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People kept saying "minipet duty" in groans, and Taym, not quite understanding what it might entail, had duly found ways to get assigned to almost anything else in avoidance of it. But the need to stay busy was now outweighing any fears he had, and the idea of escaping the heat for one of the buildings still on emergency power had a certain appeal, so when the order came, it was with more curiosity than dread that Taym delivered himself to the labs.

He'd gotten all sun-brown and vaguely-freckled again, avoiding, as he was, the dark dorms; unfortunately for whatever that may have done to make him look less sickly, he'd also given up shaving. The beard was still young but already vaguely leonine, if one took into account the actual reality of a young lion--a filthy fly-bitten scavenger--rather than the glorified idea of one. The bandage on his jaw, on a single shaven spot necessitated by his Argus injuries, absolutely was not helping. It was appalling.

He was hesitating outside the doors, not quite sure of what to do with himself. It appeared very much as though they'd expected him to know his way around this chore already, and Taym had had quite enough of making a fool of himself recently, thank you, and was deliberating on how best to go about locating a mentor without actually confessing his ignorance when he was serendipitously delivered.

He jumped at being addressed. Possibly Taym always jumped at sudden noises. He was like a baby deer. A really unkempt, broken-looking, non-innocent baby deer, so not like a baby deer at all, really.

"Molly," he returned, with visible relief. He actually smiled. Smiles didn't look at home on his face, where typically only scowls and predatory grins went. He eyed her clothes. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I think they put me here to get me out of their hair. Did I miss a memo about the uniforms?" It was only half a joke. It would dovetail with his experiences up to this moment to find out that he needed some sort of acid-repelling jumpsuit that everyone had neglected to provide him.

"Not a word. I think I'm supposed to be..." he hesitated, searching for the right term, coming up blank and deciding on: "absorbing the basics. What, uh," he asked casually, "what kind of thing are you working with that requires..." he made a vague motion of his hand that took in the coveralls. "Does it breathe fire?" And then, somewhat unexpectedly: "Can I help? Or will I just be in the way." He said this with a certain bitterly forlorn quality. Apparently Taym felt he had been in the way a lot lately.

At being offered the coveralls and at Molly's abrupt delight at the offer of help Taym's face took on a hunted, oh-god-what-have-I-done expression that he only half-tried to conceal. He held the things like they might bite him, and then took a moment to look around and make sure no one was watching.

There was this about Taym: you wouldn't guess it to look at him but he had a vain streak a mile wide and putting on coveralls definitely violated it. He did it anyway. Molly had that effect on him. He suspected she had that effect on most people. He'd actually eaten breakfast that morning.

"Ninety-nine cats is a lot of cats," he said weakly. "You sure you don't need these?" He was practically swimming in them. He felt guilty taking them. "Are they--are we talking actual cats? I miss my cats," he added, a footnote of sudden vulnerability.

"Yeah," he said weakly. No, he thought.

Still, mention of purring and kneading and various catlike attributes was promising even if the sudden addition of "wings" and "perches" was horrifying. "Just, uh--lead the way."

He followed suit when she ducked, and said a four letter word that wasn't very nice and that he felt oddly guilty using around her. This didn't stop him from saying it again when he was forced to duck a second time.

"Jesus Christ," he said, apparently in a state of sensory overload. "That's--this is a lot of--these aren't cats." Or rather they were cats--Taym was far too fond of cats to overlook their definitely-feline traits entirely--but they weren't cats enough. "Why are there so many?" Oh god. There was one rubbing against his leg. That was both a good way to get through his defenses and, given that it had to lift a wing to do it properly, a good way to amplify his feeling that he was imagining all of this. "Are you the only one taking care of them?"

Motivated by sheer cat-person instinct Taym stooped to very gingerly scratch the thing's forehead, looking very much ready to jump if it bared its teeth. Also, stooping put him out of range of some of the more horrifying acrobatics, so possibly this was also a motive.

"That's--that's a big job. You must be really..." don'tsaycrazy "... dedicated."

At being liberated from his hijacker he made a move to put his back against the wall, with the dim thought that this really only made his face a bigger target, and reached tentatively to pet the one she was holding. This seemed safer than choosing a random zipping target. The idea that may be he could just not pet them didn't seem to occur to him. Cat + Taym = affection, instantly.

"Oh god. I don't know. It's kind of cute," he said. Tone said: really cute. He clicked his tongue at it. Game over. Taym was falling prey to the cats.

"Snuffles," he echoed weakly, reaching out to take the offered cat. His wariness was rapidly fading. A cat was a cat. He gathered Snuffles into his arms and yep, there he went, it was all over. Taym looked as happy as a clam. When Snuffles obligingly headbutted his chin in exchange for more pets he looked positively in love, even though he sneezed again. Possibly because of the beard.

"No flattery," he said sincerely, cradling the cannon cat against his chest and hazarding a second look at the other 98 of them. No, OK, that was still overwhelming. That was still a bit much. One he could handle. "But yeah, I imagine the cute helps. I... do they all have names?" He didn't ask how she could tell them apart. Taym had at one point in his life had four black cats identical to everyone but himself and his mother. Taym got it. "Also I am happy to make myself useful, just... point in me the direction of a job." Although that would entail putting down Snuffles. There were big hearts practically visible all around Taym's head.