Splashdown Remastered and Housecat

When she was with him she could let her guard down, relax. He was her Alpha, but far from being a domineering beast who would swipe her with his claws for every minor infraction, she could be his subordinate without surrendering her pride. She could still be the biggest and the strongest, the proud Borealan warrior, but in his company she could put a temporary hold on the tension and posturing.

Another one of her walls had been torn down, and he wasn't about to let her retreat into her shell again.

"Show me," he commanded, and her tail twitched nervously.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's find something for you to carve, and you can show me how you do it."

Before she could mount a protest, he set off into the apartment in search of something that she could carve, leaving her to put the VR goggles away. A bar of soap maybe? No, it should be wooden, in case he wanted to keep it when she was done. He searched around the kitchen for a minute as she watched him across the open plan apartment, and then he found something suitable. There was a wooden bowl on one of the counter tops, designed to hold salads and snacks no doubt. It was fairly large, with a lot of surface area, the wood looked soft enough for carving.

He brought it over to her and raised it above his head so that she could see it.

"Will this work?"

"Yes..."

She took it from his hands, examining it for a moment as she turned it over.

"Do you need to sit at the table?"

She shook her head, her feline eyes still fixed on the bowl.

"No, I can do it on the couch."

She sat down heavily, the frame creaking under her weight, McGregor hovering nearby. She hadn't started carving yet, she was just look over the bowl, no doubt planning what she was going to carve and how she would go about it.

"Do you need a knife or anything?"

"I'd need a stamp for damascening, but I can carve wood with my claws."

"Like finger painting," he commented. As he watched her, her face began to redden, almost as if she was embarrassed to be seen.

"I've...never done it with anyone watching before," she stammered. He was still amazed by her shyness, it was so jarring coming from a creature that was eight feet tall and weighed as much as a Bengal tiger. In one moment she acted like a ferocious drill instructor, and in the next she behaved like a quiet schoolgirl.

"Well you'll have to get used to it, because I want to watch," he said as he clambered up onto the oversized couch beside her. She hesitated for a moment longer, then she extended her furry index finger and brought her claw down towards the bowl. Her talons were wickedly sharp, as black as onyx and curved like meat hooks. A swipe from one of her hands would have cleaved flesh from bone, probably taken his head clean off his shoulders, but she was using that killing implement with such care and dexterity now. Their big hands and fat fingers made them look clumsy compared to a human, but that wasn't the case at all.

Her claw sank easily into the soft wood, and as he watched, she began to carve. She cut furrows in the bowl, drawing lines and patterns, blowing away the excess dust every so often as she worked. McGregor had seen humans whittle to create little carvings and sculptures, but this was entirely different. Rather than using a knife or a tool to cut away the unwanted wood, their fingers themselves were knives. He wouldn't have been surprised if this practice dated back to the earliest days of their species' evolution, it seemed like something that came naturally to them.

Slowly a scene began to unfold before his eyes, the furrows and cuts taking on a coherent shape. She wasn't just drawing in the wood, she was carving a relief, removing layers of material strategically in order to raise the characters and objects that she was creating from the surface.

He sat patiently for perhaps an hour as she worked, what was clearly a mountain range slowly taking form. It was impeccably detailed, with blankets of snow and craggy peaks that jumped out at him, very nearly three dimensional as she chipped away at the bowl. He remained silent, not wanting to disturb or distract her. She was so engrossed in her work that she never once looked up.

As well as raising the shapes from the surface of the bowl, the wood beneath was a lighter shade of brown, no doubt because the top layer had been varnished or treated with some kind of chemical that had darkened it. In this way, she was even able to add some color to the piece, like a greyscale picture in shades of nutmeg and beige.

Over the next hour she meticulously carved out a mountain range that tapered into rolling hills and highlands, then a forest that encircled a meadow that was dotted with flowers. It was accurate as anything that McGregor had seen painted by hand, and it was impeccably detailed, her sharp claws allowing her to make very fine carvings.

When she began to detail the stag, McGregor realized what she was making. It was the scene from the VR program, the deer reaching its nose out to sniff her. Due to the curvature of the bowl, it almost looked like a shot taken through a fish-eye lens, a perspective which must have taken a lot of careful planning to pull off so accurately.

Now it was McGregor's turn to be awestruck, he would never have imagined that she had such hidden talents. She went to such lengths to look tough and mean, when all she really wanted to do when given a choice was make art. She was a warrior poet in a sense.

When she was done, she blew away the excess dust, and handed her piece to McGregor. He turned it over in his hands, examining her carving, the giant alien looking on nervously as if she expected him to be overly critical.

"This amazing," he said, running his fingers over the rough surface. "I can't believe that anyone would try to discourage you. How did you learn to carve like this?"

"When I was an adolescent I would train with the rifles at the range, as soon as a Borealan is strong enough to lift a weapon, they learn to use it. I always liked the carvings and metalwork on the guns, each one was different. Some had scenes depicting famous battles and great figures, others were reliefs of hunts, some were just attractive geometric patterns and inlays. I wanted to make something like that for myself, and so when I raised enough money to buy my own rifle, I also decorated it myself. I practiced on miscellaneous pieces of wood and other household objects before ever laying a claw on my precious gun of course, much to the ire of my mothers. I copied what I had seen and gradually taught myself to carve."

"You learned to do this by yourself? That's incredible."

"Well, my first attempts weren't anything like this," she admitted, gesturing to the bowl. "In fact I surely ruined my first rifle, but it was mine, and I loved it. Borealan kittens are raised communally, we have many mothers. It has its benefits, no kitten ever need be neglected. When they're hungry or upset there's always a mother available to soothe them. They share everything however, toys and possessions included, and the biggest and baddest kittens usually end up with the best stuff."

She noticed McGregor's sympathetic expression, and waved her hand dismissively.

"That is our way. Borealan kittens are not like human children, they're little demons. You could drop kick one across the room and I doubt it would suffer any injuries. Anyway, coming of age and owning something that is yours alone is a big part of growing up for a Borealan. My first possession was my rifle."

"Reminds me of when I bought my first car," McGregor replied, leaning back into the couch as he reminisced. "When I was seventeen I worked a summer job and earned enough credits to buy an old Nissan convertible. It was a piece of junk, the lithium batteries were shot and they had melted through their housing and eaten a hole clear through the chassis. Took me the rest of the summer to get the damned thing roadworthy, and by then it was too late to pick up girls. It was mine though, the first real thing that I bought with my own money."

"A car is a vehicle?"

"Yeah, think of it as a shuttle that moves along the ground on a set of wheels."

"Oh, they have those in Rask, desert crawlers. But if you have spaceships, why do you need vehicles that move along the ground?"

"A shuttle is great for traveling long distances, and spaceships travel between planets, but what if you need to travel a shorter distance? What if you need to travel say, fifty miles? Too far to walk, not far enough to justify a shuttle?"

"Then you use a car? I see. In Elysia we rarely need to travel outside of the territory, and so we have no use for cars."

"I understand the sentiment, in any case," he said as he leaned forward to set the bowl down on a nearby coffee table. "Your art is really amazing. You could probably make money doing this, you know. I'd bet that people back on Earth and the core colonies would pay out the wazoo for alien artifacts. I'm sure all of the socialites would fork over thousands of credits for authentic, hand-crafted Borealan reliefs that they could display in their homes. The fact that you can carve anything wooden is a big selling point. You could make bowls, furniture, hell anything that you can imagine."

"You think so? Why would they want such things from me? Can't they buy those things on their home planets?"

"Yeah, but that's not the point. It's rustic, exotic, and more importantly none of their rich friends will have one. Have you ever considered maybe...leaving the military and going into business for yourself, even if it was just decorating other people's guns back on the homeworld?"

She looked off into the distance for a moment, mulling over what he was saying. So much of her pride was wrapped up in her identity as a warrior, he hoped that he hadn't taken things too far and struck a nerve. It was necessary however, he could plainly see that the military life was doing her no favors. Her own drive to succeed and to be the best was making her miserable, every second spent in the company of a Borealan pack compounding her stress and anxiety. She was too proud to let herself be supplanted as the leader, but the position brought her no joy, no happiness. It was a Catch-22, being a subordinate was intolerable to her, but being an Alpha was scarcely any better.

The only time that she seemed to be happy and relaxed, the only time that she could pursue her creative drive, was when she was with him. He was the only person that she felt that she could submit to without sacrificing her pride.

"You think that I should...leave the military?"

"I'm suggesting it, yes, out of concern for you. As a friend, as your Alpha, and as your lover. Whenever they give you some shore leave, whenever you get back from a deployment and you have some time to wind down, you're like a bomb that's ready to explode. You always seem irritable, angry, stressed out. It takes you days to cool off and become your usual self again. I know why, it's because you feel that you have to be Alpha, you have to be the top dog and you have to beat down anyone who tries to take that position from you. You're too proud to submit to any of your packmates, and yet being the Alpha doesn't make you happy."

She was still staring directly ahead, but McGregor was going all-in, he couldn't stop now.

"What if there were more than just two options? What if you could choose to be something other than an Alpha or a subordinate? Go into business for yourself, be your own boss. Do what you want to do, when you want to do it. You've already proven yourself a capable warrior, you've already demonstrated that nobody in your pack can challenge you. How many tours have you completed by now? More than enough to earn an honorable discharge if you wanted one, I'd bet."

"But...what would they think of me back home?"

"Who says that you'd have to go home?" McGregor asked. "You've got an account full of wages that you've never spent because the UNN pays your way. Use it to set up a store in the tourist quarter, sell your carvings to the people who pass through."

She leaned forward and picked up the bowl, staring at the relief as the gears turned in her head.

"You really think that I could do that? That people would want to buy something like this?"

"Absolutely," he replied adamantly. "And every soldier on the station will want their sidearm damascened, assuming you can get the tools and materials that you'd need."

She set the bowl down again, obviously conflicted, and McGregor reached over to pat her on the thigh.

"You don't have to decide right now, give it some thought and take your time. It's a big decision. Just remember that you aren't on Borealis anymore, you can choose where you want to live, and how."

"I will...think about it," she said. "Nobody has ever really asked me what I wanted to do before. I was always either part of a military unit, or at the head of one. I fight well, and I'm a good leader, but I guess you're right when you say that it doesn't make me happy."

"While we're on the subject of hobbies," he began, wanting to brighten the mood again. "You said that you guys do sparring. What is that, like claw fighting? Wrestling?"

"Yes, we practice close quarters fighting. Mostly claw attacks."

"I'm told that Borealis doesn't really have any martial arts to speak of, is that true?"

"To an extent," she replied. "I am aware of human martial arts. You must use throws and other such techniques to defend yourselves when deprived of your weapons. A Borealan is never deprived of their weapons, you would have to pull out their teeth and cut off their hands."

"That's a...morbid thought," he said with a grimace. "But it sounds to me like you don't think much of human CQC."

He noticed a spark of that pride in her eyes again, the same one that usually preceded a comment about Borealan martial superiority.

"Let's just say that against a Borealan, it would be useless."

"Perhaps, but what if you were deprived of your claws?"

"Then I would still be two feet larger than a human, and weigh thrice as much."

"Pilots are taught hand to hand combat these days, you know," McGregor said as he walked over towards the couch. "Help me move this."

"Move it?" Zhari asked, cocking her head at him. "Why?"

"Because we need to clear some space so that I can show you up."

"What? You want to spar with me? You can't be serious."

He gestured to the couch, and she did as she was asked, moving closer and hooking her fingers under one of the armrests. They scooted it towards the wall, and then moved the coffee table along with it. When they were done with that, they moved to the kitchen and slid the table across the tiles to clear more space. The apartment was not large, but they had made enough room for a Borealan and a human to wrestle.

"We should probably do this in the gym," Zhari said, "and I'm not sure what you think you'll accomplish."

"Oh, I have some ideas," he replied cryptically. "So how do you guys spar?"

She walked around the open plan space, seeming to gauge where all of the furniture was, and how much room they really had.

"Two Borealans enter a sand pit, they must fight until one submits. The rules are the same as a dominance fight. Claws and teeth are permitted, intentionally aiming for vital points like the throat is not."

"So it's not really sparring, it's just a dominance battle without the resulting loss or gain in standing?"

"Essentially, yes. Borealans need a way to train without risking losing their position, and sparring is the best way to go about it."

"Very well, then this area that we've cleared is our sand pit."

"It can't be a sand pit," she complained, "where will the blood drain?"

"Jesus, there's not gonna be any blood," he shot back. "You know that humans lack your healing factor, if you carve me up like a piece of steak I'll have to go to the infirmary."

"With respect," she began, McGregor knowing that everything she was about to say was going to be anything but respectful. "You're small, weak, you have no claws. What do you hope to accomplish? I will win easily, it won't be a fair fight."

He just smiled at her, and again she cocked her head like a curious dog. She watched him as he made his way over to one of the kitchen drawers beneath the counter, standing on his toes to reach as he rummaged through it.

"Aha, I knew it."

He returned to her side with a pair of oversized oven mitts, patterned with little yellow ducks.

"What are these?" Zhari asked, giving them a distasteful glance.

"Oven mitts, they're used to prevent you from burning your hands when you're handling hot food. They're full of insulating padding, and as I suspected, they're big enough for a Borealan to use. This is an apartment made with Borealans in mind after all."

"You want me to...wear these?"

He nodded emphatically.

"Better take your maid outfit off first though, you don't want it to get torn."

She narrowed her amber eyes at him, and then began to remove the garment. McGregor suppressed a grin, watching as she started with the cuffs, popping the gold buttons that held them on her wrists and dropping them to the floor. Next she reached up and slid her headpiece off, placing it beside the cuffs. She hooked her black claws around the garters that clung to her meaty thighs, lifting one furry paw, and then the other as she slid them off. She began to untie the tiny corset that was secured around her torso, pulling apart the red ribbons and then letting it fall to the carpet to join the rest of the accessories.

Her milky skin contrasted so nicely with the black and red, accentuated by it, the taut muscles on her exposed belly flexing as she reached behind her back and untied the frilly brassiere. She shrugged it off, the ruffled top falling away to expose her shoulders, and then the black lace of the lingerie that lay beneath it. It left little to the imagination, more of a mesh of silk than a garment that was intended to preserve her modesty. Her heavy breasts bounced enticingly as she leaned forward to place it on the carpet, giving him an admirable view of her cleavage, the two globes pressed tightly together by the bra.

Finally she came to the skirt, doing a little dance as she attempted to wriggle out of the tight piece of clothing, the little half-apron flapping as she struggled. She managed to get it past her wide hips, and then slid it down to her thighs, exposing the lace panties that she wore beneath it. As lean and as powerful as she was, she still had pleasant stores of fat in all of the places that count, complimenting her feminine figure. They wobbled as she moved, her breasts, thighs and ass rippling like the surface of a pond. She finally got the skirt down around her ankles and stepped out of it, stooping to collect the pile of clothes and placing them safely on the couch before returning to McGregor.

He held up the oven mitts, and she reluctantly took them from him, sliding them over her furry hands.

"They're stiff, how am I supposed to grab you?"

McGregor shrugged as she stared disdainfully at the duck patterns.

"It's called a handicap, deal with it."

He wasn't done however, and she eyed him apprehensively as he walked over to one of the kitchen counters and opened the cardboard mystery box. Zhari averted her eyes, remembering the order that she had been given. Under no circumstances was she permitted to look inside the box.

McGregor grinned, finding what he was looking for. He walked back over to her, holding a bright red ball gag in his hands, the leather strap that would secure it around her head spread between his hands.

"What is it?" She asked.