She’s actually quite pleased with herself, at least until she opens the door to find six stray cats hissing at her from the linoleum floor.
The esteemed Lady Me is of absolutely no help, she just cackles, propping the front door open and watching with no shortage of amusement as Clara tries to usher them all out with a push broom.
The last one is the hardest, an ill-tempered ball of shaggy blueish-grey fuzz that yowls and spits and swipes at the broom anytime she gets too close with it.
Twice it tears past her to hide under one of the booths, swiping at her legs and gouging shallow cuts.
Nothing severe, easily cleaned, but they sting like hell and make her wish she’d not changed into the blue waitress uniform so soon.
“You’re sure about this?,” Me says after the furry hell-cat finally makes its exit, shrugging on her black leather duster as Clara wipes away trickles of blood from her calves.
The jacket’s been around for so long it should be worn to a fibrous scrap of nothing, and that was even before they took off from the end of the universe.
But her coat, like the both of them, is just a tiny bit impossible and very
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