It was 2:32 AM when Ruh rolled themselves up in their blue, human sized cerulean scarf and made the long trek across the frosty campus to the Mango Office.
     The radio still played endless distress calls without mitigation at the “Tangerine to Autumn Red” color level of alert. (We had to get to at least “cherry ripe” for anything to be actionable, if at all.)
    Ruh only tripped four times over their paws, the dark, their scarf, and at one point, nothing at all. The scarf was usually handy as a blanket, a way to block out bad smells, or as a makeshift cat hammock. Ruh only started wearing it during a long estrangement from Ibn Arabi. Ruh generally continued as students now recognized Ruh more easily by it.

…Oddly, the second office in the stadium was fully lit.

Maybe Mango is praying Tahajjud, thought Ruh, only to his horror to find quite the opposite.

     Fans.

     Lines of them, with an overwrought Mr. Mango trying desperately to appease them all.

    Ruh was small enough to run under the crushing crowd unnoticed, into the Mango scented room that barely contained Garrett Butler as he stood halfway in the threshold, and then made the split second decision to climb up his weird baking thobe costume to hiss in his ear to close the door and turn off the lights.

“Then we sleep in your office,” stated Ruh decisively.

“How often do you sleep in my office…?” Mango inquired.

“This would be my first time. I generally avoided this part of campus as Ibn Arabi’s worksonna isn’t exactly the same as Ibn Arabi,” stated Ruh entirely deadpan.

As if under compulsion, Mango shut the door and collapsed into fluffy cat-hood. His baker’s thobe became a puddle of linen and mango stains, which he carefully outstepped to begin fastidious focus on cleaning himself properly.

Ruh trudged himself to the bright orange and gold velvetine cat bed, turned his back to Mango, and immediately fell asleep in the blessed radio silence.

Surprisingly, Mango actually stayed up to read the Al Wird Al Latif at precisely the wrong time of night, and more loudly than he would if he were alone, as if trying to anchor himself.    Surprisingly, Ruh did not react like an evil jinn, hiss, and leave, but actually showed belly fluff and maybe a slight purr,      

      Mango was forced to conclude Ruh was not a Malignant Jinn. Especially after stating “Awoodoo Bilahi Minash Shaytan Nirajeem” and Ruh replied with a stoic, “Ameen.”

Mango went to his bookshelf and pulled down a large encyclopedia on angels, with an added demonology annex, entirely in cat form and proudly brought it to the velvetine cat bed full of Ruh.

No matter what color they dyed their coat, Mango still tried to impress his unlikely Pir with his ambient impressiveness.

Placing the book against the desk, he used a single claw to open it to a bookmarked set of pages, where two names were underlined, highlighted in multiple colours, and surrounded by little stars, and a moon.

“I figure we can speak freely in a cat story,” stated Mango,

     “I remembered the first time I really met you. You leaned on the edge of my desk, barely pretending at Human as you gave me a fake name. Then, when I asked you for your real name, you gave one a little too Real: Marchosias. It took until I met Sroasha to sit me down and make me understand it all.”

“He’s a good teacher, very logical. He was only driven into college administration by constant scapegoating. The more heinous the untrue accusation, the higher the position in Alaraf. Even I believed them for a while, versus understanding they were relics of the prior torture based systems only perpetuated by AI data poisoning and bad actors.”

Garrett, in Mango form, pawsed entirely.

“That is awfully heavy for a cat story, Marchosias,” said Garrett to Ruh. “I’m sorry I treated you like an evil Jinn.”

“I am sorry that I treated you like an evil human being instead of understanding you don’t willingly sell out our religion for optics while surveilling and attacking your friends. You have gotten a lot better at not hurting me. The biggest problem remains the human beings idolizing you and others on campus with any media presence whatsoever. I mean, Ibn Arabi only needed to show up at the cat show as a groomed feral, and he won first prize in the ‘Muslim Purebreed’ division. I ask him, ‘You are usually so shy, why enter a cat show as a caracal?’ He replied, ‘The ribbon matched my office.’”

Ruh paused. “If there were any real non jinn cats at that show, they likely went home heartbroken. Why are you stuck on the name Marchosias, Mango? I can call you Abbadon if you like.  Marchosias represents uncomfortable truths.”

“No, you may not call me Abaddon. Absolutely not,” Mango replied- “That’s only for Fox Hollow students. It remains morally reprehensible to expose them to the darker realities of formal academia. That’s why we teach them on a Discord server. Look, I didn’t understand we can’t choose to be as we are. We can not make ourselves into ‘normal people.’ Back when you introduced yourself, I still thought I was a normal person…. I want to show you something.”

Mango smacked his paw against the second highlighted name in the book: Mihr.

“Mihr. Persian. The pre fallen form of Marchosias, Angel of platonic love. Fell when trying to stop the other goetia from setting themselves up as minor deities, intercessors, self focused scholars, and propagandists.”

“Mihr allegedly, famously stated, ‘It is no longer Jannah if my friends aren’t here.’ Mihr’s opposite is Sroasha, the angel of discernment, who holds one half of the Scales of Al Sirat which determines the extent of sins in a sinner. Mihr rewards goodness, but if a figure crosses into liminality, Sroasha takes over jurisdiction for the remaining judgements against the soul. Neat. Like a college president determining liability, or if they need to send the lackey to kiss up and save face. Nice,” he added dryly.

“I am not a lackey,” stated Ruh, rather offended. “I consider Sroasha more like an Uncle, or like a very organized Discordian Pope at most.”

Mango sat up and looked at Ruh more directly. “Why are you actually in my office?”

“Old habit. I am forced to witness the torture of a loved one by radio and every social media feed I have, for the second time. The first time I went to you for help was messy, but the situation resolved. It sucked more when it was Ibn Arabi poisoned because I had just recovered from a stroke myself and was fairly alone. Now it’s Fischadler. At least everyone else here knows the guy, and there is literally nothing I can do for him that you cannot do better,” Ruh stated remarkably cogently, then continued.
     “So long as Fischadler is stuck in human form, I am stuck as a cat. This entire situation is frankly traumatic. Whether we are shape shifting Jinn or not, being ‘unseen’ doesn’t reduce the pain of this one iota, Muezza. When I met you, I also was not aware yet that I was a male cat that was neutered too young versus a very unmothering female. Your Mango Madrassa is gender segregated, and there is no place for me to sit without lying to God or humiliating myself.  So, I sit in your office instead.”

Mango, despite looking uncomfortable, let his overworked and much complaining Persian Pir lean on him anyway, because by surveillance patterns the next phase of Ruh’s worried cycling was normally tears, then sleep again.     

    At least he was talking, which was better than before when he would only check to make sure Mango was hydrated and teaching Tasawwuf correctly.

…and then, finally, to ask Mango, repeatedly, to take over Watch of the Fischadler situation from Ruh’s exhausted paws…after finding no other solution via prayers & patience, that did not bring further harms.

“Please forgive me for my inattentiveness to you lately,” said Ruh plaintively, and he truly meant it. Brokenly sleeping in Mango’s office cat bed wasn’t much of an apology, but it was a start of trusting him again, in as much as a stray cat can trust.
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