[Feint]

"If he can bend it like that, it must be fine," the most senior of the black shirts said dismissively, checking his watch. That little impatient tick of his was how Mwenye came to identify him. He had never seen nor heard of any man with so little to do act so anxious to get it all done. "He wouldn't have walked on it if it were broken. Let him sleep it off."

"Well, that's easy."

[Feint]

More laughter, then the front of the cage slammed shut in Mwenye's face, prompting him to flinch. The shoes, and the voices that belonged to them, strode away and out of sight. Unlike before, however, he could hear those voices carry well after they had left the tent and were sharing drinks outside. Had it not been for those voices, the chill night air would have been as silent as the grave. Were it not for the light filtering in from where those men were sitting with their cheap torch-light, the dark embrace of the night would have been as black as the eyes of death.

[Feint]

Mwenye rather liked it that way, and this was why: the silence and darkness signified that the circus had long since closed, and the crowds long since gone to their homes and beds.

Good riddance to it all. Mwenye freed his paw from his fur and flexed it. A sharp pain traveled from one end of his wrist to the other, but no other pains manifested. He gave it a good spot on the coldest part of his metal floor, very much wanting it to be better come morning like the senior black-shirt had claimed. Perhaps threatened.

[Feint]

Fear tingled in Mwenye's mind as he drifted off, expecting dreams that resembled nightmares. It was the same dream, every time--that of himself, facing tall, metals bars. With a yell, he threw himself at them, claws extended, staring the bright light of freedom glowing beyond them straight in the eye, no matter how it burned. And, with the wet crunch of crushed flesh and bone, he shattered his body against the metal.

It was not reliving his own death every night that made these dreams so uncomfortable for Mwenye. It was the fact that, after years and years of the same hell, the things that would rather taste his blood than grant him freedom were the very first things he saw when he woke up.

[Feint]

He was woken not an hour later by the sensation of gentle fingers probing deep into his mane. His large, golden eyes fluttered open as he struggled to resist the pleasing urge to purr, not wanting to give any enemy the satisfaction.

It was all for naught. Before he could wake enough to see who it was touching him, a rumbling purr crept from deep within his chest. In response, a light giggle as soft as wind chimes sang down to his tired ears.

[Feint]

He knew that voice. Mwenye poked his nose out between the cold bars of his cage, and looked up into the face of a beautiful young woman, whose visage was as charming as the golden sun. Ignoring the pain, he reached his injured paw between the bars and out over her shoulders, both of which he could easily grasp within one massive fist. He pulled her close, then pressed his head into her neck--a feline's hello.

"Hello, Mwenye," she sang, and kissed the top and base of his ear to the rhythm of his steady rumble.

[Feint]

He could speak as well as she, but he had, over the days and weeks she had been a part of his circus, learned that he was never going to get the chance. As long as she had been, she had talked for miles. As long as she had been, she could never stay to any one topic, making even an interrupted reply a worthless effort. And, as long as she had been, not for even one second had Mwenye minded. He held her in his warm embrace and purred away the distance as her voice, as heavenly as platinum morning air, sang his heart to rest.

[Feint]

As usual, she worried over her parents--she had run from them, humiliated by a loss. They had paid for her, with love, to join a prestigious school, and she, with their love, failed to compete. With her own love for them, she decided the pain of watching their faces fall was too much to bear, and quietly slipped away into the city. And, as usual, she drifted from that path of conversation--a little girl, no older than five, had been a part of the audience that night. She had watched, with glowing eyes, as the kindly female acrobat had entertained. "She reminded me of me, Mwenye," she said, brushing back tears.

[Feint]

He noticed. With an unhappy moan, he nuzzled the water away. She protested, insisting she was fine, and he ignored her--earning a disgruntled slap. "She reminded me of me, that's all!" she huffed. "When I was little, my mother used to take me to the circus. The acrobats were my favorite," she said, leaning against Mwenye's head with a dreamy smile. "I remember one lady, much older, who would sing after her performance. I think I can remember most of it."

[Feint]

"Please do," Mwenye said softly - well, as softly as he could manage. His voice was a stark contrast to hers. Where she sang, he growled. Where she floated with the angels of heaven, he ground along the floor like a piece of cement. He had long resented his voice, and she had long claimed to be charmed by it--as though he were charming. As she smiled and lifted her head to sing, he knew who was the charming one between them--and all the more when put to a tune. Mwenye closed his eyes and went to heaven with that voice.

[Feint]

Apparently, so did someone else. The lovely singing of the girl was cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps drawing near from the tents outside--the tents of the black-shirts, who had all been sharing drinks rather heavily not too long ago, and were likely still drinking. For a moment, the footsteps faltered, and it seemed as though they had gone another way--but no, the noise soon righted itself and continued on its path.

They began to tremble.