Chapter 1: Gotta say, not a Fan.
Hello.
A standard greeting between the pony-types.
Did you hear about the black cat in town? Oh, I hope it leaves soon. They're nothing but bad luck.
A common statement to be heard when I move to a new town.
Quite frankly, the superstition started due to a clumsy, accident prone stallion with a sense of pride grossly oversized considering his lack of taste in mares. I should know. I was that cat. Or rather, one incarnation of me.
That rumor that cats have nine lives is a gross underestimation. We are doomed to forever live on this glorified technicolor hellscape the ponies call home.
Now, some cats take their quote unquote immortality in stride, like that one tabby in Manehattan who doesn't have an evil bone in his body. Some, like that Persian in Ponyville, decide that an evil bone isn't good enough, and strive to be the most insufferable creatures on the planet. Some cats theorize that's why so many griffins are asshats. The cat part of them reincarnates, but it's stuck to a newly ignorant bird part.
Poor bastards.
Now back to the matter at hand. Paw. Whatever.
I am currently being chased by a very irked pony with a very big broom.
Well, good sir, I was unaware you held your trash to such a high regard that it is above being eaten. Forgive me for desecrating your slowly rotting refuse pile with my hungry mouth.
Of course, such internal sarcasms distract one from running for his fucking life. Like this for example, where I have crashed into a horrifically overdressed stallion in... Oh, hello, Blueblood. Turn down many potential suitors lately?
Run. Runrunrunrunrunrunrun.
I am currently sprinting away from the scene of the good Duke Blueblood angrily berating a cook for shaking a broom in his general direction. Believe it or not, The Duke is not as utterly insufferable as he's made out to be.
I should know. I was his pet once. I died, granted, but only because he was so focused on his studies he forgot to feed me. I'm glad my incarnations don't leave a body behind. That would have destroyed the poor colt. Instead he became a shut-in, deciding that forming meaningful relationships is bad for one's personal health, as the loss of a "loved one," friend, or pet is worse than never having one in the first place.
In other words, he's a dick on purpose, so he won't be hurt by relationships. Personally, I think that's totally idiotic, but I'm a cat, not a trained psychologist.
I slow my gait to a trot, then a slow padding of paws as I walk down the brightly lit streets of Canterlot. I should mention that the architecture of Canterlot is surprisingly cat friendly. Many places to climb onto roofs, nap, and ponywatch. I have to say, I find Luna to be my least favorite of the ponies. Not for being a horrid pony; actually, I find her to be one of the kinder ones. But she's ALWAYS WATCHING. As a black cat, I take a form of pride in my sleek form being able to avoid most kinds of detection. Not her, though. The amount of time I've been slinking around the Canterlot Castle grounds, only to have that insufferable pony sneak up on ME...
Call me juvenile if you want, but I can't help but think she finds some sadistic pleasure in seeing my terrified face.
"GOTCHA!"
With a resounding whump, a heavy burlap sack suddenly fills my entire reality with itchy clothe.
And I'm upside down. Oh, goddess, make it stop. Down keeps changing direction, and I can't help but feel kind of nauseous.
"I bet you thought you'd never get caught, Mr. Black Cat."
I don't like your tone, missy. It's oddly reminiscent of that Persian's voice when she's gonna rip a mouse's guts out, and telling the mouse just how she was gonna do it.
Aaaaaaand we're moving. Oh, wait, I think she's monologuing.
"...And I talked to the baker, who pointed me to the florist, who pointed..."
Ah, yes, nothing important. Ponies are so strange, with their obsession with monologues. Granted, my internal narration is far worse, but why would you say all those things out loud? It makes no sense.
"...over the edge. So GOOD BYE, BAD LUCK!"
And the feeling of weightlessness overtakes me. Oh dear. I'm falling.
The roar of the wind passing by floods my ears, preventing me from thinking clearly.
Can't...
And with a splatter of gore and the snaps of breaking bones, I find myself sitting under a tree.
I take in the various scents, the humming of insects and songs of birds, the chatter of happy conversations.
The shade of the old oak shades me from the blistering sun, with the heat of the summer still struggling to strangle the life from me. On a side note, suffocation is definitely the worst way to go. Being burned alive is better than that shit.
My blue eyes watch the ponies pass by, my presence yet to be detected.
How long has it been? A year? A century? A couple hours?
An unfortunate side effect of reincarnation is you don't know how long it's been since you died last. I've reincarnated to find all those I knew to be long dead, and myself a continent away, yet I've also reincarnated not one minute after an untimely death, standing where my corpse should be.
Most cats have to relive those horrid early years of helplessness.
Not I. Eternally a grown cat, I've faced discrimination from ponies and other cats alike.
Eh. Such is Death.
Well, let's find out when, and where, I am, shall we?
