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"********!" Taym attempted to gently loosen Kostya's claws, with mixed success, and finally succumbed to the Russian blue's need to become scarfcat, giving up the fight and draping him somewhere around the area that Noah had been moments before.

He scratched him on the forehead first. He would regret so much of this later but the cat was overwhelming.

He stared in absentminded, cheerful dismay at the growing chaos in the halls, at the climbing levels of intense kittenitude, and considered his original plan to visit the labs. Distractedly scooping up the stumpy-legged buff-colored kitten scaling his leg and detaching her claws from his jeans, he dropped her into the pocket right underneath America's. He had one more, unless Noah bailed.

Juggling cats, Taym managed to send a typo-riddled public tweet between attempting to wrestle various cats out of the way of his hands:



And then he paused, abruptly realizing something about the kitten he'd just picked up, and he pulled her out of his pocket to loft her and examine both her eyes and the stripe marching down her shoulder.

"Peyton," he said levelly. "I apologize, but I take no responsibility for this." And then he put her back into his pocket, and absently patted her forehead. Whosa good girl.

He needed to wait for a possible reply. In the meantime he could either attempt to rally the troops and head for the labs and... do what exactly?, or he could wait and see if this wore off. Alternately, he could try to get some information out of any of them that could focus long enough. Maybe some kind of sophisticated "one meow for yes, two meows for no" type communication system could be arranged.

Alternately, he could take advantage of this. Everyone was acting very much like a cat. He could hardly be blamed for a desire to treat them like cats. Right? Right. <******** it. He had had a very trying several weeks, this was bar none the most ridiculous thing he'd ever experienced even including being dressed up in fishnets and black lipstick to borrow a magical box to keep a tiny cat-shaped monster in, he was surrounded by dozens of kittens who clearly were interested in nothing much more complicated than staying entertained, and he was going to indulge himself. He'd be off dying in the desert in a couple of months anyway, it's not like he'd have to deal with the repercussive mockery and horror for very long.

In a kitten-induced quasi-high, Taym, suddenly grinning, secured his Kostya kittenscarf with one hand and with the other shuffled, weighted by kittens, to the nearest supply closet.

He opened the door, and without comment began tossing rolls of toilet paper into the fray.

"Merry ********' Christmas," he informed the mass. "Shred away."

And then, juggling his cats, he carefully folded himself up to sit down on the floor, Peyton one one knee, America on the other, Kostya on his shoulders, to watch the chaos with a big stupid grin on his face.

Padding around the hallways he tried to find someone, anyone, who could explain to him what was going on. Or at least pet him. Some scratching behind the ears wouldn't go amiss.

This plan might have worked if he hadn't heard someone else's little feet around a corner. Hunkering down he waited until just the right moment, when the other kitten's face came into view, before pouncing.

chirigami

surfer kitties go!

The Peyton kitten gave a somewhat disgruntled squeak at being dropped into a pocket, but she had to admit being carried around definitely beat walking, and the pocket was pretty comfortable. Tail curling around her haunches, she settled in, only to be scooped back up and lofted up to eye level. She blinked at him, ears flicking at the apology, then gave a doleful mew of acceptance. She hadn't really figured he'd had a hand in any of this anyways.

He tucked her back into his pocket, and the absent petting sent the tiny body into a frenzy of purring as watched everything with wide eyed curiosity. She could see other kittens tucked into pockets, one slung across Taym's neck, and countless others around his legs.

It was the ginger kitten's use of the nickname Russia that had her realizing who two of the three carrie kittens were, and she rolled in the pocket so she could more easily look up at the both of them.

The gift of toilet paper roles from the closet had Peyton leaning out of her pocket, but she kept her place until Taym sank down to sit against the wall, happy to perch on his knee, small paws flexing alternately. She glanced up at America and Kostya. Obviously she meant the lone human among them.

rejam

lizbot

astrazilla

After doing her best to assure Otto that he was far from ugly, Sashcat turned back to Soliacat and bopped her on the nose.


Toilet paper!!

It was a split second too late when he realized he had incoming after he rounded a corner. He had been found which was awesome but he was being tackled which was a little less awesome. Down he went, onto his side with his tail puffing up at least three sizes from the sudden attack.

But he wasn't going to lay down and take it, nope. Milo's kitten paws shot up, batting at the other kitten's face in retaliation. < Not gonna beat me that easily, dude! > He responded, not knowing who this other kitten was at all. 'Cause... they were kittens now and that was an undefining 'ha.'

The meowling stopped when yet another kitten started to crawl on top of him. Robert let out one last, soft meow, before settling down on his stomach and sprawling his legs out. The toilet paper on his neck fluttered enticingly, as if calling to Ripley - but Robert dissuaded him by licking his face with a rough tongue, just once, to try and tumble him onto his back.

His own paw looked like it needed a lesson as well, and quite suddenly he began to meticulously groom it. Every so often it got a bite - because he would forget it was his paw. It had to be clean, clean - WHAT IS THIS THING oh right it was his paw, clean, clean...