A little dip back into mouse territory, with a short story written in the same world as my others
Hopefully some, interesting things coming for you all in the new year

Kitchen Perils

It was a cold world of tall metal cliffs that Marsh scurried through, leaping across the gaps in the tile floor. Under the edges of the sleeping ovens could be found morsels a duller mouse might pause for, but he wasn’t interested in the crumbs that had escaped the cleaners. The cats who ran the kitchen would happily serve him up on a plate; such low fare wasn’t worth the risk of living here.
His nose wasn’t optimistic of his chances but he ran ahead anyway, leaping up onto a familiar low shelf, easing around the glossy side of a saucepan, springing up onto its handle to find path to the next shelf. The same routine gradually took him to the worktops. An array of gleaming utensils, spoons he could bathe in, spatulas big enough to swat him, knives he, felt uncomfortable being in the same room with. All hung before him from their little hooks, filling the sky with their frequently dangerous presence.
Distantly he could see the rings where fire would bloom, the vats currently empty of their oils, the worst of fates he could imagine. It was a place of many horrors, that produced the most heavenly, sublime food. And yet…
Marsh pawed his jaw as he looked around. Nothing. There had been nothing for a week.
It had been almost a year since he found this kitchen, and intrigued, entranced by the food inside had made the, risky choice of nesting behind one of their freezers. He’d taken scraps where he found them, raided the bins which fortunately were commonly replaced daily, and filled daily. He’d been spotted once, he was pretty sure. Because they’d changed how they handled those bins overnight. Cutting off his access, unless he wanted to raid them during the hours the cats were in. But from that evening onwards, he’d found a little plate would be placed up on the counter. Just for him, or so he assumed. Naturally he’d assumed it was poison put out for their new mouse, but he’d been desperate enough to nibble the edges, time had passed and, he’d gotten bolder, the food was, for some reason, clean.
He wasn’t sure who had been leaving it, but, a week ago the plates had stopped, shortly after the boss cat, a large, plump wildcat with tawny brown fur and black stripes, most commonly smothered under a pristine white outfit, had an argument with one of the servers, who he hadn’t seen since. Maybe it had been the server… maybe, another cat who was laying low now. He didn’t know where the mysterious, delicious charity had been coming from.
His stomach growled and his paws pressed softly to the fur above the empty chasm inside himself. He’d need to play riskier if he was going to stay fed.

Marsh was short for Marshmallow, a rather embarrassing childhood event to blame for the name he’d been given as a pup. But he’d kept it, or half of it. The mouse peeked out, as light set the tiles glowing orange. His stomach was empty, and sadly, that meant going out while the kitchen was full. He just couldn’t help himself, he’d always been charmed by feline food.
It was a dangerous muse, being feline food himself, but he was hooked. Already as the kitchen warmed up, wonderful aromas washed to his senses. Spices were hitting hot pans and infusing the air with aromatic bliss. His tongue flickered along his lips, wishing it could taste the air itself. Feline paws thumped past his hiding place sending little trembles in the stone. They were busy, lunch was coming up as he understood it. The joys of regular eating, he wistfully mused. And yet, while the sizzle of the pans, the throaty hum of warming ovens, the clink of the tools had become so lovely to his ears, there was a darker note he, tried to tune out. The occasional terrified squeak of, a mouse meeting their end. It was his dull witted cousins, the feral mice. As he understood their lives normally ended, quickly, the creatures too tame to know what awaited them, till the last second. But still, they were too close to himself for comfort. He’d learnt quickly which dishes used them, and steered clear. Fortunately, one particularly dangerous cat gave him all he needed to know.
Booming over the noise came the familiar voice of the head chef, the stripy boss of this land of bliss and death “Michael, the soup isn’t ready yet? We’ve three orders waiting, don’t dawdle. We’ve two wraps for table two, if I smell a singe on those mice, I’ll have you in the pan! I want it fast, and I want it perfect” There was a long pause before “If I can’t smell the garlic from here, you’re not using enough James”
A call of, yes chef, answered each command the cat gave, Marsh ducking deeper in the hollow as a single striped paw thudded before his exit route. The leg thick and meaty, lingering before walking on. The head chef, stressed cleanliness commonly. He was certain, that one wouldn’t tolerate his existence for a moment. And that cat, occasionally cooked, but spent a lot of his time walking around surveying the other cooks. If any cat was likely to spot him, it would be that one. Maybe better than being trodden on though.
Marsh peeked out again as the chef passed, down the route he had walked the night before. Three sets of busy paws moved in the passage now, each leading up to a considerable weight of cat. The three were smaller than the head chef, but heavy enough to flatten him. He drew in a slow breath. He had a plan. There was a section of workbench beside the bins where the servers placed the used plates. There was normally an interval between the plates arriving, and them being cleared and cleaned. If he found a good hiding spot, he could dart out, eat, hide and repeat.
Dangerous, but his growling stomach commanded he try. Trepidation pushed aside, Marsh took his chance. He bolted from his hiding spot, and ran right down the middle of the path, looking up. Each chef had their backs to him… and as he bolted by, seemed too focussed to see him in their periphery. His heart raced. All it needed was one to see him, or to step back suddenly. On either side, shifting paws thumped as they moved back and forth at their stations.
Once past the last he dived into cover, putting his back to a wall under a shelf, panting, waiting. No sounds out of the ordinary. What he could see of the legs, none were coming his way, or crouching down. Good start.
Carefully he moved around the side of the station, behind the tall metal bins. The sides of the counters were smooth, but at the back they were rough. This one, he’d learnt, had a bit exposed, enough for him to fit his claws. Finding his edge, he dug in and started to scale up, surveying for the head chef but, his loop seemed to be going back near to where he’d begun his dash.
Marsh sprang up to the top of the counter, diving behind a tall tower filled with cutlery, peeking round the edge. More dangerous still. Now he was around belly height with the cats. He could see the muzzles of the chefs, the twitching whiskers in the steam off their work, bodies garbed in pristine white in contrast to the glimpses of fur. Distantly he could see the head chef paused by the stove, a small, thrashing, furry body between his fingers. The mouse in that paw, was raised to the lips, fed through in a single slurp, the towering cat seeming to consider for a long moment, before a single, dispassionate swallow doomed the rodent. Nothing but a barely visible pulse in the fur of the neck. Marsh shuddered. It wasn’t a thinking mouse but, it could so easily be him.
“That’s the quality they’re giving us these days, hmm?” the wildcat grunted, the smaller chef beside him dipping his head, pushing a plastic lid over a box in his paws, placing it back onto a shelf
“We got fresh in this morning chef, it’s the same supplier”
“mmm, old Reacher’s boy runs the farm these days doesn’t he?” the chef licked along his whiskers “they’re a good weight at least, but remind me to shop around next month, our contract is needing renewed around then”
“Yes chef” the smaller cat moved off from the looming wildcat, in whose stomach, a mouse was, meeting their end. Marsh shivered. At least it wasn’t anyone he knew, or, could know. Those sort of mice weren’t, chatty to say the least.
He kept himself pinned to the back wall even as he heard a near door open, and a clunk on the table, the distinct high pitched chime of clinking ceramics. A warm scent drifting to him already. Not yet… let the chef pass, he told his stomach as he kneaded it.
“Chef” he heard the closest cat speak, before a long pause
“That’ll do” he heard the head chef say after a moment “nice aroma off it. Less salt next batch, if you can taste it, it’s too much”
“Yes chef”
Marsh heard the gait of the bigger cat get closer to his hiding place before the doors creaked open again
“Chef, a customer is asking after you” A prolonged sigh answered the statement
“Good or bad, we’re running a kitchen here”
“I’m not sure, they are, very insistent chef”
“They won’t take I’m busy for an answer then” the chef finished “alright…”
The door creaked closed again, to Marsh’s glee. Perfect. He peeked out from hiding. No head chef, just busy cats and a stack of plates. The mouse took the customary moment to look about before darting for his prize, skirting to the far side to keep the plates between himself and the kitchen, peering up atop. Plump, glistening, half eaten ravioli greeted him. Customer must not have liked it. The mouse grinned… he sure did though. He reached with his claws, just about hooking a piece to pull it closer before hefting himself up, and burying his muzzle in soft, silky pasta and dense, rich filling. A whimpering moan escaping him as he swallowed a tantalising mouthful. He wasn’t sure what sort of animal gave its meat to the dish, but it wasn’t mouse, and beyond that he didn’t care. Whatever it was, it was dried, oily, flavourful, a tingling burst of spices he couldn’t name filled every corner of his mouth. He could eat this till he popped and die happy… the mouse going in for more, filling his long tortured belly with tender delicious food. The meat was only an addition to the filling, the remainder creamy and thick… some sort of cheese maybe? He didn’t understand the process, but he was so glad it existed.
Marsh was in heaven, till he felt a sudden, tight pinch around his midsection. An undignified, primal squeak escaped his muzzle as he was wrenched from the plate, having only a moment to stare up to dispassionate, curious eyes beneath a white hat. He knew this cat by eye. A grey face with black markings.. he’d never hoped to see them so close. The lesser chef shrugged, and in a single movement brought Marsh into the sink, a tide of water hammering across his body, through his fur, drowning out any rebuke he might have mustered.
“Hey James, mouse get away from you?”
“What?”
“Caught a mouse”
“I, don’t think so” there was a deflective uncertainty to the voice “chef was rooting around in the box”
Marsh was taken from the water, world spinning as the cat turned, striding in a few long steps down the kitchen. He saw the other paw float past him, drifting in its immensity to a box he’d, always tried not to look at. His eyes widening with terror, squirming uselessly in confidently firm paws. The lid was raised on one corner, and fingers lifted him, forcing him through the gap into a green tinted land, with other mice that looked at him with, dull eyes. A single, long look of assessment before they resumed sniffing about their home. Above, the soft clicking sound of the corner being squeezed shut as he was, sealed away.
“Oh no…” Marsh exhaled, pawing to his whiskers, fighting himself for calm, mind alert but, blank with panic. They thought he was one of their ingredient mice. Could he use that? Maybe… maybe… play dumb, play tame, make a break for it. He nodded to himself as he trembled. Had he gotten too engrossed? Presumably…
He sat back against the wall, watching the scurrying of his feral cousins. He almost envied their calm. His paws thumped to his muzzle. Hindsight, he should have just left the kitchens, not gotten risky… but the food here… Marsh sighed. Had it been worth it? Maybe… he doubted a lot of mice could say they’d eaten as well as him, for that stretch he’d been being fed.
The kitchen was muffled now, he could make out faint voices as the work went on. At some point, the box was lifted down, causing him some alarm. A blind paw feeling in, pinching one mouse, then another, before retreating, sealing it again. Leaving him with two fewer cellmates than before. What was he to hope for…? If it got to day’s end, He’d always seen the box, empty. The chefs must.. empty it, they got more mice like these every day. Would that be a good time to escape? Or would their paws be easier to slip free of when they were cooking.
A sharp shudder ran his body. He’d seen the mice get, prepared. He didn’t want to go that way… he’d rather be eaten the… normal way, morbid a set of choices as it was.
In time the box was lifted down again, this time the floor becoming an angle, forcing Marsh to slide down, to collapse into the other mice. He kicked, trying to get his paws under him, just in time to see the clawed fingers coming in and pinching to him.
“No…” he murmured the word, before the paw withdrew quickly, dizzying him with the sudden change as he was whisked out into the kitchen again. At least it smelled nicer out here. Marsh got a view of the spread of feline tools on the bench before him. A blocky wooden cutting board, a layer of sticky paper upon it, beside that a clean, ready knife.
His heart skipped a beat. The paw around him grasped with firm confidence. He writhed but it, didn’t help. The paper was for his fur… the knife, his head “No, please” he squealed the words “Not like that”
He felt hesitation in the paw, being lifted a bit higher. Before him, the whiskery, vast muzzle of a feline, closer to one than he’d ever hoped to be. An eyebrow rose “huh… you’re a talking one? How’d you get in there?”
“Please” He squeaked, shivering in the hold “just let me go… I don’t…” he glanced down “don’t want to…”
The cat cocked its head, before shrugging, Marsh’s world rushing by as he was swept down towards the cutting board “taste the same either way, it’s quick mouse”
Marsh closed his eyes, tension flaring in his body. The paw, came to a sudden halt, without a solid surface below him. Hesitantly he opened an eye, finding a different set of fingers grasping to the paw surrounding him.
“Chef?”
Marsh felt the grip relax, as the new paw’s fingers felt in, and pinched him by the base of his tail, lifting him higher. He could make out now, the ponderously vast frame of the head chef, with his wild furred patterning’s, and decidedly silly hat.
The head chef lifted the mouse accusingly in front of the younger cat’s muzzle, whose ears pinned expectantly before the back of a paw rapped his forehead.
“Ow…”
“Idiot. You can’t recognise a talking mouse when you see one? You don’t put a mouse like this in a stew, or a burger patty, or braise them on a stick” the feline’s eyes switched to the mouse. Not seeming to notice the increasing nausea of the dangling rodent at the images the conversation brought forth “That is like taking a fine, fresh, expertly cut piece of the most exquisite, choice meat… and shoving it in a meat grinder to make hotdogs! Philistine!”
A certain cruel satisfaction came from seeing the cat who had been a hair from killing him recoiling from the stinging strikes of the angry chef’s tongue. It was a heady feeling to cling to, to avoid dwelling on how little he liked being special in this, particular situation
Marsh eeped as the paw he was plucked in turned, the mouse tumbling onto the pads before the fingers closed, trapping him between the slightly bulging, yielding padding of the paw. The light was sealed off, his world starting to bounce as the chef moved. Quite suddenly the light was back, and he fell down a short distance into a smaller plastic box, only briefly seeing the head chef above, peering in thoughtfully before a lid was pressed down, sealing him in partial light. The walls weren’t clear enough for him to see much but shadows. The fingers removed from the surrounding plastic.
“Back to work all of you, and keep alert will you? If an inspector sees a wild mouse in our kitchen, you’ll all be out on your ears”

Time passed slowly for Marsh, his clawed fingers tapping on the wall. Ramming the plastic occurred to him, but considering he was likely quite high up, the fall didn’t sound charming. Being eaten, was a given. He knew that. If the head chef was, saving him from being cooked, it had to be because… of the key difference between him and his feral cousins. They, were bred, tame. He was not. A tame mouse like that could be swallowed before they realised something was wrong… he’d fight for his life. As he understood, that was exciting for the palate…
But as far as he knew, there was nothing on the menu for a mouse like him. Would he be served up as a special? Would the head chef enjoy him personally? More to the point, would he get an opportunity to escape. He needed to save his strength for whatever option he got. A cat couldn’t hold onto him all the way down the throat, the grip had to relax at some point. There was always hope, that was how he’d been taught.
Even the muted sounds from outside eventually faded, the lights dimmed, a sense of chill seeping through the walls as the oppressive heat of the kitchens ebbed and dissipated. Only then did his prison move. A paw grasping it, taking him somewhere new. He had some guesses. Once placed down a familiar low hiss pierced the plastic. Oil on a pan. His muzzle probed up to the lid, there were just enough holes for him to enjoy the intense aroma of onions, garlic. His licked along his muzzle… it smelled good but… surely, he wasn’t going to be… cooked. No, the whole point of this box was mice like him were, special. His mouth dried. That was what the head chef thought anyway…
The idea didn’t have time to grow, for the lid was pried up, a sizable paw sinking in, curling along the inner walls, scooping him out. A practiced thumb pinning the base of his tail as he rose up into view of, the plump wildcat. He met the sharp eyes, shivering some as those assessing eyes took him in. Marsh could only feel, disheartened. He was only an ingredient to a cat like this. But, surely he wasn’t going to be… he looked down, the pan sizzling gently. Was a garnish being prepared to douse him in… that made sense.
The chef’s other paw drifted in closer, a single claw extended, spiking Marsh’s innate fears. Was he going to be impaled, or cut open? Was there… some sick method of preparing a mouse like him he’d been blissfully aware of.
“Stay still now…” the chef’s voice was softer than he was used to, not shouting. Despite himself, apart from a tremor, Marsh complied as the claw came in closer. It slid under his chin, lifting his muzzle, as the cat leaned in closer, muzzle taking up all of his view. “You’re scrawnier than I expected, for the mouse who lives in my kitchen, stealing food”
“I…” Marsh stammered “I’m sorry… I was just hungry”
“mmm…” the chef grunted, and, inhaled, Marsh’s fur fluffing as the air was dragged past him “I can smell it on you though. Admittedly, I’m curious what a mouse fed on my recipes would taste like”
Marsh wriggled his hips, and tried to lunge, flinching as he found the grip on his tail, firm. A new digit folded over his legs.
“Calm down” the chef chuckled lightly, drawing his head away, the clawed paw dropping to a wooden spoon, adjusting the contents of the pan “you’re hungry, aren’t you? We’ll get some meat on those bones”
The mouse’s mind started connecting dots. He, was going to be fattened up? That was why the cat was cooking… he couldn’t help a certain, anticipation. Sounded like good food. He could think of worse fates.
The chef exhaled slowly “so, going to be calm?”
Marsh closed his eyes… good food or not, he needed to get away if he could.
The large cat seemed to consider him for a moment, before his paw lowered down to the spot beside his pan, releasing the mouse into a deep casserole dish, the sides, daunting.
He had to try. Marsh ran at a wall, leaping, finding no purchase for his claws on the smooth surface, but he tried again, straining his legs to leap high as he could muster.
“Hard as it may be to believe, I don’t bear you any ill will” he heard the chef above muse “If I’d wanted to kill you, I could have set a trap by the food I left out for you. Not poison of course” he snorted in derision
Marsh’s efforts paused, as he looked up “you?”
“mmm” the chef looked down for a moment “I know everything that happens in this kitchen. You think I didn’t notice you?” the looming cat looked off, a reticent look taking his features. “There is a great joy in food, but you are the only customer I’ve had who risks their life to taste it. I must admit, that is an accolade I took some pleasure in” he nodded off towards the other side of the kitchen “I set up a camera, when I left out my first plate, got a good look at you”
What did this mean for him? Marsh’s paws clenched some, looking up at, the cat who had left him food? “I thought… the cat you, fired”
“He was working late and noticed I was leaving food out. Doesn’t look good” the towering feline noted “but, you see little mouse, I don’t cook for cats, or mice, but for lovers of good food. You are hungry, and you come to me, again and again for food. How could I call myself a chef and not feed you”
“Oh” Marsh muttered dumbly “are you, going to let me go?” he hazarded
Above, the chef scratched at his jawline “no, I think not. I cannot have you scurrying around my kitchen. But, to eat you…” for a long moment, the feline looked down, to Marsh’s wide, staring eyes “if indirectly, I’ve grown fond of you, little mouse. Perhaps, I would keep you, hmm?”
“Keep me…?” Marsh hazarded, tail twitching “like, your pet?”
“How about, taste tester?” the cat chuckled above “To see you enjoying my food, would bring me pleasure”
The mouse sat himself, to consider, as the chef returned his attention to his cooking. The life of a pet. He knew some mice could find joy there, if the cat was right, otherwise it could be a torturous life. Sure sounded better than being eaten. Did it sound better than, never eating this cat’s cooking again? Did he dare ask what his options truly were?
“What if I don’t want to be your pet?”
The feline looked to him for a moment “I’ll find somewhere to release you, and would advise you not return. I won’t stay my staff’s paws a second time” his eyes strayed back to his cooking “your continued presence, is partially my fault for encouraging you, and indulging myself in the, curiosity”
Marsh nodded to himself “so… you’d want to take me, home with you?”
“Indeed” the chef lifted a jar of, something Marsh couldn’t make out, pouring it into the pan which erupted with steam “It is small but quiet, and you would eat what I eat, hmm?”
Marsh nodded to himself, pawing to his jawline. It wasn’t a bad offer. The same sort of food, or so he hoped, but without the risks? It, seemed perfect, didn’t it?
Quite suddenly, a new aroma blossomed in the air, accompanied with a new, intense sizzle, a bouquet of spices tantalising his nose at this close distance to the pan. Smelled like curry. Marsh’s stomach growled powerfully, tail giving a twitch. He had one vote for going with the cat, that much was certain…