feel at home,
If they spent a lifetime learning how to live in Rome.”

----

Berlin nodded along with the singing, and his eyes looked over, before bowing his head in respect to the tenor, even finding himself grinning some. Relaxing. Something he didn’t find himself doing often either, in front of others. While the silence sat there for a second, he quickened his tune into another, upbeat and bright, a jig, really that set his lips into a wider smile.

These things were familiar to him. He barely remembered where he’d learned them from, but ever since he’d picked up that violin outside of Berlin, he’d known he could play it with an earnest manner. He lead the cat through a few more bright jigs, before ending on something unintentionally personal.

“Gone tomorrow, here today
Just in case, you have something to say.

I’ll be waiting with the rest of--
Goodbye is all we have.”

Every note was played almost lovingly. Every note sang with an underlying meaning to it, and his face held a melancholy tone, even so far as swaying along on the branch comfortably, his clawed feet keeping securely on the branch.

By the time he’d finished, he was more still humming the words, thinking absently, whether he’d keep playing, or not, usually finishing his solo gigs outside with the same country tune of abandonment.

----

And when Berlin opened his eyes once more, The Cat was barely a hand's breadth from his face, eyeing him under a dark hat that nearly touched the tip of Berlin’s head. A weak buffer to his physical intrusion.

“Dat’s sweet, sugah.”

----

“Ooooooo-kay, and here we go with the personal space issue again.” He said, nearly falling from the tree in surprise, leaning back, as he stared, reaching a finger up to put it to the cat’s nose, pushing gently, in a motion to get the man back a bit. “Remember when I said let’s keep this nice? Let’s go back to that. Oh, and it’s Berlin. Not Sugah, sugah. Remember? I do.” He absently looked down to the ground below, and back up again.

----

Michael followed the lean until Berlin found himself pressed back into the branch, The Cat’s own claws sunk into the branch around him. Trapped around limbs, the large man leaned over the meager Half-Dead like a tiger hovering over a quivering rabbit.

“But Berlin,” he enunciated carefully, “it’s why Ah call yah sugah.” He pressed closer, the hat now tipping back as their proximity forced it up. “Yah smell so sweet, Ah can’t help but get close”

“Donne-moi un petit bec doux, cher.”

----

“And maybe some of us, like our space. Perhaps I should take up rolling in the dirt.” He bit back, not liking one bit, the sensation of being cornered, pinned and precariously waiting either mauling, or a cruel jesters laugh.

Alright, so perhaps, masochistically, he was mildly enjoying the pinning, and the sense of impending doom. But mildly. MILDLY.

“I also didn’t catch that last bit. Was that french?” He raised a brow. “Because, I’m impressed you didn’t spit on my face while saying it.”

---

“Ohhhh désolee. Allow me to translate...”

The gesture was abrupt, but not rough. It couldn’t be, given how carefully he had to manage his teeth and raspy tongue. He had only half a pair of lips and the front of his tongue to work with but damn, ‘A’ for effort at least. Extra credit if you were also undead and didn’t mind the inevitable taste of dinner in your throat.

---

At first, it was a desperate response, an arch of the back, and one hand grabbing at a lapel, before sliding right up and pushing at his face. “Crackers and fish sticks, Michael!” He snapped, turning his face away, letting out a sharp pant, before coughing. “That was a terrible translation!”

Before he was laughing, letting his head thunk back against the branch. “I know no more of the words you said, than before, and have more spit in my mouth than when you spoke. Well now, that got us nowhere indeed.”

---

He rumbled, chuckling. “Mais it got me somewhere...”

---

“Yes, indeed it did. And now, if you’ll please let me up, I really don’t want to drop this fine instrument.” He said, holding the violin still in his hand, the bow having fallen down to the ground already, more just waving the instrument in the air mostly.

---

“Ah’d nevah break that sweet device, sugah.” He gripped the hand holding the violin tightly and bending Berlin’s arm until it pressed against the underside of the branch. Michael rested a little more weight on the tiny man. “Why would Ah evah damage a hair on anything that be so electrifying?”

Waves of anxiety, fear, and more rolled off Berlin’s body. He dug his nose under the man’s jaw, breathing in deeply to bring the scents into focus.

---

“Ohhhh-hhooookay.” Was all Berlin could muster after that, more in a shiver running down his back to his knees and back, eyes looking up to the leafy canopy overhead, and blatantly ignoring the defiantly growing ‘interest’ south of his chest. “Uhm, yeah... so, I’ve got nothing left to say and--”

Just don’t let him know your stomach’s gonna growl. Came the thick, italian accent of the pizza sitting on a branch above them.

Oh, now his mood was just entirely killed, and his stomach, he felt flip flopping. Not to mention there was actually a guy, not any guy, but Michael. Probably the worst kinda guy ever. No, not probably. Literally. “Actually, this whole thing you have, doing right now, can we just, you knowwww, stop? Seriously. Cause, I got to tell you, I hear Cindi Lauper calling my name, and she’s telling me I need to boogie it down to the grounds for some missions. You know, real important, work stuff.”

----

“You lyin’” Michael whispered, “Ah can smell it.”

---

“Oh, he can smell can he? Just great!” Berlin thumped his head back against the branch and twisted as best he could with a bent arm, his free one gripping back at the lapels, stopping himself from crushing them in his spike of temper. Just because one was mad, did not mean clothes had to suffer for it. What did they ever do to the world?

Before just grabbing at the side of Michael’s face and pulling it up so he could look at him seriously. “Okay, so you win. YES I have a massive boy crush on you. You happy? Now really, let me down. You win, okay? Win win win win win. Now really, let me down. Or what, can you smell that if you let me down, I’ll just break my neck on the fall?”

---

“Ah could let yah down some other ways.” He shifted his hips, making his own intentions exceptionally obvious.

---

“FIREEEE! That’s what you’re supposed to call out, in a rape situation right? No one comes to rape. Just fire---FIREEE!” He called out again, thumping his head back with a tired groan, covering up the rumble from his stomach, laughing in almost hysterics, especially at his own betraying body when his lower spine rolled up encouragingly, clawed feet dragging through the wood a bit, in a scraping noise.

He would punish himself later, for betraying himself. Totally.

----

“Pauvre child,” he snickered, bringing a finger up to Berlin’s chin to angle his face up. “Yah dun know what yah want...or yah won’t admit it. Here, Ah make it easy.” The second time was a little rougher. It required it, given the hefty force of expelling worms and eggs into Berlin’s mouth. An Uber’s “kiss” wasn’t something another colony could refuse. Free meals and wendigo being all too rare.

----

It was gross. The grossest of gross. All that slimey squirming, the force. And the fact that he swallowed it. “I think I’m going to throw up.” He gagged, turning his head to the side, ‘urp’ urping, but alast, nothing came out.

“By far, the grossest, thing to ever.... ever come out of you. And you put it in my mouth. Whlep. I’m poisoned. That’s it. I will die by projectile vomit in a kiss. Lamest way to go.”

---

“Chatty thang.” Michael’s grip lifted and Berlin, in his struggle, twisted off the branch zooming towards the ground.

---

The next thing Berlin knew, he was sailing down to the ground, landing on his feet and hands, similar to a cat, and looking up, glaring, before standing up. “You didn’t know I was going to land properly! You could have ruined my Michelle’s threaded jacket you--...” He stopped, and patted around.

Looked on the ground, picking up his bow, then turning his head up to Michael. “.....that’s mine.”

----

Michael jiggled the violin high above Berlin’s head.

“Yah know this a fine fiddle, Ah think Ah’ll keep it for a bit. Always wanted to learn how to play mahself.” He picked at a string and the instrument complained with a twinge.

----

“Oh... oh go--- MICHAEL!” He yelled, hands on his hips, glaring up at him. “You stop abusing that instrument this instant! That is mine, so go get your own!”

While he snapped, his voice took on a rougher, more southern twang to it, coming out when he got especially pissed off, a special kind of pissed off, that involved his ‘special’ things that Berlin didn’t like sharing.

“Now, don’t make me climb right back up there, and kick yer ass from here to the next tree.”

----

“Can’t give up a fiddle full of soul, Berlin.” He plucked a few cords, then swung off the branch landing like a drop of water, standing up just as he squashed to the ground in one liquid motion.

“Ah gotta offer yah can’t refuse, sugah. Ah can smell it, Ah could feel it,” he started strutting towards home, “and Ah know yah just would love it, hrmm hrmm,” like he was figuring out a tune of his own. The violin screeched and shrieked as he forced a few notes from the furious wooden box.

---

“You can feel my fist in your face.” He muttered angrily, and gripped his bow, storming after him, forgetting long about the bag still dangling up there, only pausing to grab up his shoes, hopping as he put one shoe on, after the other.

“Alright, what offer you---you.” He asked, as if that were the worst insult he could think of, without getting flack in return.

----

He sashayed over the rocks and logs, long strides carrying him far from Berlin as the man struggled to armor his splinter-filled feet.

“Don’t make me use language, cher.” Michael called over his shoulder, “It ain’t fit to describe. Yah come by sometime. Ah oblige. Hrmm hrmm.”

That poor violin screamed against abusive claws.

----

Berlin nearly shrieked. “STOP!” He yelled, and ran up to grab at his arm, staring at the poorly abused violin, staring at it. “I can’t very well play any more, if you go up damaging my violin, now can I?!”

---

Michael stopped, looking down at Berlin. Considering something. The whining ceased.

“Ah nevah damage an instrument of such sorrow and vigor, sugah. Destruction of the beautiful things? It weren’t what Boug would want.”

“But Ah got a friend for the day, and Ah appreciate her company. This instrument be by mah side for the rest of the afternoon. But--” his ears pricked forward, “Ah can return her later.”

“Go on, retrieve yah trinkets,” pointing to the bag still hanging from the tree. “Ah’ve got things to do and yah fiddle be safe in my hands. But yah must stop by mah office if you be wantin’ her back. And assist me with...other things...”

“Dun think Ah didn’t notice Ah ‘peaked’ yah interest.” His gaze ventured down, eyeing the bulge still evident between Berlin’s legs.

----

He stood there, staring back, and refused to cower down, or cover himself, putting hands back on his hips, and glaring. “.....hnnnnnnn.” It was more a growl, before turning sharply on his heel, and storming back to the tree, to climb up and gather his things, sitting up on the branch longer, mostly for clawing at it, in frustration.

Since throwing things seemed a tad bit obvious. But then again, by the time he looked up, and the giant was gone, he just shrieked to himself and threw the bag, before tearing branches off, and pitching those around as well, in heavily boiled rage.