Work Text:
Morning light slipped through the tall curtains of the hotel suite, thin and pale, cutting across a room that still looked like it had been hit by a minor rock-band hurricane. Empty convenience store bags, bass cables, camera rolls, and half-finished sketch papers from Øystein and Pelle were scattered everywhere.
Jørn woke up first.
Or at least, half woke up.
He lay there on the bed with his eyes barely open, ears twitching lazily at the unfamiliar city noise outside.
Tokyo bustled far below the window.
After a long, miserable sigh, he dragged a hand over his face.
“I can’t fucking believe we still haven’t found the right person for this.”
Across the room, the rest of the band was already gathered around a tiny breakfast table the hotel had rolled in.
Jan was chewing on something suspiciously sweet.
Pelle sat quietly with his green tea, staring at nothing like usual.
Øystein was reading a small travel booklet that might’ve contained sacred knowledge.
Without looking up, Jørn continued groggily:
“…Three days.”
Øystein nodded like a professor delivering a lecture.
“Which means we’d better find them today.”
He flipped a page dramatically.
“Because day four would be disastrous.”
Jørn squinted.
“What.”
Øystein pointed at the booklet.
“Japanese people hate the number four.”
Jan looked up mid-chew.
“You’re telling me our ‘curse schedule’ depends on numerology now?”
Øystein raised a finger.
“Cultural sensitivity is more like it.”
Pelle took a slow sip of tea.
“We’re a Norwegian black metal band.”
Jan nodded.
“Cultural sensitivity died three airports ago.”
Jørn groaned and sat up.
His tail lazily slid off the edge of the bed.
“Fantastic. So I’m cursed, we’re lost in Tokyo, and now the calendar is against me.”
Øystein suddenly brightened.
“Oh, but good news.”
Everyone looked at him suspiciously.
He pulled out a folded flyer someone had slipped under their hotel door overnight.
It had flashy neon letters and a ridiculous cartoon cat drawn on it.
Below it were Japanese characters none of them could read.
Jan leaned closer.
“The hell does that say?”
Øystein grinned slowly.
“Something about a… spiritual transformation festival.”
Jørn’s ears twitched.
“No.”
Øystein looked way too excited.
“Yes.”
Øystein was still staring at the flyer like he’d just discovered a treasure map.
Jørn rubbed his face and sighed deeply.
“Øystein, common sense, please.”
Øystein looked up immediately.
“Well, your furry gear never had that in the first place.”
His tone was firmer now, like he had already decided the plan was happening.
Jørn opened his mouth to argue—
—but Jan cut in first, stretching his arms behind his head.
“The festival had better have an endless aisle of street food,” he giggled. “Gotta feed my muscles.”
He flexed one arm dramatically.
Jørn glanced over and snorted.
“Well, that all mostly goes to your bottom part.”
Jan froze.
Then his face turned red almost instantly.
“Excuse me?”
Pelle quietly looked over the rim of his tea cup.
Jan pointed at Jørn with a piece of toast.
“That’s slander.”
Jørn leaned back on the bed with a smug look, tail flicking lazily.
“Literally a penguin with gym membership.”
Øystein nearly choked on his drink.
Pelle’s mouth twitched slightly.
Jan stood up dramatically.
“You’re a literal cat and you’re judging my anatomy?”
Jørn shrugged.
“At least my tail balances the weight.”
Jan covered his face with both hands.
“I hate this country already.”
Øystein clapped his hands once, ending the argument like a chaotic tour manager.
“Focus, gentlemen.”
He waved the flyer again.
“Today we investigate this festival.”
Jørn narrowed his eyes.
“And if it’s just people dressed like animals?”
Øystein grinned.
“Then you’ll finally fit in.”
Pelle quietly finished his drink and stood up.
“At least they might have someone weird enough to fix you.”
Jan sighed and grabbed his jacket.
“Or, someone weird enough to make it worse.”
Jørn’s ears twitched uneasily.
“Why do I feel like that second option is more likely.”
Øystein was already heading toward the door.
“Adventure awaits, Nekobutcher.”
Jørn stayed by the window, staring down at the dense Tokyo streets like he was the tragic lead of some overly dramatic movie.
His ears drooped slightly.
“It’s about to be the biggest hell pit in life the moment you start using Japanese words on me.”
Øystein, already halfway to the door with the festival flyer in hand, didn’t even slow down.
He swayed casually as he walked.
“At least it sounds closest to Necrobutcher.”
He shrugged.
“And it’s relevant.”
Jan snorted from the couch.
“Yeah, congratulations. You’re now internationally marketable.”
Jørn turned around slowly.
“I hate that sentence.”
Pelle stood up quietly, pulling on his jacket.
“You survived Norwegian winters and rehearsal rooms.”
He looked at Jørn’s tail flicking irritably.
“You can survive Japan.”
Jan grabbed a snack from the table and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Besides, if this festival thing fails—”
He gestured outside dramatically.
“—we can always just sell you as a rare street attraction.”
Jørn pointed a finger at him.
“You’re the first one I’m pushing into traffic.”
Øystein opened the door with theatrical flair as bright hallway lights spilled into the room.
He turned back with that familiar chaotic grin.
“Come on, boys.”
He waved the neon flyer again.
“Let’s go find whoever cursed our bassist.”
Jørn groaned loudly, grabbing his coat.
His ears twitched as he walked past them.
“If this ends with me in a shrine or a cage I’m quitting everything, I'm for real this time.”
Jan patted his shoulder.
“Relax.”
Then he smirked.
“Worst case scenario, you become a Japanese mascot.”
By the time they finally tracked down the location on the crumpled flyer, the sky was beginning to brighten. Tokyo’s early morning glow washed over the streets as the band trudged along, half-awake and slightly lost.
Neon lanterns and colorful banners soon started appearing along the road.
They had found it.
The festival gate stood tall and ridiculous, covered in streamers, paper charms, and bright cartoon cats plastered everywhere.
And guarding the entrance were two enormous, round cat mascots.
They waved cheerfully at the arriving crowd.
Jørn stopped walking.
Dead stop.
Behind him, the rest of the band slowed down too.
Jan leaned sideways to peek around him.
“Oh… this is perfect.”
Øystein’s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
Pelle just blinked once.
The mascots waddled closer, jingling little bells around their necks.
They looked exactly like the kind of thing that would greet families and tourists.
Then all three bandmates slowly turned their heads toward Jørn.
Silence.
Jørn squinted suspiciously.
“…Don’t.”
Jan gently nudged his back.
“Go on.”
Øystein joined in, pushing his shoulder slightly.
“Blend in.”
Pelle, of course, added the final push.
“You’re the closest relative.”
Jørn dug his boots into the ground.
“I swear to god if one of them tries to adopt me—”
The mascots noticed him.
Their giant foam heads tilted.
One of them gasped loudly through the costume speaker.
Then both of them waddled forward excitedly.
They started clapping.
“KAWAII!!!”
Jan immediately lost it laughing.
Øystein was already grabbing his camera.
Pelle quietly covered his mouth to hide a smile.
Jørn stood there, ears twitching violently.
“I regret coming here.”
Jørn was still trying to recover from being applauded by two oversized cat mascots when Øystein suddenly stepped ahead of the group with an unusual level of confidence.
He lifted one hand dramatically and pointed deeper into the festival.
Lanterns hung overhead, incense smoke drifted through the air, and small stalls lined the path selling charms, talismans, and suspiciously colorful snacks.
Øystein spread his arms wide like he was presenting the next great discovery of mankind.
“My intuition cannot lie now.”
Jan raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no.”
Øystein gestured forward again with theatrical flair.
“Up ahead… there should be the shaman.”
He motioned his hands like he was unveiling a time machine.
Pelle stared at him.
“…Your intuition?”
Øystein nodded proudly.
“Yes.”
Jan leaned toward Pelle.
“He read two pamphlets and now he’s spiritually enlightened.”
Jørn squinted down the path.
“…Define shaman.”
Right on cue, they noticed a small crowd gathered around a stall decorated with bells, paper charms, and wooden fox masks.
A crooked sign hung above it with bold calligraphy.
The person inside wore layered robes and sat calmly behind a table full of strange objects.
Øystein’s grin grew wider.
He pointed again.
“See?”
Jørn sighed deeply.
“…That could literally be a souvenir stand.”
Pelle shrugged.
“…Or someone about to fix your life.”
Jan cracked his knuckles.
“Well.”
He gently shoved Jørn forward again.
“Only one way to find out, Nekobutcher.”
Jørn groaned as the three of them pushed him toward the mysterious stall.
Jørn stopped a few steps from the stall and turned around slowly.
The death stare he gave the others could have killed plants.
“Now, how do I even start?!”
Øystein folded his arms like a very proud manager.
“Simple.”
Jan leaned against a nearby post, grinning.
“Show him the ears.”
Pelle gave a small shrug.
“…Or hiss.”
Jørn looked ready to commit several crimes.
Before he could protest again, the person behind the stall suddenly spoke.
“Good morning.”
All four of them froze.
The shaman leaned forward slightly, hands resting calmly on the table of charms and talismans.
His voice was smooth.
Clear.
And completely fluent in their language.
“You seem troubled.”
Jan blinked.
“…Wait.”
Øystein’s eyes widened.
“…Hold on.”
Jørn slowly turned back toward the shaman.
“…You understood everything?”
The man nodded politely.
“Tourists rarely whisper.”
Pelle quietly muttered,
“…Fair point.”
The shaman’s gaze then drifted upward.
Right toward Jørn’s twitching ears.
Then down toward the tail nervously swaying behind him.
There was a pause.
A long one.
The man leaned back slightly and gave a thoughtful hum.
“…Interesting.”
Jan whispered to the others,
“He didn’t even flinch.”
Øystein whispered back excitedly,
“That means we’re in the right place.”
The shaman folded his hands.
“Tell me.”
His eyes focused calmly on Jørn.
“Did the change come suddenly?”
Jørn blinked.
“Yes?”
“Without ritual?”
“Yeah.”
“And it worsens when you resist it?”
Jørn froze.
Pelle slowly looked at him.
Jan slowly looked at him.
Øystein slowly grinned.
The shaman nodded once, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis.
Then he said something none of them expected.
“You are not cursed.”
Silence dropped like a brick.
Jørn’s ears twitched.
“What?!”
The shaman calmly lifted a small bell from the table.
It jingled softly.
“You are adapting.”
Jan whispered,
“Okay that just sounds worse.”
Jørn hadn’t even processed the word adapting when Øystein suddenly barged forward.
“WOAH, WOAH!”
He squeezed himself right next to Jørn at the tiny stall table, leaning in with a face that looked half puzzled, half wildly entertained.
“Let’s slow down here.”
The shaman watched calmly.
Øystein pointed between Jørn’s ears and tail like a confused scientist.
“You’re telling me this—” he gestured again “—is not a curse.”
The shaman nodded gently.
“Correct.”
Jan folded his arms behind them.
“…Then what the hell is it.”
Pelle remained quiet, eyes slightly narrowed.
The shaman examined Jørn for another moment, thoughtfully.
Then he said,
“Your body responded to something.”
Jørn’s ears twitched nervously.
“Uhh, to what?”
The shaman tapped the table once.
“Instinct.”
Øystein leaned back in his chair.
“That’s vague.”
Jan muttered,
“Very mystical though.”
The shaman continued calmly.
“You fought the change,”
Jørn immediately pointed at himself.
“Of course I did.”
The shaman nodded again.
“And yet it grew stronger when you resisted.”
Pelle glanced sideways at Jørn.
“That’s true.”
The shaman’s eyes softened slightly.
“But recently, it began reversing.”
Now everyone looked at Jørn.
Jan blinked.
“…Wait.”
Øystein leaned forward again.
“You mean the shrinking ears thing?”
The shaman nodded once.
Then his gaze shifted slowly toward Pelle.
Just for a second.
Pelle froze.
The shaman spoke again.
“Someone close to you changed something.”
Øystein’s head slowly turned.
Jan’s head slowly turned.
Jørn’s head slowly turned.
All three of them looked directly at Pelle.
Pelle stared back blankly.
“What…”
Øystein’s grin returned like a rising sun.
“Oh this just got interesting.”
Jørn rubbed his face with both hands, claws briefly peeking out before retracting again.
His ears flattened in frustration.
“Whyyy must I face this whole cat life test alone,” he gritted through his teeth.
The shaman tilted his head slightly.
“You are not alone.”
Jørn pointed behind him without even turning.
“Look at them.”
Jan was leaning against a pole eating festival snacks.
Øystein was sketching something suspiciously fast in a small notebook.
Pelle was staring at Jørn’s tail like it was a scientific experiment.
“They’re spectators.”
Jan shrugged with his mouth full.
“Supportive spectators.”
Øystein didn’t even look up.
“Future merch designers.”
Pelle finally spoke quietly.
“Concerned observers.”
Jørn slowly turned his head.
“You’re grooming me like a stray.”
Pelle blinked once.
“You- you were scratching.”
Øystein suddenly slapped the table.
“WAIT.”
Everyone jumped.
He pointed excitedly between Pelle and Jørn.
“Didn’t the shaman say the change started reversing when someone close changed something?”
Jan gasped dramatically.
“Oh my god.”
Jørn squinted suspiciously.
“What.”
Jan pointed at Pelle like a detective revealing the killer.
“It’s him.”
Pelle looked confused.
“…Me?”
Øystein leaned forward, thrilled.
“You stopped messing with cats.”
Jørn’s ears slowly lifted.
The shaman watched quietly.
Jan whispered like it was a courtroom revelation.
“The universe saw character development.”
Pelle looked down awkwardly.
“I just thought it might help.”
Jørn stared at him with burning frustration.
Then his tail flicked once.
“So my curse is tied to your moral growth?”
Jan burst out laughing.
“Bro got redeemed and you got partially uncatted.”
Øystein clapped like he’d just witnessed the best plot twist ever.
“This is incredible.”
Jørn looked like he might explode.
The truth settled over him like a fog he couldn’t shake off.
Everything still felt unreal. One moment the whole situation almost felt funny—ridiculous even—and the next it hit him like a brick. The ears, the tail, the teasing, the cameras, the way people looked at him like he was a walking attraction.
Part of him had almost accepted it.
But it still hurt when the people closest to him treated it like entertainment.
He stood there quietly while the festival noise carried on around them.
The shaman studied him for a moment, then reached beneath the table and took out a small talisman. It was simple: a braided cord with a small carved charm tied to it.
He gently placed it into Jørn’s palms.
“Take this.”
Jørn looked down at it, confused.
The shaman continued softly.
“It will shield you from harmful intentions.”
Jan stopped chewing.
Øystein stopped doodling.
Pelle leaned in slightly.
The shaman closed Jørn’s fingers around the charm.
“But you must not carry evil thoughts yourself.”
Jørn’s ears drooped, his hands tightened around the talisman.
His voice cracked a little.
“How do I not stay evil…”
His eyes were already watering.
He laughed weakly, like he was embarrassed by the whole thing.
“…I’m the bassist of a black metal band.”
For once, nobody behind him laughed.
Jan just scratched the back of his neck.
Øystein awkwardly closed his notebook.
Pelle quietly looked at the ground.
The shaman smiled faintly, but not even mocking.
“Music about darkness…” he said calmly, “…is not the same as having a dark heart.”
Jørn blinked.
The shaman tapped the talisman gently.
“You care how others treat you.”
He nodded toward the three behind him.
“And you still stand with them.”
A small pause.
“That is already proof.”
Jørn looked down at the charm again, still unsure.
Behind him, Jan finally muttered quietly,
“He… well, he’s got a point.”
Øystein added, almost defensively,
“We’re idiots, not evil.”
Pelle spoke last, voice low.
“You stayed. I stayed, we stayed. Fair enough.”
Jørn wiped his eyes quickly, pretending it was nothing.
His tail flicked once.
“I still might push one of you into a river.”
The shaman’s gaze slowly shifted away from Jørn.
It landed on Pelle.
“And you, kid.”
Pelle blinked.
The shaman’s eyes softened, but his voice stayed firm.
“You must not keep hurting yourself.”
For the first time since they arrived, Pelle looked genuinely stunned.
His shoulders stiffened.
His jacket sleeves were still pulled down over his wrists like always, the fabric worn from constant use. None of them could really see the marks underneath.
But somehow, the shaman already knew.
Pelle opened his mouth.
“I—”
Nothing came out.
He closed it again.
The shaman leaned forward slightly, resting his hands calmly on the table.
“Just believe that the people around you are trying to help.”
Jan shifted his weight awkwardly.
Øystein looked away for once.
Jørn’s ears tilted toward them.
The shaman continued gently.
“Peace is not pushing your way out of this world.”
Pelle’s eyes lowered.
The festival noise around them suddenly felt distant.
“Your friends intend to help you,” the shaman said.
“Even if some of them joke about the pain you carry.”
Jan coughed quietly.
“Okay that one was aimed at us.”
Øystein rubbed the back of his neck.
“In my defense, sarcasm is my coping mechanism.”
Jørn didn’t say anything at first.
He just looked at Pelle.
Then his tail flicked once and he muttered,
“We’re still here, aren’t we.”
Pelle stayed quiet.
But for the first time in a while, his shoulders loosened just a little.
The shaman gently rang the small bell on his table, the soft sound cut through the moment like a reset.
“Now,” he said calmly, “you all have a show to perform.”
Jan immediately straightened up.
“Oh right.”
Øystein snapped his fingers.
“Black metal diplomacy tour.”
Jørn sighed deeply.
“I came here to lose the ears and gained emotional therapy instead.”
Pelle quietly added,
“…Could be worse.”
Jørn glanced at him.
“…Yeah.”
The band gave the shaman a final awkward round of thanks before leaving the stall. The festival noise swallowed them again almost immediately.
Tomorrow—day four—was finally their day off before the tour shows began.
Jørn walked a few steps behind the others, turning the talisman over in his fingers like it was a strange coin.
“So what have we actually got here?” he muttered, squinting at it.
Jan was beside him, happily chewing on a box of mochi he’d bought from a stall.
“I don’t know,” he giggled with his mouth half full. “Feels like entertainment to me.”
Jørn gave him a tired stare.
“You’re eating during spiritual recovery.”
Jan shrugged.
“Muscle maintenance.”
Ahead of them, Øystein was already weaving through the crowd like a determined tourist with a mission.
Pelle followed quietly, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing at Jørn’s tail when it flicked.
Then Øystein stopped.
“Ah…”
He pointed.
Near a row of glowing lanterns and festival banners stood Jon Kristiansen, looking exactly like someone who had been waiting for them.
Except he wasn’t alone.
He was deep in conversation with two strangers.
Strangers that looked wrong.
One of them was tall and unnaturally still, wearing a long coat despite the warm day. The other had hair so pale it almost reflected the lantern light.
Jan slowed down.
“Okay,”
He squinted.
“Tell me I’m not the only one seeing that.”
Jørn’s ears twitched.
“Seeing what.”
Jan nodded toward them.
“Those guys look like they came from a vampire convention.”
Øystein leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“Honestly that would still be less weird than your current situation.”
Pelle quietly added,
“They don’t look drunk either.”
Which made it worse.
Jon noticed them approaching and raised a hand to signal “one second.”
But the two strangers turned their heads first.
Their eyes landed directly on Jørn.
On the ears.
On the tail.
They exchanged a glance.
Then one of them smiled slightly.
Jan immediately whispered,
“Oh.”
Jørn sighed.
“Am I that kawaii?”
Øystein rolled his shoulders dramatically and flipped his hair like a glam rock model.
“Oh please, Jørn. I wouldn’t drag you to Japan if they didn’t have at least ten healthy cats every two blocks.”
Jørn’s ears flattened instantly.
“That is not comforting.”
Jan grinned wide beside them.
“Besides, this is a genius move for promotion.”
He pointed lazily at Jørn’s tail swishing behind him.
“Authenticity sells.”
Jørn groaned loudly and stomped his foot like a kid forced into a school trip.
“Oh, Pelle, come on. Why don’t you hate cats anymore? At least help me out of this.”
Pelle looked a little awkward under all the attention.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ve never actually hated them.”
Pelle shrugged slightly.
“I told you. I was just being edgy.”
Jan snorted.
Øystein threw his hands up dramatically.
“Yeah whatever, it was anything a poser would do.”
Jørn stared at Pelle like he’d just been betrayed by history itself.
“So I suffered this whole time for your aesthetic.”
Pelle blinked.
“Possibly.”
Luckily for Jørn, the moment didn’t last long.
Across the path, Jon Kristiansen finally wrapped up his mysterious conversation and turned toward them with his usual persistent grin.
He waved them over.
“There you are.”
The band immediately moved toward him.
The festival crowd, however, had other plans.
Someone pointed.
Another person gasped.
Then a small group rushed forward.
“NEKOBUTCHER!”
“CAN WE TAKE A PHOTO?”
“PAWTOGRAPH PLEASE!”
Jørn froze.
“I hate this.”
Jan was already laughing.
“Too late, celebrikitty.”
Even Øystein looked impressed.
“The branding is working faster than expected.”
Pelle quietly stood beside Jørn while a couple of excited teenagers snapped pictures.
“Your ears look smaller though.”
Jørn groaned.
“Don’t start analyzing them now.”
Eventually, Metallion pushed through the little crowd and waved the band along.
“Come on before this becomes a full convention.”
He led them through the lantern-lit streets toward the small tour bus they had rented.
More cheers followed them.
A few fans chased the bus for pictures.
By the time they finally climbed inside and the door shut, the noise outside faded into muffled excitement.
Jan dropped into a seat.
“Okay.”
He wiped his face dramatically.
“That was insane.”
Øystein leaned back, clearly pleased with himself.
“International fame, gentlemen.”
Jørn collapsed into the nearest seat, tail hanging off the side.
“They really see me like an arcade game character.”
Pelle sat beside him quietly.
After a moment he muttered,
“You’re still the bassist.”
Jørn looked at him.
“Yeah.”
Outside the window, the festival lights faded behind them as the bus slowly pulled away into the Tokyo night.
But somewhere in the back of the bus, Metallion was already flipping open a notebook.
And grinning like he had a story to publish.
The bus rolled to a slow stop under a row of dim streetlights, somewhere between neon-lit blocks and quieter residential streets. The driver muttered something about a quick grocery stop, and before anyone could argue, the doors opened.
One by one, they stepped out.
Jørn stretched his back the moment his boots hit the pavement, tail flicking lazily behind him.
Then—
Something brushed against his leg.
He froze.
Slowly, he looked down.
A cat.
Not just any cat.
It had the exact same coloring as his ears and tail—dark, sleek, almost like a reflection of himself in smaller form.
Jørn squinted at it.
“…What?”
He said it like the cat owed him an explanation.
The cat looked up at him.
Unbothered.
Then—
“MEOOOW.”
Loud.
Sharp.
Clear enough that a couple of nearby pedestrians turned their heads.
Jan, halfway out of the bus, stopped mid-step.
“…No way.”
Øystein immediately leaned out the door, eyes lighting up.
“Oh this is symbolic.”
Pelle stepped down more quietly, watching the scene with narrowed eyes.
Jørn pointed at the cat.
“…Why does it look like me.”
The cat stepped closer.
Rubbed against his leg.
Purring.
Jørn stiffened.
“…Don’t.”
The cat ignored him completely and circled his feet like it had known him for years.
Jan burst out laughing.
“Bro found your spawn.”
Øystein was already digging for his camera.
“This is perfect. This is art.”
Jørn shot him a warning look.
“Do not—”
Click.
Too late.
Pelle crouched down slowly near the cat.
It didn’t run.
Instead, it glanced between Pelle and Jørn like it was comparing them.
Then it meowed again.
Softer this time.
Jørn’s ears twitched instinctively.
He looked… confused now.
“…Why do I feel like it’s talking.”
Jan wiped tears from laughing.
“Because you’re halfway there, man.”
Øystein leaned against the bus, grinning.
“Go on. Answer it.”
Jørn hesitated.
The cat looked up at him again.
Waiting.
There was a long pause.
Then, against all dignity, Jørn crouched slightly.
“What do you want.”
The cat blinked.
Then bumped its head gently against his knee.
Purring louder.
Pelle watched quietly.
“It likes you.”
Jørn exhaled slowly.
“I don’t like where this is going.”
The cat sat down right in front of him.
Like it had made a decision.
Jan pointed immediately.
“Oh no.”
Øystein smirked.
“It’s choosing you.”
Jørn stood there, frozen.
The cat didn’t move.
The night felt oddly still for a second.
Then Jørn muttered under his breath,
“We are not bringing it on the bus.”
Øystein crossed his arms, watching the cat like he was evaluating a business proposal.
You could almost see the gears turning.
“We keep it.”
Jørn didn’t even look at him.
“No.”
Øystein raised a finger.
“Hear me out.”
Jan groaned.
“Here we go.”
Øystein gestured toward the cat, who was now calmly licking its paw like it paid rent.
“Best case scenario, it helps with your recovery.”
He tilted his head.
“Worst case scenario, you stay like this and we maintain peak controversy.”
Jørn slowly turned to him.
“You just said that out loud.”
Jan nodded.
“Respect the honesty.”
Pelle glanced between the cat and Jørn.
“As long as no one’s allergic.”
Jørn pointed at himself.
“I’m allergic to this entire situation.”
Yet nobody listened.
A while later, they came out of the store loaded with grocery bags of instant meal preps, snacks, drinks, and others none of them could properly read.
And the cat was still there.
Right by the bus.
Still unbothered, still waiting.
It looked up the moment Jørn stepped closer.
Its tail curled neatly around its paws.
Then
“Mrrrrr.”
Jørn stopped.
There wasn’t even a surprise in his face anymore.
“Of course you’re still here.”
The cat stood up, stretched, and walked straight to him again like it had already made up its mind hours ago.
It brushed against his leg.
Again.
Purring louder this time.
Jan dropped the grocery bags onto the bus step.
“Oh it’s over.”
Øystein grinned like he’d just witnessed destiny.
“It chose its host.”
Jørn sighed, staring down at it.
“I didn’t agree to this.”
Pelle stepped closer, crouching slightly.
The cat glanced at him, then immediately went back to Jørn.
Choice confirmed.
Pelle looked up.
“Yeah… It’s yours.”
Jørn let his shoulders drop.
His tail flicked once, slower now.
“Huh, I’m not naming it.”
Øystein was already climbing into the bus.
“We’ll name it.”
Jan followed right behind.
“I vote something embarrassing.”
Jørn glared at both of them.
“Touch that name and I’m leaving you in Tokyo.”
Behind him, the cat let out another soft “mrrr.”
Jørn looked down at it again.
Long pause.
Then he muttered quietly,
“You’re NOT coming inside.”
The cat blinked.
Then jumped onto the first step of the bus anyway.
Jan lost it laughing.
Øystein pointed dramatically.
“IT HAS AGENCY.”
Pelle just stood there, watching.
Then he said softly,
“Guess you’re not alone anymore.”
Jørn didn’t answer.
But this time, he didn’t push the cat away either.
The bus door shut behind them with a heavy thud. The cat had already made itself comfortable.
Right on Jørn’s seat. Of course.
Jørn stood there, staring at it like it had personally insulted his entire existence.
“Move...”
The cat blinked slowly.
Did not move.
From the side, Jon leaned over and nudged him with a grin that meant trouble.
“Well, Jørn.”
Jørn didn’t even look at him.
“Don’t.”
Jon ignored that completely.
“Use it before you lose it.”
Jan immediately burst out laughing from the back.
“Oh that’s evil.”
Øystein turned around in his seat, intrigued.
“Clock it.”
Jon gestured casually at the cat, then at Jørn.
“You’ve got the look, the sound, and now the mascot.”
He smirked.
“You ride this wave properly, you’re not just a bassist anymore.”
Jørn finally looked at him.
“I like being just a bassist.”
Jon shrugged.
“Too late.”
Pelle sat quietly nearby, watching Jørn more than the conversation.
The cat shifted slightly, making space, barely.
Jørn sighed like a man accepting defeat.
“Fiiine.”
He sat down.
The cat immediately curled against his side, purring loud.
Jan pointed from across the bus.
“Look at that. Bonding.”
Øystein was already scribbling again.
“New concept of dual presence—man and manifestation.”
Jørn leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half closed.
“I’m surrounded by idiots and opportunists.”
Pelle spoke softly.
“And one cat.”
Jørn glanced down.
The cat blinked up at him.
And he just muttered,
“You better not ruin my bass tone.”
The cat purred louder in response.
Jan clapped once.
“Right-down truth. It agrees.”
The blinding city lights blurred past as the bus moved again.