The Cat Who Saw The World End

The waters, thankfully, were calm today. I stretched myself out by Alan's feet, while she stood by the rail, and Gunther manned the steering wheel. When Gunther had arrived on the main deck and noticed that we had just missed the boat, he graciously offered us a lift. His boat was the last permitted to depart, as the ship needed more food supplies. With no other passenger boats scheduled to depart for the city that day, the yellow vessel was our only remaining option.

As we sailed farther away, NOAH 1 and other great ships—scattered across the still blue sea, each a home for thousands of survivors—gradually shrank from view, while the Floating City came into view ever more clearly on the horizon. The city's odor was always my measure of how much time remained before we reached the port. It was a distinctive smell, like the sweetness of overripe fruit left to bake in the sun, mixed with the salty breath of the sea. We were going to arrive very soon. Thirty more minutes.

Before the Great Wrath, Floating City was nothing more than an endless expanse of debris, drifting from distant coastlines to the heart of the sea, where it coalesced into a massive, floating wasteland. I've heard tales of other such islands, spread across the world's oceans, each one born from the waste and garbage that humanity had discarded over the years.

Then, in the aftermath of the cataclysm, the survivors began to slowly, painstakingly reconstruct a semblance of civilization with the scattered flotsam that their old world left behind. Old Jimmy told stories of those difficult years. Decades ago, as one of the able-bodied young men, he helped rebuild a new world by hand. He salvaged and hauled metal fragments from the waters, risking drowning alongside hundreds of others who had sacrificed themselves in the rebuilding efforts for their species’ survival. They couldn't, however, replicate the grand cities and sky-high monuments that had once pierced the heavens.

Gone were the sprawling empires they had once ruled with such pride and hubris. Now, a smaller, more fragile society had emerged upon the very waste of their former glory; ever mindful of the cataclysm that had brought them low. Still, they held a quiet resilience that burned within them. Humans now had to rely on each other to survive. Though life in the sea could be harsh, Jimmy often said he preferred it after the cataclysm. There were no rulers, no bosses, no rich or poor—just a simple existence, with everyone watching out for one another.

The stink of the city grew stronger as we approached, a smell I had long since grown accustomed to. Floating City was a hive of disorder. Every corner seemed alive with movement. It was bustling. Chaotic.

The city was divided into seven boroughs, each a small island unto itself, yet not wholly disconnected. All were linked by metal bridges pieced together from salvaged shipwrecks and derelict boats. Six of these islands circled around a towering monolith that had once been an offshore drilling rig. Now, repurposed and repainted for residents and shops, it stood as the city's core.

They called it Old Rig, the city folks did. The only way to reach the top of Old Rig was by several pulley-and-counterweight-operated elevators set up around it. Each elevator was managed by an operator on the ground, overseeing the flow of passengers as they entered and exited. A second operator waited on the landing platform at the top, ready to assist with arrivals and departures.

The city buildings leaned at odd angles. They were a haphazard collection of rusty and shabby structures, many of them dented and patched together from whatever materials that could be salvaged. The streets were no better—jagged and filthy, they would writhe underfoot and turn into sloshing cesspools whenever the rain poured down. Fortunately, today was dry, leaving the streets hard and firm, though coated in a layer of dust.

As Alan and I went our separate ways from Gunther to begin our investigative work, the young cook caught up with us, asking if we were still hungry—fully aware that our breakfast had been far from satisfying. He suggested we visit the Blowfish Man’s restaurant, noting Alan’s particular interest in pufferfish. Though reluctant at first, Alan agreed—much to my delight! I reasoned that we needed a real proper meal for the challenging work ahead of us; surely, I couldn’t manage on a stomach full of bland, watery mush alone.

The restaurant was on the top of the rig. We hopped onto an elevator. It creaked and groaned, swaying slightly as it ascended, its old boards trembling under our feet. Suspended by thick ropes that ran over a massive pulley, the elevator was balanced by iron cylinder weights on the opposite side.

The ropes strained as the platform slowly rose, and the frame shook with every shift of our weight, as though it might give way at any moment. Every jolt sent a nervous tremor through me. Gunther, who had a little fear of heights, held tight to the thin railings, while Alan leaned against them with her hands in her pockets, gazing out at the other sprawling boroughs below us.

As soon as the elevator arrived at the landing platform, I quickly stepped off, feeling an immense sense of relief to be on solid ground again. I took a moment to walk in a small circle, savoring the stability beneath my feet.

Old Rig was alive. It wasn’t just bustling. It was vibrating. It was a tangled mass of humans crammed into the walkways. Vendors crowded like barnacles on a ship’s hull, hawking their goods, their voices overlapping into a strange, hypnotic rhythm.

Sheets of dried seaweed flapped lazily in the humid air, next to buckets of fresh fish twitching, caught just hours before, their scales still slick with ocean brine. Clothes fashioned from fish scales and bits of scavenged tech from the junk piles shimmered under the sun.

The air up here was different. Not cleaner—no, never that—but charged. Up here, the scent was of frying oil, greasy and enticing, sizzling in iron pots, frying morsels to fill both belly and spirit. The scent drifted through the air like a primal lure, tantalizing and irresistible, causing my mouth to water instantly.

The Blowfish Man had staked his claim in Old Rig’s square, where his large tent stood like a shrine to the sea’s oddities. One side of the tent showcased an impressive row of fish on metal trays, each one arranged in a way to catch the eye of any passerby. In the open space beside the display were a few plastic tables and fold-out chairs, offering a humble spot for diners.

The centerpiece, however, was the tank—a large, glass enclosure filled with seawater still briny from the ocean’s depths. Inside, live pufferfish drifted, bobbing and floating with an almost hypnotic grace. Contrary to Dr. Willis's warnings for being poisonous deadly creatures, they didn’t look particularly dangerous or menacing. In fact, they were almost… cute. Smaller than I had imagined, their tiny forms seemed delicate, harmless even, and they showed no sign of being intimidated by me. They swam right up to me, pressing their strange faces against the glass, staring at me, as if daring me to get closer.

Challenge accepted. I took a step forward, my paw reaching for the tank when, without warning, a large shadow loomed over me, darkening my view. I spun around and found myself staring into the deeply lined, weathered face of an old man. His eyes were narrowed, glaring down at me with a hardness that made my breath catch.

“Get out of here!” the Blowfish Man snarled, pointing a long, glinting carver’s knife in my direction. “I said scram you filthy animal!”

“Don’t you dare!” Alan shouted, stepping between me and the old man. She wedged herself in front of me, her posture tense, eyes blazing as she stared him down. “Put the knife down. The cat’s with me.”

The old man, still gripping the blade, lowered it only slightly, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. His glare shot up to meet Alan’s, undeterred by the fact that she towered over him by at least a head. He held his ground, his voice sharp as he declared, “No animals allowed.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about the animal,” Gunther chimed in, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he swaggered over. With a casual, almost dismissive gesture, he slapped a hand onto the man’s frail shoulder. “Page isn’t just any cat—he’s well-trained and part of the NOAH 1 family. He's more human than feral.”

The old man’s eyes flicked from Alan to Gunther, his scowl deepening as he processed Gunther’s words. But, despite his obvious irritation, something in the mention of NOAH 1 made him pause, his grip on the knife loosening. Grunting, he motioned for them to sit at one of the tables, then shot me a sharp glare and growled, “Don’t touch the fish. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

I padded softly toward the table, my movements measured and deliberate, before settling myself upon a low, plastic stool beside Alan. A quiet vexation simmered within me, the sting of the old man's words— “filthy animal”—still fresh in my mind. Who was he, some decaying remains of a world gone wrong, to throw that label at me?

With the quickness of an albatross diving for prey, I watched him seize a pufferfish from the tank, his hands deft and unfeeling. The fish, startled by its sudden fate, ballooned itself into a swollen orb—a futile defense against the inevitable. As it deflated, slowly, accepting its fate, the chef struck. His knife pierced just above its head in a precise and cold motion. Then, he dumped the fish into a bowl of water, the liquid shifting from clear to blood-red in seconds.

After expertly skinning and slicing the fish, the old man arranged the raw delicate cuts on a plate, then set the dish along with a dipping cup before Alan and Gunther. I leaned in, sniffing the air around the fish. Except for the black goo in the dipping cup, the scent wasn’t pungent; it carried a clean, fresh aroma. My curiosity stirred, and I licked my lips, tempted to indulge in just a small taste. Gunther swooped in, snatched a piece, dipped it in the sauce, and quickly devoured it, casting me a sidelong glance with a playful smirk.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Alan began, addressing the Blowfish Man, “if I ask you a few questions.”

The old man took a step back, his expression wary as he eyed her. “Depends on the kind of questions you’re planning to ask.”

“Do you fish these pufferfish yourself?”

“I do.”

“Have you ever sold a live one to a customer?”

He paused for a moment, weighing whether or not to tell her the truth. “I don’t usually sell, but if the offer is good, I might consider it,” he replied at last, carefully avoiding the question. “Why do you ask? Are you looking to trade for a pufferfish? It’s going to be a tough deal unless you’re willing to catch one yourself.”

“I was wondering if you traded a fish with the owner of an apothecary.”

The old man frowned, his gaze drifting as he shuffled back toward the open kitchen. “Alright, I did trade a fish for a new special sauce to go with the dishes I make, but I have no idea if the guy was an apothecary owner. What people do for a living is none of my concern.”

“Oh, the sauce is absolutely delicious!” Gunther exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I've never tasted something like it before.”

He picked up a piece with his fork, dipped it into the dark sauce, and offered it to Alan, teasingly waving it in front of my face. “Why don't you give it a try?” he said with a grin.

“You weren’t the least bit curious why he wanted the pufferfish?” Alan continued, ignoring the sauce-drenched piece. My mouth watered uncontrollably, a single thread of saliva hanging from my bottom lip.

“No.”

“But surely you know the pufferfish carries a lethal poison,” Alan said, his tone sharp.

“And so?” The Blowfish Man shrugged. “I’m certain he was aware of that too.”

“He could have used it to hurt someone,” Alan pressed.

“How was I supposed to know his intentions?”

Alan’s expression grew grim. “Three children from my ship were poisoned. Only one survived. The poison came from a pufferfish.”

Gunther's face paled, his expression crumbling. "So, the rumors were true," he muttered, his voice shaking. "The Kelpings... I can hardly believe it!”

A heavy silence followed. The Blowfish Man's face clouded with a somber look. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “But again, how could I have known his true intentions? If you’ve got something I need, then you'll get what you want from me. I don't need to ask questions; it always gets you into trouble when you don't mind your business!”

I snatched the piece with my paw, catching Gunther off guard as he jerked back in surprise. The sauce hit my buds—sweet, yet salty, with a bit of tang. It was an unusual flavor, unlike anything I'd tasted before. The fish’s delicate flesh melted on my tongue; it was firm yet supple. The flesh had a subtle chewiness. Its taste was clean with a faint brininess that danced on the edges of my palate. The combination of the fish and the rich, black sauce elevated me to an entirely new level of culinary delight.

Alan picked up the dipping sauce, inspecting the viscous substance inside. “Is this what you traded the fish for?” she asked, glancing at the Blowfish Man, who was busy splitting a mackerel before tossing it onto the stove.

“It's a special sauce,” he replied.

“What’s in it?”

“Even I don’t know. Only the trader holds that secret.”

With sarcasm dripping from her voice, Alan said, “So, you don’t usually sell fish, but you’ll trade it for a sauce without even knowing what’s in it? Oh, that makes perfect sense.”

The Blowfish Man threw her a side glance. “Have you tasted it?”

Alan dipped a piece and ate it. She paused, as if struck by something extraordinary. Her gaze settled on the sauce, and without hesitation, she reached for another slice of pufferfish, eager to dip it again.

Smirking, he turned his attention back to the stove.

“The trader was an odd one. I doubt he was from around here—not from Floating City or any of the big ships like NOAH 1,” he said. “He wore a mask over his face and carried an oxygen tank with him. The moment I tried the sauce, I knew I had to have it. When I asked where he had gotten it, he said it was from where his home was. I asked where that was, but he didn’t answer. He just handed me a large canister of the sauce and took his fish.”

He pointed at the small crowd now streaming into the tent, filling the empty tables, while others slowly formed a line outside.

"The trade was worthwhile," he said with a satisfied grin, turning to serve the waiting customers.

Amidst the crowd gathered outside, I noticed a peculiar non-human creature. It was small, with four stubby legs and a coat of scruffy, dust-caked fur, a dingy gray that suggested it hadn't seen water in who knows how long. Every instinct in me bristled, but none in a pleasant way. As the line dwindled, the creature inched closer, finally giving me a clear view as it slipped into the tent. I knew it! That sly little canine! Lee, the thieving mongrel!

He was eyeing the pufferfish in the tank, which rested precariously atop a rickety wooden table. Our eyes locked for a second.

"Out!" I screeched, leaping onto the table, startling both Alan and Gunther.

“Page! What’s gotten into you, boy?” Gunther exclaimed.

Alan, trying to soothe me, reached out with steady hands to calm me down. But I wasn’t having any of it. I swerved out of her reach. Couldn’t they see? There was a filthy, wretched animal sneaking around, right under their noses! How could everyone be so blind? My fur bristled with frustration as I circled back, every instinct screaming that this trespasser didn’t belong here.

But with a mischievous glint in his eyes, the dog bolted straight for the tank. In one swift motion, it knocked the whole thing over. The tank crashed to the ground, glass shattering in all directions, water flooding the floor. The pufferfish flopped around helplessly, puffing up in terror, its eyes wide with shock.

The Blowfish Man whirled around, his face twisted in fury, eyes blazing as he raised his knife. “No animals allowed!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Lee, unfazed by the threat, darted forward, snatching a pufferfish by the fin with his jaws. Gasps rippled through the crowd, Alan and Gunther frozen in shock. A woman screamed, and someone knocked over a chair in their scramble to back away.

Without missing a beat, the dog bolted from the tent, pufferfish flopping wildly in his mouth. I sprang off the table, my feet barely touching the ground as I leaped over puddles of water and broken glass. I tore through the flaps of the tent, eyes locked on the thief. I wasn't about to let him get away that easily.

I bolted through the crowd, weaving between legs and dodging scattered crates. Up ahead, Lee ran, his tail wagging like this was all some game. The marketplace of the Old Rig was a chaotic mess of smells and sounds—grilled meats, pungent spices, the shouts of vendors haggling with customers—but none of it mattered to me.

My eyes were locked on him. I quickened my pace, my paws barely making a sound as I zigzagged around barrels and skidded past carts of lobsters and shellfish. Shoppers yelped and stumbled aside as we tore through their midst, scattering baskets of clams and seaweed and sending fish and crabs into a panicked flutter.

Lee glanced back, eyes glinting with mischief, and knocked over a stack of clay pots in its desperate sprint. But I wasn’t giving up that easily. My tail twitched with the thrill of the chase, and I could feel myself closing the distance, my muscles tensing for the perfect moment to pounce. He suddenly veered left, leaping onto the wooden platform of an elevator just as it began to go down. I chased after him and caught right up to him on the elevator, my claws digging into the rough wood.

The elevator wasn’t empty. As soon as I landed beside the dog, startled gasps and shouts erupted from the passengers—two wide-eyed men in worn jackets and an older woman clutching a basket of vegetables. They pressed themselves against the back of the elevator, eyes darting between me and Lee as if they couldn’t decide which of us was the bigger threat. The woman shrieked when he growled, still holding the flopping fish in his mouth, his eyes wild.

I crouched low, preparing to spring at him, but before I could make my move, the dog did something reckless. He launched himself off the side of the platform. The passengers gasped again.

I approached the edge carefully, mindful not to lean too far over. For a moment, I hesitated, my body tensed, torn between chasing him and the drop below. I watched, wide-eyed, as Lee sailed through the air, legs stretched wide in a desperate leap of faith toward a distant stack of crates below, time seeming to slow as he flew.