But I have no doubt, one day we're gonna get out
Fritz is on top of the Conrad. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips, its end batted back and forth by the wind. She has hes eyes closed and her arms spread as she stands on the roof's low cement barrier, watching the sunset through the patterns of red that filter through her eyelids. At the very lest, Fritz is on the opposite side of the hotel from Michigan Avenue. So maybe she won't panic the people below. At least not as many of them.
"Fall, baby, fall," she whispers.
Ragnar has decided to let Chicago know that the King of Cats has come to visit. He's holding court in the Kashtta's parking lot. It seems that, regardless of whether or not he can find any Roads in this choked expanse, news of his ability and his willingness to use it travels fast--cats of all kinds have come flocking. The collared and well-groomed make way for a cross section of the feral population, themselves in widely varying states of ill-health. Running noses, rotting fur, oozing wounds--a few stroke from the great cat's tongue and they're whisked away.
A young mother, barely out of kittenhood herself, drags a curled-up newborn through the crowd. There's muttering from the others, a few attempts to attack quashed by Ragnar's warning rumbles. One of the cats mutters It's dead, but Ragnar ignores him. He leans forward and sniffs at the tiny bundle.
"This little one isn't dead," he says gently. He touches his nose to the kitten's and huffs a breath into its nostrils. Nothing happens. The crowd rumbles. Ragnar sits up and starts licking the kitten's head.
A mewl, a flail--the little bundle of fur uncurls. Ragnar stretches and purrs.
"Fall, baby, fall," she whispers.
Ragnar has decided to let Chicago know that the King of Cats has come to visit. He's holding court in the Kashtta's parking lot. It seems that, regardless of whether or not he can find any Roads in this choked expanse, news of his ability and his willingness to use it travels fast--cats of all kinds have come flocking. The collared and well-groomed make way for a cross section of the feral population, themselves in widely varying states of ill-health. Running noses, rotting fur, oozing wounds--a few stroke from the great cat's tongue and they're whisked away.
A young mother, barely out of kittenhood herself, drags a curled-up newborn through the crowd. There's muttering from the others, a few attempts to attack quashed by Ragnar's warning rumbles. One of the cats mutters It's dead, but Ragnar ignores him. He leans forward and sniffs at the tiny bundle.
"This little one isn't dead," he says gently. He touches his nose to the kitten's and huffs a breath into its nostrils. Nothing happens. The crowd rumbles. Ragnar sits up and starts licking the kitten's head.
A mewl, a flail--the little bundle of fur uncurls. Ragnar stretches and purrs.