The Myth of Matt and Mittens the Murder Kitty

June 7^th Early Evening

“I guess this means we aren’t having the picnic by the river tonight,” T’Mari said as lightning crackled across the sky, followed by the boom of thunder.  She squeezed his hand with a lot more force than she had meant to.  “Sorry”

“V’ren doesn’t get thunderstorms?” he asked, letting her have his hand back.  He was glad to have put the top up when they went shopping, or this would be a really sucky trip. He flipped the defroster on.

“Not on V’ren,” she said. “That’s the closest I’ve ever been to lightning that wasn’t from something trying to explode on me.  Surprised me a little,” she said, trying not to sound immature.

“When I was little, Lola Rhea taught me to estimate how far away lightning was by counting the seconds between flash and thunder—every five seconds was a mile,” he said, flipping on the lights. He was tempted to switch to self-driving mode, but preferred the visceral haptics of actual control.

He glanced at the real worry on her face, then activated autopilot anyway and pulled her gently closer.

A smile touched his lips as the next flash came—and he heard her quietly counting.

“Where did all of this come from?” T’mari asked as he began to unload the trunk, now that they were safe, sound, and dry in his bat cave. “You might’ve been able to slip one thing, maybe two past me—but not all of this.”

“Apparently I can,” he grinned. “Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“I’m going to learn this damned Latin, and then you’ll be sorry,” she laughed, poking him in the chest—hard enough to make him step closer.

“No, I won’t,” he chuckled, pulling her closer by the hips. “Then I’ll have someone to speak it with.”

“Wait—you didn’t sneak this past me. You had Robert do it, didn’t you?” she laughed, poking him in the chest again.

She didn’t realize he was about to trap her hand there, his arms sliding around her just before the kiss.

“Nope. Robert didn’t do this,” he said, completely honest.

It had been Ashton’s daughter Rebecca and two of her friends—but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Not yet. He still wondered what extra things they’d picked out and had wrapped, because it was more than he’d actually selected.

“You didn’t show me that elevator last night. Or this morning,” T’mari smirked, glad she hadn’t needed to push the cart all the way from one end of the garage to the top floor.

“I needed to show you the coms room,” he said, just as lightning struck close enough to make her jump.

“Let’s order food,” he added. “Then you can open presents.”

“I didn’t buy you anything,” she said, quietly aware that gifts are usually reciprocal.

“You’re all the gift I need,” he said. “With the exception of Amy, no one has ever given me as much. I don’t mean to keep comparing you to her—you deserve my attention as the woman who is here now.”

“I saw you at her grave, Matt. She will always be with you. That doesn’t bother me. Your love for her was deep and true—and I’ll be lucky to have even a fraction of it. But you don’t just mourn her. You mourn the twins you were supposed to have.

We won’t know for a few days, but… there’s a good chance I’ll be able to give you twins too. That’s something I learned from Mother today.”

“Tell me more,” Matt said, pulling two cans from the fridge. He opened one with that casual, practiced flick of a finger and handed it over.

“Okay, now I know you’re getting help,” she grinned. “We didn’t have any RC this morning. I’ll figure out who’s behind that eventually.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said, settling into the old easy chair near the window and pulling her into his lap.

“Now,” he said softly, “tell me more—about twins. And about the chances of you getting pregnant.”

“On the surface, it looks like we have the same number of gene pairs, and everything in the same spots. The way we express those genes is different—some dormant in humans, some dormant or more active in V’ren—but they aren’t fatal flaws. Just expression patterns.

For example, our eye color genes won’t allow green eyes like yours because that gene is dormant for us. But the rarest human colors—like violet—are just uncommon recessives for us.”

“That makes sense. What about twins?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. In human women, fraternal twins happen in about 25 out of every 10,000 pregnancies. Double ovulation is uncommon for you—probably because human fertility is frequent. Your women ovulate twelve to thirteen times a year, and conceiving isn’t usually hard.

We’re different. We ovulate once every three to six months. And the longer a V’ren woman goes without getting pregnant, the more ova she releases. I’m at the point now where I’m releasing two per cycle.

In V’ren men, it’s not biologically common to produce enough viable sperm to fertilize two at once—though it’s not rare either. For older women, like my mother’s age, three or four ova per cycle isn’t unusual, and twins are more common, especially if the man is younger.

But healthy human men? We’re told they have no trouble at all. Many even use surgery to end their fertility after they’ve had children.”

“If that’s true,” Matt said, grinning, “then I can’t wait to get back in bed and try again. But food first. Then presents.”

“I thought I was all the present you needed,” she laughed, hopping off his lap before he could grab her again.

“Food first,” she added over her shoulder, “but something new tonight.”

“Do you think they mind making us so much food?” T’mari asked, two hours later, after they shared their seventh rack of ribs and 24^th side dish.

“If they couldn’t supply it, they wouldn’t put it on the menu,” he said, tossing his last rib bone into the pile.

“There is not a lot of meat on those, but they are very good,” she asked, taking another RC from the drink fridge on her side of the couch.  She needed to figure out who had supplied the place and say thank you.

“So which was your favorite he asked, wiping his finger and marking them on the interactive menu app.

“The honey mustard ones,” she said, “do you think we could get more?”

“Not tonight, they close in five minutes. I don’t know how you can still be hungry, though.”

“When I am not cycling, I need about 3800 calories; right now I could easily burn through twice that.”

“Fascinating,” He said, giving her a raised Spock brow.

“See, you do like the show.”

“Never said otherwise, I still come down on the side of Star Wars as being superior.  What I like is the fact that you have rationalized out why you believe otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t every woman?”

“No, part of the reason I haven’t had any relationships since Amy died is not knowing who I could trust.  If I said Star Wars was superior, most of the women I would find would also say so just to try and attract my attention.”

“That seems a might bit arrogant.”

“Except it isn’t.  You really don’t understand how wealth influences humans.  I am only telling you this because you won me over already and don’t actually care about my wealth.”

“I don’t, but it intimidates me a little.  I come from one of the upper classes and am by no means poor, but we are not nearly as wealthy as one of the lords, much less high lords.”

“You said a high lord could marry any woman he wanted to and lose no status. When you are ready, we will do just that.  Anyway you want to do it.”

“I thought humans took things a little more slowly.”

“Some do.  Most do. I married Amy the same week I met her.  I would have married you the same night I met you if I hadn’t been scared of messing things up.”

“We only bond after we conceive.”

 “I know that now, and if you want to go that route, we might want to order more dessert to sustain your caloric needs for the next 8 hours,” he asked, sipping the last of the

“How are you not exhausted?” Matt asked more than ninety minutes after they finished dessert, as T’Mari slid to a sitting position against the headboard.

“I get enough calories,” she said, smiling,  “Sleep, love, but first tell me something about yourself.”

“Ask me anything,” he said, nestling his face into her hip.

“No, tell me something you want me to know about you,” she said, pushing sweat-damp hair back behind his ear.

“I am scared of dying.”

“What makes you scared?”

“I am afraid that despite all the evidence that religion is utter crap, there might just be a hell meant for monsters like me.”

“I don’t think you are a monster, just a man who has to deal with things no one should have to, and you do it because no one else will.”

“Maybe, and maybe it won’t matter that I am terrible because the world needs me to be that way.  What right do I have to become that monster even if the people need me to become it?”

“I am beginning to think you are neither Hamlet nor Macbeth, but maybe Titus Godzikicus or something dreamed up by an ancient Greek myth maker who is supposed to go out and do good by any means possible, but then go home and torture yourself for being who you are.”

“There is an anime that I haven’t thought about in a while,” he said into her side and put a leg up over hers.  “You really are an Earthaboo,” he said, kissing her hip, and dragging his lower lip across her skin as he tried to kiss higher up her side and convince her it was time for sleep.

“Stop that,” she laughed as the top of his head found her armpit and his tongue darted out for her nipple.  “You are absolutely not ready for sleep.  Unfortunately, I think I am a little too sore for what you are seeking.”

“Did I hurt you?” Matt asked, coming fully to a sitting position in record.

“No, I’m just…” She said, looking for an answer.  “Girl thing.  Don’t worry,” she laughed, not wanting to mention she was sore because her body was telling her she had conceived and wasn’t well-lubed for more sex.  She would not tell him that until she knew, because she would not give him false hope.  “What are these scars?” she asked, running three fingers across his chest from right shoulder to left side and three more running the opposite direction.

“There is a story,” he chuckled with a low rumble. “I was trying to impress Angelina the summer before we turned 8.  She had wanted this exotic cat that cost a small fortune, and her parents were already anti-cat since her older sisters were allergic.  I decided one day to take her out into the woods, and I would just get her the best exotic cat I could.  These scars are exactly what happens when you think you are the cat whisperer because all the barn cats love you and then try to apply said knowledge to a juvenile American bobcat, also known as Mittens the Murder Kitty, while he is napping in the sun.”

“Tell me a story,” she said, waving him over to sit next to her.

“This is the story about how Mittens the Murder Kitty got his spots.  This story comes from a tribe of people called the Shawnee.  They faced pressure from European colonizers who came to their homeland in the east. Many of them moved west, even before they were forced to.  Some of them settled in this area. Our family legend says we carry their blood.  When I was a young ‘un, Lola Rhea used to call me little rabbit, because I was particularly fond of carrots.  In a way, that might be why I thought I could just walk up to Mittens and make him do what I wanted.  I had already outsmarted him in legend…”

“That is a good story, Matt,” T’mari told him as he finally ended it with silence.  “Good stories bleed truths we need to hear.” She said, actually feeling a little aroused by his myth-making making and sadly heard his first little snore.  She sighed, picked up her tablet, and started a message to W’ren.  ‘Keeper of the Flame, this is the story of Matt and Mittens the Murder Kitty.  Sing into our history for me.’