Against All Odds

Part 1: Capture

"You don't belong here."

The words echoed inside of his head, growing louder and louder until they were all he could hear. It made hunting difficult, but he had to try. There was no home to go back to, no one to share their kill with him - though that in itself had never been a common occurrence. He was so tired of eating spiders and flies.

The brown tabby padded on, shoulders hunched forward against the cold of the salty air around him. A dull roar in the distance competed with the one within his own head, and the combination threatened to overwhelm him. The shrill cry of a gull sounded overhead, causing him to shiver. What was this strange place?

Glancing down, he saw dark grey rock, similar to the asphalt he was used to having beneath his paws, but foreign at the same time. Here and there, small tufts of grass grew, vastly different from the brick and concrete world he knew. The air here smelled of salt and water; there, it had been all smoke.

Absorbed in the strange sights and smells, the tom did not notice the grey and white shapes moving towards him until it was too late. He fell to the ground, sides heaving from the impact of a body on his own. This, at least, was familiar.

A new scent entered his nose and, despite the terror he felt, the tom found himself wrinkling his snout in disgust. The smell was unpleasant, a mixture of fish and salt that tickled his nostrils on its way up and left a revolting taste in his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" spat a voice in his ear, and he lifted his green eyes to its source. Above him stood a little white she-cat, beautiful amber eyes glowing fiercely. He parted his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Closing it again, he imagined that he looked very much like the fish this cat smelled of.

Her claws dug into his shoulders and he gave a small yelp, trembling beneath her weight. Words were failing him and he knew he would lose a battle if it came to it; after all, he'd never won a single battle in his life. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in terror, like the scaredy-cat he was.

"What have you got there, Swanpaw?" The new voice was low, mocking.

"A loner, I think," the white she-cat standing over him replied, a questioning look in her eyes.

"A loner? From the way he's shaking, I'd say he was a kittypet. What should we do with him? Shred him to little bits?" The low voice belonged to a muscular black and white tom, who came into view over the she-cat's shoulder soon after, sharp claws already unsheathed. This time, the pinned tom did cry out, a high-pitched sound that sounded very much like the shrieks of the gulls circling overhead.

"You will do no such thing," said another voice. Two more cats appeared and the tabby stopped struggling against Swanpaw's claws.

"What is your name?" asked the new she-cat, this one a pale gold in colour.

Swallowing back the bile that rose into his throat, he replied, "Frog."

This earned snickers from Swanpaw and the muscular tom, but they were silenced with one glare from the pale gold she-cat. Frog could not blame them for laughing at the name and, in all truth, was used to being snickered at. He had been named Frog because of his penchant for eating bugs as a kit. Even now, his meals consisted of beetles and ants, due to his terrible hunting skills.

"Gannetfur, head back to camp and let Sleetstar know we've caught a loner on our territory," the she-cat said. "Snowflower, scout the area for signs or scents of others. Swanpaw, lead the way back to camp." To Frog's astonishment, each cat gave a nod and, with one last look at him, went about their assignments.

"H-h-how?" he stuttered, gazing at the she-cat in awe.

"'How' what?" she replied, pushing him ahead of her. She nodded towards Swanpaw's small form, indicating that he should follow.