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      Kat had always took great care of strays. She finds them on the streets, eating from the ground the leftovers of some homeless man that fell asleep right around the corner, far too drunk to remember where he had last left his food, far too drunk to remember he was hungry. They bite fast, trying to full their bellies before they get interrupted, because they know that they will.

But not by her. She likes to crouch down by their side, watching how they don't fear her presence even as she leans her hand forward, fingertips caressing their little heads. They purr, they are happy and grateful, they know they will eat well, they know she will take good care of every single one of them.

      Kat can't recall when it all started, when she started to keep humans away, more than at an arm length, instead opting for the company of the felines meowing at her feet. Maybe it was after she was ripped apart and put back together by a fucking detergent — yes Ajax, she's talking about your stupid face that she has promised to rip off (and she intends to keep that promise) — who had simply promised her a life that she had always dreamed of, away from the voices in her head, away from the blood that she now craves.

      Maybe if she hadn't been so naive she could have escaped before the end, before she was carved into this newest body. She can still picture her old self, sitting on the corner of her cell, knees tucked under her chin, tears falling down her cheeks. She remembers vividly when she had finally understood that no, they weren't making superheroes down there, she was being ripped to shreds and sawn back together just because they wanted a slave. She closes her hands into fists, nails digging into her palm and drawing out blood. She blinks, and she can see herself clawing and gnawing at the bars of her enclosure, searching for a way out.

      She found it, in the end — a story for another time — and when she arrived back home there were no traces of the soft soul that she once was.

      She can easily see her reflection inside the yellow orbs of the cats, beautiful animals if you ask her. They are always looking behind their backs, never trusting anyone more then necessary, claws ready to come out every time someone comes to near.

      Kathrine can't recall when this self-imposed seclusion started. But she knows that she wasn't that way before, her old life looks like the first painting of an infinite exhibit, she's passed in front of too many canvases to remember what the firsts ones were about, she's too far inside the museum to go back to the entrance and the only way out is a little neon sign with the word 'exit' that seems like it keeps moving away from her.

      Right now the only place where she doesn't have to worry about her way out is the Sister Margaret. Not because she doesn't feel the breath of her new self on her neck — she can't ignore that bitch, not even if she tries really hard — but the prospect of facing her old friend, Death, more then once in a single day is too good to pass. And Weasel had always been a good friend to her, or at least that's what she can remember.

      He doesn't ask questions when sometimes she doesn't show up to work, he figures that being a bartender in that shitty hole can be too much some days, even for a 'tough girl' like her. Kat can't say if that makes him a good friend but she figures that she is in no place to question it, especially since a friend is the last thing she wants. She works there, she gets her paycheck, she buys a small apartment on the fifth floor of an even smaller building, but it has a balcony. A balcony!

      She keeps the window open most of the time, that way the strays can come and go however they please. She wishes she could come and go as she pleases. Instead she has this new thirst for blood that makes her take almost every job they offer at that stupid pub, if those men don't have the balls to do them on their own they can always count on her new found fascination for killing. But she doesn't want them to know that.

      She becomes a mercenary, or at least a side of her does. Kathrine 'Kat' Kruse works as a bartender. Felina — she doesn't choose the name, Weasel confess that it was Wade (We will talk about him too now don't worry) that had let the nickname slip once after he had seen the way his new colleague dressed as and, sadly for her, it sticked — does the dirty jobs. No one knows she's the one under the mask, no one knows she wears a mask both times. Actually, every time.

      It doesn't help the fact that Wade Wilson is a pain in her ass regardless, always throwing jokes at her, flirting boldly in a way that would have made her old self blush, giggle and kick her feet. Her new version simply stares with a raised eyebrow, a small smirk to show just how much amusing she finds it. Wade leans over the wood of the bar to grab a bottle from under the counter, she slaps his hand away as she clicks her tongue. Weasel compliments her for keeping the not-so-grownups men at bay.

      Wade Winston Wilson, he confesses once. Because that's what he does, he confesses, he doesn't speak or talk or jokes around if he is alone with her, especially if he has had one too many shots. She becomes his god, his purifier, his friend. Because she is really, really good at wearing a fake skin and he can't realize that she is worse than him, a wolf wearing sheep clothing.

      Time passes and Win (That's the awful nickname she gave him after she had learned his full name. He gets to call her Kitty — Kat didn't actually agree, he just accepted the risks.) He asks her advice with Vanessa, a proper sweetheart of a girl that definitely makes him blush, giggle and kick his feet every time she even just looks at him.

      Anyway, Win keeps acting like sand between her buttcheeks but she grows familiar with it. Everything clicks in place easily when the people around her aren't good, when they aren't there to remind her that she's a sinner (Don't worry, she will never tell them the truth about the darkness inside of her). She almost finds comfort in her routine. Wake up, go to work, make fun of Weasel, make even more fun of Wade, help Vanessa keep the creeps away, make fun of Wade again, go back home, sleep, repeat.

      Then suddenly Wade Wilson Winston has cancer, him and Vanessa argue, he vanishes for what? A year? Vanessa moves forward. That's what Kathrine thinks, she doesn't actually have a proper conversation about that with the girl. But she figures that when Vi — that nickname was all her, she has to admit it — starts to ramble about new lovers it can only be because the other man has finally left her mind. She was much better without him anyway.

      When he comes back, thanks to her of course, he looks like Freddy Kruger (if Freddy had sex with an older version of himself, but violent sex, not for love). And he says that he has to kill the same old detergent because of course, of course it was Ajax. She offers to help, she wouldn't pass the opportunity to rip that dickhead's face off, ever.

      Now she has some real existential conflicts to fight, because what in hell made her realize that it had actually always been him? Vanessa is in danger, they don't have time for unresolved feelings. When Wade speaks he has puppy dog eyes and behind them some strange, younger reflection of Kathrine looks back at her. To Kat this feels like a siren call, the man that ruined her life is back on her radar and she has a new mutt that has just escaped the kennel.

      And you know, Kat always takes great care of strays.

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