GIRL. CAT EARS. GROWTH. Inputting these keywords into the seeker algorithm, Seba leaned back in the chair. “This is how you do it, right?” He turned his head towards Ewa for approval.
TULIPAN. Warsaw's telecommunications network. Kilometers-worth of bright red cables connected every computer and telephone like rubbery veins. But instead of blood, they carried information: data, text, images, and even videos. You could type out a message and have it travel to somebody else’s desktop in mere seconds, or even call someone directly using your computer. Since it was state-owned, you could find a TULIPAN outlet in most public spaces. This also meant that the entire network was full of junk data which the seeker algorithm had to filter—like those fake messages from American soldiers wanting to take Polish brides if you sent them money through the postal service.
“That’s it.” Ewa pressed a cold compress against her bruised ribs. After the little confrontation, the pair moved to their hangar in Piaseczno. It was only 16 kilometers south of the city center but allowed for some much-needed breathing room before they turned this assignment back in. “Run it through the entire network. We need to figure out who she is.”
"I know," Seba agreed, rubbing his temples. "She's valuable. Rüstungszentrale wouldn't have sent us out for anything less." His eyes flickered between the screen and the Neko now wrapped in a blanket on a mattress in the corner. “I am just trying to figure out how valuable.”
GIRL. CAT EARS. GROWTH. Keywords matched. References found, but nothing of value. There were a few flash-newspaper articles written about the incident, but he already knew more than the authors about what happened near the Vistula. This was particularly infuriating since risking attention from ZOMO was rarely worth it; TULIPAN—like everything else—was monitored. At least these articles were going to get deleted soon by the authorities.
“Wonder if Filemona is going to make it,” putting the compress away, the woman moved her scapula to check if the pain was still there.
“She’s breathing. Had some needle marks around the nape of her neck. I am not a doctor, but it doesn’t look infected.” There was a pause. “Wait, Filemona?”
“Yeah. Filemona,” Ewa nodded. “What, were you just going to call her ‘cat’ all the time?”
“I wasn’t planning to call her anything.” Seba lowered his eyelids. Just like before, he knew exactly where this was going. “Primo: if Rüstungszentrale discovers we haven’t returned the cargo, they’ll come looking.” He pointed over his shoulder at the two mecha slumped in the other corner. “And then what? Jopek has busted comms and hydraulics, and Kabura needs a new hull.”
“So what, you just want to hand her over?” Ewa stood up, crossing her arms. “She saved your life.”
“She did.” He couldn’t argue with that. Seba wasn’t exactly sure why the giantess decided to target the enemy mecha, but—at the end of the day—she still did. “And now, I am saving ours.” Seeing that the woman’s face failed to soften, he turned around in his chair to face her. “Aren’t you the one always talking about money? Your payday is currently resting in the corner.”
Ewa's jaw tightened. She didn't immediately respond. Instead, she looked over at the girl. Her ears twitched slightly—a reminder of the power she had displayed just hours ago. "But handing her over feels…bad,” she finally squeezed out.
"Feels bad," Seba once again agreed, running a hand through his hair. "But getting shot through the liver feels worse.”
In the end, all the decisions were handled by a vote—this is the principle on which their mercenary group (on the outside, a renovation firm) was founded.
“I vote yay.”
“Nay.”
Having two members, however, that rarely ended in anything meaningful.
“I just don’t get why Rüstungszentrale sent us after a girl without saying anything.” Ewa reached into the fridge, taking out the last beer for herself while putting the compress away.
“They didn’t know,” Seba concluded. “If they did, they would have told us.” It would have also been a lot simpler if Filemona was just a big gun.
“They did insist on being careful, but that’s just what they normally say when there’s high-grade cargo involved.” Taking a long sip, Ewa looked up at the ceiling while smacking her lips. “Gave us no plans for subduing her. Didn’t get as much as handcuffs. And don’t get me started on extraction plans. You barely managed to squeeze her into the cockpit of Kabura.” Pressing the cold can to her wound, the woman tilted her head back. “Yes, this might actually work nicely for us.”
“Ewa… Don’t try anything.” Seba took a deep breath, already moving towards their mecha. “I'll start with the repairs. In the meantime, go buy some food. Take my ration card. Trade a few of the sugar coupons for beer when you get the chance.” Something told him that they’ll need it to get through this.
Ewa’s eyes lit up at the thought of finally eating something different. Seba was a decent enough cook, but he didn’t allow even a drop to go to waste—despite how much pay the mercenary job brought in. This typically meant that he made a whole pot worth of rosół and then converted it into pomidorowa after a few days. With only two of them, that dreaded pot lasted 3-4 days.
“I can take Polonez to the black market. No need to stand in line.” For both of them, it was a waiting game. She tried to stall Seba until he agreed to keep the stranger, while he—in turn—waited until Ewa finally conceded to giving her away.
“The curfew is in effect,” he recalled, grabbing his tools. “Best not to bring the car into the city proper.” Without turning around, he could hear the sound of the doors sliding shut. This meant that it was just him here—him, and that thing.
Fixing up the Jopek was fairly easy since all the panels were already exposed and there was limited re-assembly required. Twisting the wires together and wrapping them in electric tape was good enough. At least Ewa seemed to think so, considering this is what constituted her “repairs.” Breathing deeply, he prepared to fully replace several of the more egregious crimes against electrical engineering.
Previously drowned out by the whirling of his grinder and the crackling of the coal furnace, Seba noticed another sound once the motor went silent. There came this peculiar plastic clicking—as if somebody was shuffling through their tapes. Peeking over the corner, he saw the back of the Neko's head and the outline of her ears.
Filemona sat in front of a large wooden box atop his bed, squinting while struggling to read the names scribbled on carriages. He really hoped that she didn’t break anything. These weren’t just VHS, but the new cartridge cassettes capable of carrying x16 the data of an 8 mm tape while only the size of a playing card.
“Those are mine,” he called softly, trying not to startle her. The girl turned her head, tucking her ears in. “Give them back.” Filemona looked at his extended hand—or at least, he imagined that she did, since most of her face was still obscured by short messy black hair—while clutching one of the cartridges against her chest. “Can you even understand me? Do you speak Polish? German? Russian? Czech?”
The Neko drummed the cartridge against her belly as if trying to remember whether she could understand him. “I can. Yes.” She gave a half-nod, scurrying away once he tried to get close.
“Why?” She had some kind of accent, and Polish isn’t exactly a language one learns for the sake of it. There were other more utilitarian choices. No, this seemed deliberate.
“I don’t know. Yes.” At the same time, Filemona lacked any sort of purpose in her words. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her monotone, but it really seemed like she was reading off of an invisible script. Even the way she sometimes randomly glanced around reminded him of a performer searching for their lines.
Seba sighed and withdrew his hand. “Just don’t break it.” He watched as Filemona clutched it tighter. There was something both endearing and unsettling about her behavior—she seemed so vulnerable, yet capable of destruction. “Do you remember when you became large?”
It once again took her a while to think. “I can do that. Yes.”
“No!” Seba objected, quickly sitting by her side and putting his hands on her shoulders. “Not indoors—never indoors.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes.” It seemed like she was content getting her grubby little hands on everything, with the woman (who he refused to call Filemona) currently messing around with their video player. Ewa insisted that they should get the one that can transmit colored footage and even auto-color older videos, so he winced while watching her trying to jam the cartridge in.
Finally, she managed to slot it, with the footage of a tank rolling toward the camera now playing on the screen. At first appearing black and white, many rainbow vertical lines danced across the screen, coloring it. Filemona jumped back onto the bed, landing on Seba’s knees and trying to make herself comfortable—her naked form rubbing up against him. For such a little thing, she had proportionally wide hips. In comparison, her tits looked like two flower buds trying to survive the winter by hiding under a thin layer of snow.
“What are you doing?” Wanting to get her off him, Seba lifted her by the armpits. Looking over his shoulder, the cat girl simply continued staring at the screen. It was one of the episodes from that old series about a crew of tankmen and their dog on the Eastern Front of WW2. “Hey, are you listening to me?”
Turning towards him and then looking down at her dangling feet, the Neko made a nasty face. “Put me down, mister. Yes.”
“Not until you get dressed,” he put his foot down.
But so did she.
Filemona pouted, her cheeks filling with air. The same warmth which once melted the Vistula now began filling the room. His grip weakened as the woman’s body began rapidly heating up, as if feverish. He was worried about allowing her to drop, but by the time that was an issue the cat-girl had already grown to surpass him.
“Let’s all calm down.” Now, it was him who was backing away. “Okay?” It was a bit surreal looking up at her. Her body proportions were the same, but she was now a head taller than him. Seba knew that she had potential for further growth, wanting to quickly settle it before she busted through the ceiling. “Do you…do you like tanks?”
Filemona tilted her head, finally allowing the air to escape her cheeks as the expansion halted. “What are tanks?”
"Like mechas," he explained, gesturing towards Jopek and Kabura with his neck, “but on tracks. They used to be pretty popular in the 20th century. The problem was that each tank required a whole crew to manage.” The movie served as a perfect example, showing four tankmen squatting in a cramped hull.
Settling down onto the bed, Seba heard the springs creaking under her weight. “I like tanks. Yes.”
Good. She was distracted. The man rummaged through a nearby storage bin while she continued watching the show, pulling out some old clothes that once belonged to Ewa. They were a bit worn but would have to do for now. Handing them to the Neko once she had shrunken back down, he tried not to stare as she clumsily put them on. From the way she moaned and scratched the fabric, it was clear she wasn't accustomed to wearing—well—anything.
“There we go,” he ruffled her hair, pulling away once the cat girl threatened to puff her cheeks again. “Do you want something?”
“Food!”
“Well,” Seba tapped the side of his trousers while looking around. “Ewa is still out shopping, so we don’t have much.” Reaching into a cupboard, he pulled out a few instant noodle sachets.
“Ramen?” The cat-girl rubbed her hands together at the first sign of familiarity as Seba threw the packets at her. Reading over the labels, she seemed more confused than anything. Borsch? Goulash? Tripe? Pickle soup?
“I am back!” Fortunately, Ewa came to relieve them, slamming the door behind her. “Found a single mother who needed sugar and flour, so the fridge will be full,” riffling her bag, there came the metallic sound of beer cans juggling around in there.
“Good job,” grabbing the grocery bag, Seba began unloading the goods. Looks like Ewa couldn’t get any meat, but that was to be expected—even if she was a champion of pushing through the food lines. At least she got a few of those cheese cutlets he enjoyed.
“And I see that our little princess is also awake,” she called out, watching Filemona standing by the side of his leg. “I hope you didn’t waste all the time playing around with her. We still need Jopek and Kabura operational ASAP—just like you said.”
Looking between the mecha and its pilot, the Neko tapped her chin. “Kabura → カブラ → turnip?”
“No!” he objected, almost dropping the bag. “Kabura → gun holster! Do not call the peak of Polish engineering a turnip.”
“It does kind of look like a turnip,” Ewa didn’t exactly understand what Filemona meant by this, but the way in which the armor sloped around Seba’s mecha did resemble some kind of a root vegetable. “Nice catch, Filemona!”
“Filemona?” The Neko furrowed her brows in confusion, struggling to recall something as basic as her name. “I don’t think that’s my name. Yes.”
Ewa brushed her hair aside just to find more hair underneath. "So what's your name, then?"
“Takako,” she confidently replied. For all they knew, this might as well have been the only thing she was sure of.
Ewa knelt in front of her. “Do you remember anything about yourself?”
Takako shook her head slowly. “I remember being cold. Yes.”
“Well, you’re not cold anymore,” she smiled. “And don’t worry about forgetting everything. We’re trying to figure out exactly who you are.”
“Wait a moment!” Seba quickly snapped out of the whole turnip comment, hating how accurate it was. “We didn’t agree on anything.”
“Let’s vote on it! I say yay.”
Takako raised her hand to vote, but Seba immediately pulled it back down. “This is for the members of the mercenary group only,” he reminded, quickly adding “nay” at the end.
“She’s capable of knocking down mecha, so let’s vote on accepting Takako into the mercenary group!” Ewa proposed. “I vote yay.”
“Yay! Yes.” The Neko called out, only to find her hand forced down again.
“You can’t vote for yourself being allowed to vote,” Seba corrected.
Takako clenched her fist as her hand was forced down again. She puffed her cheeks out slightly, with the room's temperature rising in response. In mere moments, she was towering over him—her height nearly tripling. Her cat ears twitched in irritation while her tail moved like a whip. This wasn’t her true size—far from it—but the woman was large enough to make the man rethink his position. More than that, putting her hand down was no longer physically viable.
“You guys are once again proving Plato correct. And—and you know, they would have shot you apart for a stunt like this during the war.” Squeezing it out took a lot of bracing but Seba conceded. “Fine. She is allowed to vote.”
"Yay!" Ewa and Takako exclaimed in unison. The temperature returned to normal as the Neko shrank back down—a satisfied smile spreading across her face. Seba just sighed, shaking his head. They had their new member, whether he liked it or not (and he didn’t).
“What’s wrong? Are you angry, dear Seba?”
Kneeling, Seba threw his field jacket over Takako’s body while collecting the loose scraps and displaying them to Ewa. “These were yours.” While all the biological parts grew with her, the same could not be said about clothing.
Ewa gritted her teeth. “This is fine. I am—uh—fine with it. Just please don’t tell me she went after my tapes…”
“Relax, your tapes are safe,” Seba assured, though he couldn't help but chuckle at Ewa's possessiveness. There was this one pirate-cassette band she liked, but fortunately (for Ewa) Takako went after his stuff instead. Having listened to her recordings once, he could confidently say that they were the only group that didn’t have any bad songs. They were all mediocre.
“Tapes?” Takako moved her arms up and down, feeling the weight of the military jacket. It was clearly oversized, but she didn’t feel like growing into it.
“Apropos,” reaching for one of them, Ewa imputed their last recording into a player.
And as they turned in for the night, the small hangar felt a little less empty.