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There is an intruder in the demon realm.
Though it is a rare occasion on which a stray soul wanders into the realm, it’s not entirely unheard of.
The problem is, this intruder isn’t behaving like intruders usually do.
The demon realm tends to be a deeply detestable place to those who have never visited it before. The atmosphere is designed to evoke the most unpleasant memories and thoughts in the mind of those who enter, and there is a randomness to elements which are fixtures of the other realms, such as gravity and light, which is deeply disorienting to those who do not know to brace themselves. In the millennia that Mo Shi has guarded the gates, they have seen at least a dozen souls fall to their metaphorical knees in despair upon entry. It’s easy, then, to collect them and either present them to the Demon King, or remove them from the realm.
But this new intruder isn’t doing anything of the kind.
It wandered in, and for three days since, has continued to wander around as if nothing is amiss.
Mo Shi does not have a set of rules dictating how to deal with intruders, but if the Demon King gets wind that she has had an intruder in her realm that Mo Shi has failed to capture or report for several days, they will be punished.
Mo Shi doesn’t know what the Demon King’s punishments are, exactly, and they hope never to find out.
Mo Shi does not know what to do, so they begin observing the intruder, following it around from a safe distance.
Because past intruders have been so easily overwhelmed by the mere atmosphere, Mo Shi has always assumed that those from other realms would not be able to survive on the resources readily available in the demon realm.
The intruder drinks from demonic pools, and Mo Shi has watched it capture and eat several small bird and insect demons. So far, they have observed no sign that this food and drink is having any sort of adverse effect.
It is four-legged, and has a fifth leg that does not seem to be used for mobility—most often it sticks upright in the air, and Mo Shi wonders if this is the sail they’ve heard about, which would make the creature a boat. They had a sailor ghost who followed them around for a decade or so, once, telling Mo Shi about the wonders of “ships” and “boats” and “ocean”. There was a time when Mo Shi felt enough familiarity with those words that they believed they knew what those things were, despite never having seen any of them.
Were boats creatures, again? Somehow, they thought they were objects.
The intruder’s fifth limb sometimes drops close to the ground, and this is what makes Mo Shi suspect that it is not, in fact, a sail. They do remember that sails can be put up and taken down, but the mental image they had was not this controlled lowering and raising with no regard for the weather, which is always dusk with gas clouds this eon.
Mo Shi begins to notice that the intruder is increasingly stopping and turning, looking to where they are hidden.
Surely the intruder has not noticed them? After all, it is a mere mortal, and Mo Shi is a demon.
Mo Shi takes a little more care to be subtle as they stalk the intruder around the realm.
Maomao does not like humans.
All his life, he’s been surrounded by humans trying to feed him, coddle him, even pet him.
This realm is a strangely lit, odd-smelling place, and there is always an odd, humanoid creature following him around—but they keep far away from Maomao, just watching. They do not attempt to pet or coddle Maomao.
It’s not the solitude Maomao had sought, but it’s a great improvement on the way he is treated in the human realm. He decides to stick around.
The water tastes a little more like death, the food tastes a little more like magic, and Maomao finds himself increasingly drawn to this place.
After three days of no one interfering with his naps, no one trying to pet him or pick him up or chasing him, he begins to feel more at ease.
So at ease that he misses pets.
Not the indiscriminate pets from humans who reach out and touch him with no regard for what he wants—but the pets from those who care about Maomao enough not to touch him when he doesn’t want to be touched.
The strange, dark humanoid is still following him around, so Maomao does his best to indicate that he knows that they are there, while posing to look as pettable as possible.
The humanoid does not approach him.
After a whole day spent trying to entice the humanoid to him by playing the most attractive version of a come-hither kitty he knows how to be, he begins to suspect that the humanoid fears him.
This, Maomao decides, is evidence of the humanoid’s good judgment. Maomao is fearsome—few humans ever understood this fact.
But he does still want pets.
He supposes he can deign to approach the humanoid.
The intruder does, after all, know that Mo Shi is following it around.
On the fifth day after its intrusion, it turns around and walks straight to Mo Shi, and rubs its body right against their legs.
Mo Shi freezes.
The intruder butts their leg with its head, then weaves between their legs and back around to look up at them expectantly.
Perhaps it is some sort of spell—but Mo Shi cannot detect any particular magic.
They stare into the dark eyes of the intruder, and, driven by an impulse they cannot explain, reach downward.
The intruder reaches its head up and into Mo Shi’s hand as soon as it is close enough. Its white head is covered in something soft and pleasant to touch. It’s not quite like anything Mo Shi has ever felt. The intruder butts their hand again, and again, until Mo Shi begins to move their hand over its head. The intruder then begins to walk beneath Mo Shi’s hand, around and around until Mo Shi begins stroking from its head along the length of its back.
This seems to please it.
Mo Shi supposes that they might have jumped to conclusions about the intruder.
“You’ve eaten our food and drank our water,” they contemplate aloud. “I suppose you could belong here, now. If you want.”
The intruder butts their hand with its head again, and Mo Shi obliges with more stroking. It appears to be making a rumbling noise, which sounds pleasantly ominous.
Mo Shi brings the intruder before the Demon King and requests asylum for it.
“A cat?” the Demon King says with a disinterested glance at the pile of white, orange and brown fluff in Mo Shi’s arms. “Sure. I’m not about to try to impose restrictions on a cat.”
“A cat,” Mo Shi murmurs under their breath with wonder. They have a word, now, for what to call their new companion. The cat in their arms rubs its head against their shoulder and readjusts itself.
