The sky didn't just rain on Maya; it personally victimized her. Each cold drop felt like a tiny, liquid manifestation of her life's failures, soaking through her cheap blazer and straight into her soul.
The promotion was gone. The one her manager, David, had dangled in front of her for six months like a carrot on a stick. The one she'd bled for, working late nights and sacrificing weekends until her social life was a distant memory. She could still see his patronizing smile, could still hear the empty corporate platitudes: "We see you as such a valuable team player, Maya. This lateral move is a strategic opportunity."
A lateral move. She'd been lapped by Brenda from Marketing, a woman whose entire skillset consisted of taking credit and wearing aggressively bright pink.
A violent buzz from her phone startled her. She fumbled with the slick device, nearly sending it skittering into a gutter. It was a text from Chloe, her cat-sitter.
Srry Maya! Got a last-min gig 2 tour w/ the band 2nite! Left key under mat. Mr. Whiskers has extra food! Toodles!
Maya stared, rainwater smearing the screen. Toodles? Her cat, the majestic and perpetually displeased Mr. Whiskers, was now abandoned. The sheer, fluffy vengeance that would await her—the shredded curtains, the "gifts" in her shoes—was too horrific to contemplate.
As if to mock her, the heavens unleashed a fresh downpour. Her flimsy, free-conference umbrella gave a final, pathetic crack and inverted itself, becoming a useless metal skeleton. She was now drenched to the bone, shivering in her now-see-through blouse. This was it. Rock bottom. The plan was simple: crawl home, order a pizza the size of a wagon wheel, and have a quiet, dignified meltdown on her sofa.
Then she heard it.
A sound, low and guttural, cut through the rain's drumming. It wasn't a meow. It was a grumble, thick with misery and profound annoyance. It came from the alley next to her apartment building—a place usually reserved for overflowing dumpsters and the city's more cynical raccoons.
Every sensible bone in her body told her to keep walking. She had enough problems. But the sound came again, a shivering, wet rumble that hooked into her heart and pulled.
Hesitantly, she peered into the gloom.
There, huddled against the wet brick wall, was the single ugliest creature she had ever seen.
It was small, the size of a kitten, but utterly hairless. Its skin was a mottled, purplish-grey, like a week-old bruise. It had a massive, domed head with huge, bat-like ears that drooped with despair. And its eyes… they were enormous, luminous pools of molten gold, currently screwed shut in utter defeat. It trembled violently, a tiny island of misery in a cold puddle.
"Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, her own catastrophic day forgotten.
The creature's eyes snapped open. They were not an animal's eyes. They held an ancient, intelligent, and deeply pissed-off consciousness. The golden orbs fixed on her, and it let out another grumble, a sound that conveyed not fear, but immense, personal offense.
Her heart, already soft and bruised from the day's beatings, melted entirely. This was a sign. A weird, wet, ugly sign. She couldn't fix her career. She couldn't control the weather. But she could save this one, hideous, grumpy little life.
"Okay, buddy," she said, her voice firm with sudden purpose. She crouched, ignoring the cold water that immediately soaked through her trousers. She sacrificed her ruined blazer, wrapping the shivering form in the damp fabric. It didn't struggle. It didn't make a sound. It just stared at her with those unsettling, knowing eyes. As she lifted it, she noticed two things: it was surprisingly heavy and dense, and it was warm. Unnaturally warm, like a stone baked by the sun. For a split second, the air around it seemed to shimmer, the raindrops hissing into steam before they could touch its skin.
She wrote it off as a trick of the light and her own frayed nerves.
"Don't you worry," she cooed, cradling the bundle against her chest as she rushed to her apartment door. "We'll get you warmed up. I've got tuna. You're safe now."
Fumbling under the sodden doormat, she found the key. The creature in her arms let out a low, raspy sound. It was structured, almost like words. Through the howling wind, she could have sworn it muttered, "Tuna… is… acceptable… for a start, mortal."
Maya froze, key in the lock. She looked down. The golden eyes stared back, utterly serious.
"You're just a weird-looking cat," she told it firmly, her voice trembling slightly. "A weird, ugly, hairless cat who's had a bad day. Just like me."
She shoved the door open and stumbled into the dry, quiet sanctuary of her home. She leaned against the closed door, catching her breath. The creature had stopped shivering. It poked its head out of the blazer and began a slow, critical examination of her entryway, its nose wrinkling at a stack of unopened bills.
She looked down at the bizarre being she had just invited into her life.
"Don't worry, Smeagol," she said, the name arriving fully formed in her mind. "You're home now."
The creature—Smeagol—stiffened. Its golden eyes widened in pure, unadulterated outrage. It drew itself up to its full, unimpressive height within the fabric and let out a sound that was unmistakably a scoff of utter contempt.
"Smeagol?" it rasped, its voice like grinding stones. "You dare bestow the name of a groveling, subterranean wretch upon Malakor the Unseen, Lord of the Abyssal Planes, Breaker of Worlds?"
Maya stared. And then, the dam of her terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day broke. A wave of hysterical laughter bubbled up and escaped her lips.
"Okay," she said, carrying him toward the kitchen, a real, genuine smile finally breaking through. "We'll discuss titles after you've had some tuna, Your Lordship."