Note: For thenizu. Inspired by Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Cats."

“Come on,” Erik hisses, for what feels like the hundredth time.  The RealCat behind him is damaged and leaking purple fluid, but it keeps up with barely a limp.  It’s the normal feline, John, who’s struggling to make the climb out of the rail car catacombs into the station proper.  He still refuses to accept any mutant help.

“I will wrap you in tinfoil and lift you through this duct,” Erik threatens.  The warning keeps him from actually doing it.  Mostly.  The metal vents are subtly shifting and realigning to let them through.

“And I’ll scratch your damned eyes out,” John snaps back.  His claws shriek on the ductwork, but he hangs onto the edge and hauls himself up.  “Why the main line, anyway,” he grumbles.  “It’s filled with passengers.”

Because the West Coast Main Line is Erik’s route, and it’s the most reliable ride north they’ll get.  “Because it’s a straight shot to Glasgow,” he says.  Where RealCat regulation is much looser, and runaways stand a better chance of disappearing.  “And it leaves in two minutes, so move.”

“One minute,” the RealCat corrects.  Of course it has a clock in its head; it’s probably ghosting on the station network while they scramble through the shadows.

“Damn it.”  John jams up against the screen at the end of the duct, staring in dismay at the bustling platform between them and the old maglev on the northbound track.  “We’re not gonna make it.”

“They won’t leave,” Erik growls.  His right front paw flexes and clenches against an unimportant pain.  The station clock reads 11:39, but the junction signal is still red: those cars aren’t ready to release.

Then the notice board over the platform turns orange, and a warning chime precedes a station announcement.  “Lost RealCat,” the automated voice says.  “Lost RealCat.  Please display your robotic pet’s registration on the station network to avoid delays.”

“Get off the network,” John says grimly.  His personal attachment to the dark RealCat he smuggled past station security is irrelevant, except that it’s currently slowing them down.

“Done.”  The blue light flickering at the tips of the RealCat’s ears goes out, and it looks for all the world like its biological brethren.  Except for the distinctly mass-produced pattern of its fur, and the faint purple footprint where lubricant is pooling beneath its artificial paw.

Erik lifts the screen with a push of his own wounded wrist, metal melting upward into something that leaves a space for them to squeeze out.  “Follow the girl in the blue dress,” he tells the RealCat.  “Like you’re her pet until you get to the last car.  Go.”

It does what it’s told, flowing through the opening and prancing gracefully on the heels of the stationmaster’s daughter.  And it knows what it’s doing, too: that’s not the walk of a fugitive.  The girl doesn’t turn, and no one is going to stop her.  They hope.

Erik shoves his shoulder into John just to be irritating.  “Chase me.  Quietly.  To draw the eye, not a crowd.”

He slips out after the RealCat and John is right behind him, darting through feet and electric lights.  The occasional exclamation follows in their wake, but it's more surprise than alarm.  Erik is too big to be a RealCat, and John is too scruffy.  As far as anyone knows, they’re a couple of station mousers out for a midnight romp.

They make the far side of the platform just as the clock ticks over to 11:40.  The RealCat is nowhere to be seen, but the girl in the blue dress has stopped by the main line and Erik flies past the safeties without a thought.  The tracks sing as he bounds down and then up, easy in the maze of metal beneath the maglev.

“If they release while we’re down here, we’re crushed,” John complains, scrabbling along the subfloor behind him.

“They won’t release,” Erik says.  If they do, he can probably fling the two of them clear in time.  Whether he could get the RealCat out is a different question.

“Where’s Dorian?” John demands.  Like he can hear Erik thinking.

“Hey.”  The RealCat’s pitch is almost subaudible over the idling thrum of the tracks, and John looks up before Erik does.  “Is the luggage car acceptable?”

“If it’s inside the train it’s acceptable,” John grumbles.  He’s breathless and exhausted and it shows, but he forces his way into the car and doesn’t even twitch when Erik bounds in behind him.  “You do this a lot?”

“Enough,” Erik says, bracing his legs to relieve the weight on his front paw.  “There’s a charge mat on the top shelf, rear station-side.  Room for two if you squeeze.”

John looks surprised.  “Is it powered?”

“Yes.”  Obviously; why would he have suggested it if it weren’t?  “The guard thinks I’m a robot.  Not too bright.”

He doesn’t wait to hear what they’ll say to that, because the train still isn’t moving and there’s going to be trouble if he doesn’t show his face.  He slips out of the luggage car, forward to second and then through dining.  Someone calls after him as he enters first, and there he is.  The overly enthusiastic and foolishly friendly man who pretends to run the train.

“There you are!” the man exclaims.  “I found him!  Tilby, I found him!”

“Got him?”  The girl in the blue dress is outside the door, on the wrong side of the safety line as she peers into the car.  “Hi!  That’s a relief.”

“I’ll say,” the man agrees.  He takes a step towards Erik and Erik takes three steps back, ears folded in warning.  “Looks all right to me.  Tilby!”

The driver leans out of the control booth to lay eyes on Erik before nodding.  “We’re good,” she says, and the lights around the door turn orange.  “All clear!”

The girl in the blue dress jumps back, waving as the doors close.  “Safe trip!”

“See you in the morning!” the guard calls.  

Erik slinks past on his way to the control cab, careful to evade the flailing hands of guard and passengers alike.  Just because they waited doesn’t mean they get to touch him.  The guard won’t be making his rounds until they’re clear of the station, so he has a few minutes to get cleaned up.

“Hey there.”  The driver looks down when he sneaks in behind the chair, frowning while Erik glances out the window.  The station clock flashes 11:42 when the junction light turns green, and he feels the magnetic locks release.  “You’re limping,” Tilby says.  “You okay?”

Erik mumbles a meow that might or might not sound as pathetic as he feels.  He rolls on the towel she leaves down for him, trying to dislodge as much dirt and grime as he can.  The guard’s voice comes over the allcall, announcing their London departure, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

When the magnetic accelerators come on, he opens them again and pushes himself up.  Nothing can stop a maglev in motion short of emergency shutdown, and only a child would hit that for a missing robot.  As long as the RealCat John smuggled out isn’t carrying confidential information, he and Dorian are safe en route.

Erik washes up thoroughly and efficiently.  There may be legal RealCats on board, and he needs to be clean-looking and unobtrusive in order to follow the guard through the passenger berths.  It’s a rare person who will complain, but he knows how to stay out of sight when he hears sneezing, yelling, or raucousness.

He encounters a mod in second, but she seems perfectly happy with her human traveling companion.  No robots.  No mutants, aside from the human glowbug in first.  She’s clearly quite proud of her minor light-casting ability, and she demonstrates it for him repeatedly.  As if he has nothing better to do than to chase a sparkle across the floor.

The guard speaks to her for quite a while, delaying Erik’s nap until it’s too late to doze off before Crewe.  He checks on his refugees after rounds instead.  The corner of the top shelf looks empty from the floor, but he can feel wisps of metal like silk where the RealCat crouches behind an antigrav lift two shelves down.

The robot can probably see him through the lift, so he asks, “Need anything?”

Sure enough, the RealCat that John calls “Dorian” glides into view on the middle shelf and leaps to the floor.  “John needs food,” it says.  “And fresh water.”

Erik looks it over.  “And you?” he asks.  It’s stopped leaking, at least.  Most RealCats have enough nanos to patch parts and recombine basic elements into functional material.  They’re not self-healing, but they’re close.

“I’m taking hydrogen and oxygen from the air,” it says.  “Water would be easier.”

“There’s some in the cab,” Erik says.  “Food, too.  I’ll show you.”

“Let me tell John where I’m going.”  The RealCat doesn’t gather itself, but Erik knows how they can spring.  The force of liftoff is entirely mechanical; it doesn’t require a muscular launch.

“Wait,” he says.  This is his best chance to catch it alone.  Not that it will matter in the end, but the less interference in the meantime, the better.  “This John.  You don’t need him, you know that?”

The RealCat gives him the same blank look of non-comprehension he’s seen on so many other robots.  “Of course I need him,” it says.  “He’s my friend.”

“He’s slowing you down,” Erik insists.  He’s seen it before: they think they belong with someone, to someone other than themselves.  They need a normal, or they owe one.  “You’ll be better off without him.”

“There’s nothing better than being with the ones we love,” the RealCat says.  It probably thinks faster than Erik, but the immediacy of the response is still strange when it adds, “I’m staying with John.”

Erik feels his whiskers twitch, but he’s not going to argue loyalty with a robot.  Instead he just says, “I’ll wait.”  It’s what he’s been doing all day.  What’s another few minutes, really.

The RealCat makes the top shelf in a single bound.  It curls into the mat with a fluidity that’s probably programmed: make it look real, make it look the way a cat does.  Erik wonders fleetingly how far that goes.  Are they programmed to snuggle, or are they programmed to mimic?

He can’t see John from the floor, let alone what the RealCat says to him.  But the robot returns alone, so it must have been convincing.  When it follows Erik out of the luggage car, it’s literally the first time Erik’s seen them apart.

They pass the guard silently, while he’s looking out the window, and only a few murmurs follow them through second.  Dining is empty save for a human kid on VR.  All of first is sleeping or pretending to, which is the way Erik likes it.  

Tilby looks around when he enters, but all she says is, “Hi there.”  She doesn’t comment when the RealCat follows him in, but she smiles when it inspects the water bowl.  “It’s fresh an hour ago,” she says.  “There’s more if you want it.”

Erik sniffs the food and gives her an approving look.  It isn’t what he’ll have later, but the selection is getting better.  She hasn’t put down what she calls “cat food” in days.

“I know,” Tilby says.  He can hear the smile in her voice as she taps on the console in front of her.  “I’m getting better, aren’t I?”

He isn’t going to dignify that with an answer.  He does have a bite--only to encourage her, of course--but when the RealCat is done drinking he follows it out.  “Hey,” he says, before it can slink back into the shadows.

A flick of an ear and a sideways look indicates it’s watching.  “You go by Dorian?” Erik asks.  “Or is that your human name?”

“Both,” the RealCat says.  “Humans named me.  But I like the way John says it, so I’m keeping it.”

Erik considers this.  Dorian takes the opportunity to saunter away, and he shrugs it off.  It’s none of his business what name anyone uses.  If the other cat accepts it, it's no crook in Erik’s whiskers.

They reach Crewe without incident.  Azazel is waiting, and the two of them review traffic between junctions.  Dorian isn't the only RealCat headed north, but he is the highest profile, and Azazel says the humans are checking every departure out of London tonight.

Erik can’t find either Dorian or John when he returns to the train.  He tells himself it doesn’t matter; they must know how to hide.  Dorian’s friend has clearly been smitten for some time, yet the humans still suspect each other.  “Stolen” is the word they’re using, not “escaped.”

Typical, Erik thinks.  As though the entire feline community is irrelevant.

When he hears the guard asking Tilby if she’s seen any unregistered RealCats, he freezes.  He’s trying to reach deep enough into the train to detect the whisper of metal in a RealCat’s skeleton, but he keeps his eyes on the scenery flashing by and his tail still on the shelf beside him.  Tilby may not know that Dorian’s unaccompanied, but she’s not stupid.

Sure enough, she says, “Just the one,” and Erik wonders if they should wait for Manchester to make a run for it or take their chances at Stockport.  If he can even find them in time to disembark.

“Yes, of course, very funny,” the guard is saying.  It isn’t, but Tilby is smiling and the guard thinks she’s joking.

The guard thinks she means Erik.  Erik stares out the window, unseeing, while Tilby doesn’t correct him.  The guard asks what she thinks the stolen RealCat might know or do to make it worth the effort of searching trains, and still she doesn’t mention Dorian.

Erik isn’t fond of humans, as a general rule.  But if he were, he might think Tilby isn’t so bad.

“Psst.”  

He sees the twitch of a whisker before he knows John is there, and he’s careful not to turn.  He’s in view of the control booth, even if the other cat isn’t.  “You should stay out of sight,” he tells the window.  “They’re still looking for you.”

“Oh, they’ll be looking for years.”  John dismisses this like it’s nothing, like it’s a foregone conclusion.  “Dorian’s from one of the government lines; his head’s filled with classified information.”

Of course it is, Erik thinks.  And why would anyone think to mention that?  It's not like it's an important part of their relocation plan.

“If the Scottish net recognizes him as a foreign agent,” he says evenly, “he could compromise the entire population.”

“Uh, yeah.”  John looks almost as irritated as Erik feels.  “Thanks, we’re not stupid.  His registration’s been scrubbed.  They can't track him.”

“Yet he still carries confidential data,” Erik says.

“It's his head,” John says.  “Those are his memories.  He shouldn't have to forget everything just to be free.”

Erik won’t argue that a cat should give up anything just because humans say so.  If the RealCat wants something that will make humans chase him forever, then the RealCat can deal with it.  Erik will do what he can to keep them all free.

Even the stupid ones, he thinks.

“Is that a problem?” John asks.  He looks dangerous.

Erik flicks his tail carelessly as he turns to jump down.  “He can do what he wants,” Erik says, easily as tall as John when he leans into him, unintimidated.  “What do you want?  You must know not to draw attention to your mate.”

John doesn’t so much as twitch.  “He’ll charge faster if he shuts down, but the guard’s back there every stop.  Can you help me hide him?”

Erik considers the request.  John didn't argue the word, which is a point in his favor as far as Erik’s concerned.  And he asked, which clearly isn't something he's comfortable with.  He's willing to compromise himself for Dorian.

“As far as Carlisle,” Erik says at last.  “Just south of the border, but I have to meet someone there.”

“Good enough,” John says.  Then he adds, “Thanks.”

Erik doesn’t bother to reply, and John is considerably less grateful when Erik shoves Dorian to the back of the charge mat and sprawls across the edge of the shelf in front of him.  They’re wedged back to back in the confined space, and Erik tucks his tail over Dorian’s hind leg to hide his damaged paw from view.

John’s ears are folded back against his head.  He doesn’t ask what Erik thinks he’s doing, but his expression makes his opinion clear.  “Is that really necessary,” he mutters.

“You want him hidden,” Erik retorts.  “The guard’s expecting to see me.  He won’t look any farther.”

This is apparently not what John had in mind, but Erik’s tired too.  It’s a long way to Scotland yet, and he’s been running since he left the Express this morning.  John had a nap.  He can keep watch while Erik blocks Dorian from view.

Erik feels toes flex under his tail, then a single muted murmur from the body behind him.  It vibrates subtly against his spine, but he knows a purr when he feels one.  John obviously hears it too.  He keeps glaring, but that’s the extent of it, and when Erik closes his eyes he could almost pretend he’s somewhere else.

Carlisle comes too quickly.  It’s not Scotland, but it has Emma.  Sometimes she has news.  If nothing else, she has a familiar mind, and Erik never skips her station.  It isn’t that he’s fond of telepaths, exactly.  He just prefers to keep as close an eye on them as possible.

He wakes Dorian up before he leaves, and John sneaks up front to get something to eat.  Erik and Emma sit prominently on the edge of the platform, drawing attention and telling tales.  She’s currently hosting a mod and a shapeshifter, and she scoffs at his single RealCat runaway.  Dorian’s story is common so close to the border.

Erik enjoys Emma’s company, but he doesn’t envy her life.

Dorian and John are both peering out of windows in the last car when he returns.  The guard has been and gone, and the end of the English rail is in sight.  This is as good a time as any to give them the speech.

“Glasgow is the end of the line,” he tells them.  “You’re looking for a cat named Darwin.  He knows you’re coming, and he can get you where you need to go.  You run into trouble, he can help.  Understand?”

They’re both looking at him, but Dorian’s expression is more knowing than John’s.  “You’re not coming with us,” he says.

“I switch at Carstairs,” Erik replies.  “For Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh,” John echoes.  As though he can’t imagine why anyone would willingly visit the east coast.  “With the tourists?”

With whomever he has to put up with to make the day’s first train south.  “If Darwin doesn’t find you right away, look for a purple cat named Eva.  Tell her I sent you.”

“What’s in Edinburgh?” John wants to know.

“The northern end of the East Coast Main Line,” Erik tells him.  “Don’t go south for a while and you should be fine.  There’s plenty to do in Scotland.”

“You don’t think so,” Dorian says.  He looks curious, not reproachful, and maybe that’s what makes Erik answer.  Or maybe it’s just the fact that anyone Erik’s spoken to tonight would be happy to do it for him.  His circular travels are the worst kept secret in the underground.

“On the contrary,” Erik says.  “Scotland operates the Starlight Express.  It’s my favorite country in the world.”

It’s not that much of a stretch.  The Starlight Express saved his life.  That first night and every night since: the main line on the other side faithfully brings him home.  When England is too much, and Erik has to fight the urge to crush every human inside their stupid metal cars, he thinks of the 2:37 train and keeps going.

Tilby waves after him at Carstairs, calling, “Say hello to Edinburgh for me!”  Some days she runs that route, and he knows she keeps track of where he gets on and off and when.  She’s told him.  He’s counted on it before.  

Tonight, for example.

The cross-country trip is brief, and what’s true of Glasgow is true of Edinburgh too: once the maglev stops here, it doesn’t go on.  Erik couldn’t care less.  There’s a train humming on the southbound platform, lit and warm, with twelve minutes to go before its scheduled departure.

The cat at the edge of the platform is the part of the picture that matters.  He has a funny hitch in his hips and his hind feet don’t quite touch the ground, but what Erik notices is the way his ears flick forward in welcome.  He can't lift his tail anymore, but it's easily the friendliest greeting Erik’s seen all day.

“Hello,” Charles says.  He puts his head down to rub their cheeks together when Erik gets close enough, and the bloom of pleasure and love in his mind says it all.  Not that it stops Charles from adding, “Are you hurt?  Why are you limping?”

“I’m fine.”  The ache in his paw throbs now that there’s someone to care about it.  Erik tries to push it back but he can feel Charles’ mind easing closer to examine the pain.  “I see you survived another day.”

“It was close,” Charles says, with his usual good humor.  Erik’s paw hurts less and less as Charles twines around him.  “We’re all still mostly in one piece.”

“See that you keep it that way,” Erik mutters.  

The amusement in his head certainly comes from Charles, but Erik’s grateful for the feeling.  It means that they’re still here, still together.  Somehow still on the same side of a fight that humans don’t even know they’re losing.

Eleven minutes later, when the Starlight Express rumbles to life beneath them and Charles is purring contentedly at his side, Erik thinks this is the only freedom that matters.