Atticus Lynch, the black-suited welfare officer who resembled a faux-ginger Zoolander, awoke on a park bench in London beside a man in a mango-colored turban. At their feet lay a few odd dollars and coins.

Apparently, they were now street art.

Not nearly enough for a plane ticket, but enough for a curry on the way to Heathrow.

Once they arrived, Lynch tasked Garrett with finding the absolute oldest gate agent possible. They succeeded.

Retired Captain Hilbert Baker stood brightly at his gate, entirely alone.

His age was indeterminate. His ChavAir uniform bore a service pin from Iran-Contra, along with a little red enamel poppy. He worked the check-in desk beneath an arrival sign that had DELAYED burnt into the interface even when the lights themselves read ON TIME.

“Good afternoon, kind sir,” nodded Atticus. “May I have two HEA, Cross of Lorraine, TUL any, all soonest.”

“Ah, a fellow Agency veteran.” The old man tipped his little hat. “Where did you serve, Delta?”

“My branch became Golden Apple Vacations long after I left,” Atticus replied politely.

“Golden Apple Vacations?” the old man repeated. “What a bloody terrible cover.”

“True that, mate.” Atticus nodded sympathetically and handed over both passports without comment. Atticus noticed the gold filigree against the sleeve of the smart burgundy uniform…

Then Atticus Lynch’s entire vision whited out.

He was back in the white room and all he could smell was antiseptic.

Now Fischadler was a red-and-orange tabby cat with a heavy collar reading OSPREY in bold Book Antiqua font. He was still chained to the desk, but now by the collar, and an IV of various coloured liquids ran through a catheter into his chest.

“That’s a lot of medical intervention for a chained-up moggie.”

“That’s a lot of metaphorical, spiritual, and otherwise psychological bypassing for an injured & captured asset,” replied Fischadler.

“Why do you call me injured and captured when you are chained to a desk and in clearly poor health?” asked Atticus.

“Why are you back here after clearly leaving hours ago and having a whole haram adventure with Radio Kufir?” replied the sarcastic orange cat.  “It must be devotion.”

“You are Radio Yogurt, You Limey Kefir.” Atticus stated boldly, as if the statement were entirely factual and self-evident.

…right in front of a retired pilot now ticket-taker allegedly named Hilbert Baker, wearing a smart little hat, and the greatest, most public Shaykh of Mango Madrassa: Grand Mufti Garrett J. Butler, Acting Vice President and Voluntary Ombudsman of the Bombed Remains of Alaraf University.

No one mentioned it.

“Annnnyway, good sirs, here you go. Two one-way tickets on bosom buddy pass courtesy of yours truly, since I have no friends after I stopped sleeping with all the stewardesses and lost my family to even angrier stewardesses sending horrible revenge pictures of our longstanding and loving professional relationships!”

“Do we really need to know this…?” Atticus inquired with a look of deep discomfort.

“Yes,” replied Captain Hilbert Baker. He tipped his hat again. “Ah, the problems of modesty.”

“May Allah forgive you,” muttered Mango with full sincerity. “I am sure you do your best.”

“I certainly do, every day, sir. Full service.”

“Indeed,” said Atticus, filling dead air and realizing his blood-to-THC ratio was far too low for this chapter of his life.

“Anyway, God bless our ChavAir operators that don’t know their arse from a wingnut. I have you scheduled on a flight that is about to get seriously lost, then diverted to LaGuardia on the route to Iceland.”

Hilbert coughed passionately.

“From NYC, just find another operator to patch through a Cross of Lorraine TUL transfer. You know the right credentials to flash, son.”

“Sometimes. But if all else fails, I can just rely on looking like I’m escorting Mango somewhere.”

“Officially or…?” asked Mango, suddenly worried.

He was dressed like a floppy angel of academia, sandals and all. Neat red & grey mustache and a beard that tries to be.

Atticus was dressed like Atticus.  He is best described as appearing like an angry tradecraft pixie or mafia flavored chaplain.

Smart black suit. Black tie in a Windsor knot. White linen formal shirt. No kufi. Red and yellow hair. Dark eyebrows.

One earpiece away from looking absolutely federal over feral.

They both shook the gatekeeper’s hand before beginning their indefinite wait at the terminal.

The very last thing a man dressed like Garrett ever wanted was to be seen voluntarily in public with someone dressed like that again.

It reminded him too much of the days he truly earned the name Butler before this iteration of his life.

And yet, he seemingly loved him for the sake of Allah.

There was no other reason he stayed.

Atticus was informed of this by frequent text messages from his ex-partner, who believed changing operational partners, even non-sexually, somehow counted as zina.

(Zina the soda was terrible, and Muslims don’t drink, but the warrior princess was acceptable aside from the wig.)

The phone pinged again.

◇Bird Says Take Your Cardiac Pills, or You Are Reported To The Feds For Non-Compliance to Experiment.◇

A fluffy grey-and-white chibi cat animation appeared on screen, dressed like a Nazi in a white turban and obvious e-glasses.

The phone pinged again.

•STOP ACCEPTING TEXTS FROM YOUR EX•

Another fluffy grey cat appeared, shaggier now, with dark eyes and a little red anger symbol over his forehead. He scratched out the prior texts with tiny claws.

•DOUBLING UP ON HEART MEDICATION IS NOT ADVISED. BLOCK HIM, MERCI. HE IS NOT DOCTOR. I AM. I REGRET BEING WALI•

“How did you get your texts to be animated with those little cat animations?” Mango asked. “Do I have one?”

Wordlessly, Atticus opened a menu with only one icon.

A fluffy mango-creamsicle cat with clear blue eyes in a matching thobe.

He pressed it.

The animated Mango cat filled the screen and spoke in Garrett’s own calmest voice:

°I AM VERY CONCERNED FOR YOU, ATTICUS.°

“Heh. I saved that and made it a ringtone.”

“…why on earth would you do that?”

“The same reason my lock screen used to be my bureau supervisor asleep on his couch covered in cats.”

Atticus shook the remaining flower petals from his mane and politely shoved them into his pocket.

“Probably pathology.”

The phone pinged again.

Same shaggy grey cat. Tiny scarf.

A heart bubble appeared.

♡We both have pacemakers and you are overclocking mutual bandwidth. Please lower pulse and calm nervous system.♡

Atticus replied:

“k”

The cat was now dressed like a professor, tapping a diagram of lead wires, organ meats, and amperage schematics on a tiny chalkboard.

♡Stop being dangerous, Atticus-Jaan. It is not good for our heart.♡

“Antony, sir. Take a Valium.”

♡I’m out of Valium since 2016.♡

“Don’t you grow valerian root?”

♡…Maybe…♡

“Do you like complaining?”

♡Yes. 😸♡

A little grey cat threw aggressive confetti.

Mango placed a hand on the screen.

“…explain?”

“Oh, sorry. I was IVF. Trafficked like a cat across Europe to the US before age two and met my first of what could be hundreds of siblings at a blacksite pretending to be a college.”

“Is Antony a Lykoi?” (Mango had the orange brain cell and thoroughly harnessed its full potential.)

“Ah, no. Great fluffy grey long-haired Himalayan-looking cat last I saw him in 2011…” muttered Atticus absently.

“…Persian?”

“I guess. Whatever.”

Atticus pulled up a photo of a grey cat with a fierce expression in a blue-and-grey suit. One could almost discern extended claws beneath the crop.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Oh, he doesn’t really have one. I just call him Antony, the name he used when my kidneys resembled geodes and he texted me through it. He couldn’t talk directly because of NDAs while he watched Alaraf cannibalize itself, but we worked around it. He says names limit him.”

The chibi cat winked.

Then it pantomimed setting another incoming text from Bird on fire. The text was mostly obscenities and threats that Lynch was disappointing “to the memory of the Kaiser.”

Another message arrived.

•ATTICUS-JAAN! BLOCK YOUR EX. ASTAGHFIRULLAH•

No hearts this time.  Pity.

The tiny grey cat now demonstrated the ‘block’ process across three separate applications.

(Surrounded by red and gold glitter that might have meant anger, or support for Mango.)

Either way.  Atticus continued

“Fischadler’s Agency seemingly thought it would be neat to see what happens if you separate kin after they bonded as adults, examine the structure of their suffering, then replicate it.  I dont know how to fix it.”

“When was the last time you slept, Atticus?” Garrett asked.

The airport remained dead quiet. Through the windows, the only planes on the taxiway looked like distant toys moving on autonomous rails.

“Restfully? September 17th, 2025. How about yourself?”

“Maybe sometime in 2024. Your hands are shaking. You are either about to have another flashback or you have a concerning dependency on cannabis.”

“Well, this is The Chronicals of Alaraf, innit? You think someone this intelligent would intentionally misspell Chronicles? Got to give Mr. Lewis and his lion proper respect and space.”

Atticus patted himself down and produced a tiny black pen.

“Aha.”

He also found a small pad of paper.

He wrote Ayat al-Nur, then thoughtfully placed the tip of the pen in his mouth.

The nib glowed violet.

He held his breath.

“Ghost hit.”

“Astaghfirullah, this is an airport, Atticus. Have some adab,” Garrett sighed.

“In a cat story? At least I prayed first.”

Atticus vanished.

Now an anxious but rather perfect flame-point cat sat in the seat, wearing only the shirt & tie.

“No laws against cat vapes.”

“There should be. This isn’t Sunnah.  You’re awra is exposed again.”

“Meow. I’m a cat now and blessed in Islam. Would the Holy Prophet criticize a cat’s tie or deny Muezza catnip?”

“I refuse to dignify that,” sniffed Garrett.

But he was looking distinctly fluffier.

“I’m Muezza in this canon. I got that name from a pir.” Garrett’s ears twitched.

Atticus narrowed his eyes and gave Mango one slow blink.

“Garrett. Were you planning to be weird and make a great spectacle of prayer in bargain-class coach at Dhuhr?”

“It’s not spectacle. It’s Sunnah,” Mango replied indignantly.

“I rest my case,” purred Atticus. “We’ve waited too long. There are no signs of any planes. Hilbert has wandered off into the nether-nether.”

With tail raised, Atticus trotted across the terminal, still without pants, still wearing only tie and shirt.

“Wait!  ATTICUS!  YOU ARE NAKED!  At least grow more fur!  Your AWRA!”

There was Mango, now full fluff, sprinting after him like a cannonball past the newsstand.

[Atticus never expects Mango to follow him.]

Together they found the oldest gate agent in the Barzakh….A curly-haired bullshitter cat named Rosemarie.

She looked ancient. She smelled like white sage, Florida water, and indictment.

She also informed them they were in Oakland, not Heathrow.

Then she called them both idiots and shoved them through the first-class lounge, to the buffet line.

“Feed yourselves, you absolute sporkachones! Why would you trust ChavAir? Didn’t you see the board? The planes nearly never show up.”

“It’s halal if I say it is,” she added confidently. “We have a deal with the fancy Muslim airline to buy their leftovers. Americans and Brits can’t tell it’s not fresh.”

Then, more quietly:

“They can’t even get the airport right, and symbolic actions eat up real bandwidth.”

Mango chose fruit.  It was questionably literary cannibalism.

Atticus took a full bread bowl of clam chowder.

“Hey kiddo,” remarked Rosemarie, “that isn’t gluten free.”  You notice her uniform is from 1984 or earlier by style.  [Great condition.]

“We’re cats and you’re a dead FBI handler,” Atticus replied.

“You’re alive and still have celiac disease.” Rose threatened.

She smacked him with a rolled-up folder.

“Oh! You’re the one ordering gluten-free MREs on my budget from Alaraf,” squeaked Mango.

“The chicken was eaten by foxes once,”  Atticus replied crypticly.

Rosemarie eventually herded both cats onto an ancient 737 held together with wishes and duct tape.

The pilot personally knew Atticus and sent him an embossed pawprint note that read:

☆You suck☆

Written in perfect feline penmanship.

They were upgraded to first class just in time for salmon and caviar.

The plane made it only as far as Phoenix before making an emergency landing after losing a propeller to something large and feathered.

It could be a bird.

It could be Icarus.

Whatever it was, it was now featherless.

And once had been bipedal.

Behold, a man.