Paws Effect

 The Commander's New Stripes

Commander Janet Shepard ran a weary hand through her hair, a habit she used to relieve stress after particularly frustrating ops. Today’s mission—retrieving a highly volatile data drive from a derelict Cerberus lab—had been a major headache. She stood in the War Room on Deck 2, staring at the holographic tactical display, but her mind wasn't on Cerberus troop movements; it was on the strange, persistent tingling in her fingertips.

"Commander, you okay?" Joker's voice crackled over the comms from the Cockpit. "You look like you're trying to remember where you parked the Mako."

"Just reviewing the artifact, Joker," she replied, shaking her hand out. The feeling wasn't static; it was a deep, almost pleasant vibration, and it was spreading up her arm. She glanced down. Her combat gloves felt tight, but that was normal.

That night, in her private quarters on Deck 1, the change became less ignorable. She was running a diagnostic on the data drive when she caught a flash of colour in the mirror. She leaned in. Her normally deep brown hair, tied back from her face, was laced with shimmering strands of bright, reddish-orange. It looked less like hair dye and more like the rising sun.

"What in the...?"

She pulled off her uniform shirt and saw it clearly on her forearm. The deep, olive-toned skin was mottled with soft patches of reddish fur, fine as peach fuzz, but unmistakably fur. It was incredibly soft, and she had an immediate, irrational urge to lick it. Shepard clamped her mouth shut. No. Absolutely not.

The Fuzzy : Instinct Takes Hold

Frontier

The strange, pleasant vibration that Commander Shepard had felt in her fingers was no longer pleasant; it was an agonizing, systemic restructure. She locked the door to her private quarters on Deck 1, stripped off the oversized blanket, and stumbled toward the mirror. She was shrinking fast. The ginger fur, which had been a scattering of patches hours ago, was now a plush, dense pelt covering her entire body.

Her skeleton felt like it was dissolving and being re-knit with smaller, lighter material. The worst was her hands. The distinct, opposable thumb structure was pulling inward, the bones knitting together until her palms were tiny, padded scoops. She watched in horrified awe as the five digits merged into four perfectly rounded, soft paw pads, complete with small, pink toe beans and retractable claws that pricked out instantly, testing the air.

She gasped, but the sound was thin, airy, and high-pitched, dissolving into a strangled little cry. The world was suddenly vast. The floor of her cabin seemed miles away.

Her head swam. The structure of her jaw shifted, elongating slightly into a muzzle, and her nose, wet and cold, replaced the dry warmth of her human skin. The rich mahogany of her cabin furniture suddenly seemed dull; her eyes, now huge, green orbs, were registering a spectrum of subtle movement and colour she’d never perceived before. Every sound—the muffled thrum of the drive core on Deck 4, the distant click of Joker’s finger on a console—was amplified to a painful roar.

The last trace of human control vanished when her tail fully materialized. It wasn't a sudden pop, but a creeping, muscle-and-bone extension from the base of her spine, covered in magnificent, thick orange fur. It twitched, entirely independent of her will, testing the air like a curious antenna.

I have to get to Chakwas. I have to report this. I am Commander Shepard. I—

The thought evaporated. It was replaced by a more immediate, vastly more important realization: the rug was soft, and there was a delicious patch of sunlight near the window.

The Tyranny of Softness

The Commander—or rather, the Kitten—was driven by primal urges that overshadowed any mission brief or duty roster. Logic was a distant, annoying echo. The most urgent desire was to find a safe, enclosed, and preferably soft place to sleep, immediately.

She ignored the War Room, instead finding her way to the Crew Deck. The elevator ride was terrifying and thrilling, and she spent the entire decent batting at the reflection of her tiny paws in the polished metal doors.

Her internal navigation, honed by years of combat training, now focused solely on sources of warmth and enclosure. She bypassed the bright, open space of the Crew Dining Area and found a better spot in the Medical Bay, which thankfully had its door ajar.

Dr. Chakwas was running late diagnostics in the main lab. The Kitten slipped in, smelling the fascinating mix of antiseptic and warm air. The most appealing spot wasn't a bed or a box, but the small, heated metal shelf where they stored sterilized surgical tools, beneath a tightly fitted privacy curtain.

It was tight, dark, and warm. Perfect. The Kitten curled up, felt the deep, vibrating purr take over her tiny body, and instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Target: Shiny Objects and Boots

When she woke, the first thing the Kitten noticed wasn't the urgency of the Cerberus threat, but the incredible, overwhelming urge to play. Her body demanded movement, pounces, and glorious, chaotic destruction.

She exited the Med Bay and found herself in the hallway near First Officer's Quarters. There, lying innocently on the floor, was a single, highly polished combat boot belonging to Kaiden. It was enormous, smelled wonderfully of leather and dust, and was clearly challenging her existence.

She went instantly into a combat crouch, her tail puffing up slightly. The boot was a fearsome enemy. It was too big to knock over, too solid to destroy, but the irresistible challenge was to attack the laces.

She leaped, sinking her baby claws into the tough braided fibers. The Kitten wrestled with the laces, biting and kicking with her hind legs in a frenzy of pure, joyous feline fury. After ten minutes of intense battle, she exhausted herself and lay panting, draped across the defeated boot like a proud, miniature jungle cat on its prey.

This was quickly followed by an equally intense, half-hour obsession with a dangling datapad cable in the Observation Lounge. The way the cable swung just begged to be intercepted. The way it recoiled after she missed was an insult that could only be answered with a renewed aerial assault.

The Craving for Scratches

The instinct that shocked the remnants of Shepard’s human brain the most was the sudden, desperate, profound need for physical affection. Commander Shepard had always been reserved, accepting comfort only from her closest friends and mostly in private. The Kitten, however, had no shame.

She spotted Ashley sitting in the Observation Lounge reading a heavy, data-loaded tome. Ashley was a source of warmth and softness—a haven. The Kitten abandoned the defeated boot and sprinted across the deck, letting out a series of demanding, high-pitched mews.

She launched herself clumsily onto the sofa, scrambling up Ashley's uniform skirt. She didn't want attention; she demanded it. She head-butted Ashley's hand, then rubbed her entire cheek aggressively against the woman's knuckle, purring with devastating volume.

Ashley smiled and, with a burst of curiosity, began to scratch gently behind the tiny, shell-like ear.

Oh, gods, a fading corner of Shepard’s mind screamed. Stop this. This is undignified. This is wrong. You are a Spectre.

But the feeling. The gentle pressure, the perfect angle of the scratch, the pure, blissful relief—it was overwhelming. The purring escalated to a frantic, mechanical rattle. The Kitten forgot the boot, the cable, and the strategic importance of the Terminus systems. All that mattered was the warmth of the touch and the blissful, perfect relief of the scratch. She rolled onto her back, exposing her fuzzy, vulnerable belly in a profound act of trust and surrender.

As Ashley chuckled and gently stroked her fur, the Kitten’s eyes drooped shut. The Commander was gone, replaced by a tiny, orange agent of chaos, momentarily paralyzed by the simple pleasure of having her belly rubbed.

But then, as she lay there, happy and warm, a brief, sharp memory pierced the fog: the face of the Illusive Man. The memory was laced with the old, familiar anger, and the Kitten’s purr instantly sputtered into a low, threatening growl. She wasn't just a pet. She was a weapon, even if she currently only weighed two pounds and smelled faintly of ship-grade floor cleaner.

The mission was still on. Now, she just needed to figure out how to pilot a starship without opposable thumbs. Or, perhaps, find a cardboard box big enough for her new office.

Medical Emergency, Feline Edition

The Medical Bay on Deck 3 was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and warm synth-leather. For the tiny ginger kitten, it was a palace of possibility. Having thoroughly investigated the sterile tool shelf and found it wanting for fun, the Kitten (whose internal monologue still contained flashes of "N7," "Spectre," and "Goddammit, I need to talk to Hackett") became fixated on a piece of discarded medical waste.

It was a length of flexible IV tubing, clean but slightly stiff. To the Kitten, it was the ultimate sparring partner—a long, slithering enemy that refused to be subdued. She was engaged in a ferocious, silent battle with the tube, using all four paws and an impressive display of acrobatics. The tubing, slightly tacky, clung to her fur, allowing her to roll end-over-end across the highly polished floor. With a final, triumphant kick, she sent the tubing flying, which resulted in the kitten herself rolling like a striped, fluffy bowling ball right into the centre of the Med Bay’s main floor. She was lying on her back, panting, tiny claws still flexed, when the door swished open.

A Charming Distraction

“I’m just saying, Doctor, you have an entire galaxy of advanced medical tech, and yet we still use a needle the size of a sovereign-class dreadnought antenna for my weekly B-12,” Joker griped, trying to walk backward into the room.

Dr. Chakwas, carrying a sterilized tray, sighed with practiced patience. “It’s a standard hypo, Jeff. Now, put your arm down and stop being a drama queen.”

Joker shuffled around the diagnostic bed, still grumbling, and then froze mid-sentence.

“Whoa.”

Chakwas turned to see what had stopped the pilot’s monologue. Lying in the centre of the pristine floor, perfectly illuminated by the overhead lighting, was a ball of brilliant, luminous ginger fur—with four white paws waving excitedly in the air.

Joker’s face instantly softened. He dropped the air of cynicism and his voice went high and ridiculous. “Well, hello there, little nugget! Where did you come from, you tiny space pirate?”

He carefully knelt, heedless of the ship’s sanitary protocols. The Kitten, sensing a giant, warm surface and a potential source of glorious scratches immediately stopped flailing and launched itself at his outstretched hand.

It landed with a soft thump and began rubbing its face against the pilot's thumb, purring a sound that was less a cat’s rumble and more a damaged starship engine firing up.

Chakwas, despite her clinical focus, couldn’t help but smile. “Well, that explains the extra ration of synthetic salmon that went missing from the galley this morning. I thought Tali had developed a new dietary need.”

Joker picked up the tiny creature, cradling it in his palm. “Look at those eyes, Doc! They’re, like, impossibly green. And she’s all ginger, like… a tiny, fuzzy supernova. We have to keep her.”

The Kitten, nestled against Joker’s fingers, felt a wave of intense annoyance. I am NOT a supernova. I am YOUR COMMANDER. Put me down, or I swear to the goddess, I will reassign you to shuttle bay duty.

The only response that made it past her newly wired larynx, however, was a pitiful, yet determined "Mew."

The Sudden, Terrible Realization

Chakwas, however, wasn't looking at the cuteness; she was looking at the colour. And the posture. And the eyes.

Shepard's transformation had been rapid, but Dr. Chakwas had spent hours trying to stabilize the Commander's physiology. She remembered the distinct, impossible shade of reddish-orange fur that had started appearing on Shepard's uniform collar. She remembered the colour of the Commander’s eyes—that unique, determined shade of green.

She knelt down beside Joker, extending a finger toward the Kitten, who instantly head-butted it with surprising force.

"Jeff," Chakwas said, her voice dropping the amusement and taking on the chillingly clinical tone she reserved for bad news. "Where did you say you found this kitten?"

"Right here, Doc, playing with a tube. She's got spunk, though. Did you see her attack the air?" Joker grinned, completely oblivious.

Chakwas ignored him, looking intently into the tiny, fierce green eyes staring back at her. The Kitten wasn't timid or scared; it was annoyed. It was analyzing the room, processing her—not as a threat, but as an assistant.

"The morphogenic agent Liara analyzed," Chakwas murmured, running through the Commander's final, rapidly deteriorating physiological readings in her head. "The localized nanites. They completely restructured her mass, rapidly changing her from a humanoid to a small felid form, all while retaining... the essence."

She looked at the ginger fur, the fierce green eyes, and the deep, rumbling, almost industrial purr. The Kitten had just managed to bite Joker's thumb—a quick, non-damaging nip of pure annoyance.

Chakwas’s eyes widened. She stared at the miniature feline Spectre, who, upon being held too tight, let out a demanding, guttural squawk.

"Jeff," she said slowly, reaching out and gently scooping the Kitten out of his hand, careful of the claws. "I'm cancelling your B-12 shot."

"Oh, thank the Ancients! Why?" Joker asked, delighted.

"Because," Dr. Chakwas whispered, holding the angry, purring creature up to eye level, "we don't have a stray. We have a critically downsized officer. Jeff, this isn't a kitten."

The Kitten tilted its head, a challenge in its gaze.

"This is Commander Shepard."

Joker blinked. Then he looked at the tiny, fluffy thing in Chakwas's hand, and then back at the door that led to the Galaxy Map. His jaw hung open.

“You’re telling me… my Commander… the toughest human in the galaxy… is now a two-pound ball of orange fuzz?”

The Kitten, hearing its title and deciding this was the appropriate moment to show off its strength, took a mighty swipe and managed to snag a strand of Chakwas's hair with a tiny claw. The purr escalated into a machine-gun rattle of sheer executive authority.

Fuzzy Contagion: A Nap and a Nip

Med Bay: The Great Escape

Dr. Chakwas was meticulously running a full biological analysis, trying to glean any remaining human physiological data from the tiny orange creature balanced on the scanning tray. The Commander—the Kitten—was proving a profoundly uncooperative subject.

“I understand your irritation, Commander,” Chakwas said calmly, trying to hold the tiny creature still. “But I need to know why you still have a fully functional brainstem while weighing less than two kilos.”

The Kitten, however, was past the point of intellectual curiosity. The intense need to find a suitable den and nap was overwhelming. The scanner was cold, bright, and utterly exposed. Every fibre of its new feline body screamed danger and hide. It focused its large green eyes on the most immediate threat: the cuff of Dr. Chakwas’s uniform sleeve, which was twitching tantalizingly.

With a sudden, explosive burst of feline energy, the Kitten launched itself straight up, catching the sleeve with its front claws, then using its powerful little back legs to shove off the table. It landed silently on the floor, momentarily startling the Doctor, whose gaze snapped from the monitor to the floor.

“Commander! Get back here, this is not a game!” Chakwas exclaimed, but the warning was too late.

The Kitten was already a blur of ginger fur, driven by pure instinct. She ignored the open door leading back to the Crew Dining Area and instead darted toward the interior door on the port side of Deck 3, which led to the AI Core.

The core was dark, humming with a comforting, low-frequency resonance. It smelled faintly of ozone and warm metal. Most importantly, tucked beneath a diagnostics console was a large, discarded shipping box labelled with "FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE."

It was perfect. Dark, enclosed, and wonderfully warm from the gentle heat rising off the adjacent power conduits. The Kitten scrambled inside, spun around three times, and curled into a tight, perfect ball of orange fluff, the rhythmic purr instantly restarting as she sank into an exhausted, deep sleep.

Dr. Chakwas, meanwhile, was checking behind the cryo-stasis units. "Honestly, the audacity... She is acting like a completely untrained barn cat."

Cockpit: The Pilot's New Co-Pilot

Up on Deck 2, Joker was running a routine system check while listening to some archaic 20th-century jazz. He couldn't stop thinking about the tiny kitten.

"A two-pound Commander," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "I bet she'd still be able to beat Wrex in a staring contest."

Then he felt it: the familiar, insistent tingling sensation in his right thumb—the one the tiny Commander had nipped during their introduction. It started as a phantom itch but quickly intensified, spreading up his wrist.

He flexed his hand, annoyed, and glanced down.

"Oh, come on," he groaned.

The fine, dark hairs on his hand were rapidly being displaced by short, stubby, undeniably ginger fur. It wasn't patches; it was a wave of reddish-orange fluff appearing right before his eyes.

He nervously ran his left hand through his closely cropped hair. His naturally brown locks were now threaded with thick, blazing strands of orange, giving him the appearance of having recently lost a fight with a rogue bottle of synth-dye.

The sensation in his face was next. His nose felt suddenly cold and damp. He reached up and touched his face. His cheekbones felt sharper, pulling taut, and his ears began to ache as they slightly repositioned higher on his head.

The bite. The realization slammed into him. The little fuzzy demon infected me!

Joker snatched the comm receiver, his voice tight. "Chakwas, status report! Urgent! Remember that little scratch the Commander gave me? Yeah, that wasn't a playful nibble, that was a biological assault! I think I'm coming down with... with the ginger."

He looked at the ship's main controls. His hands, now covered in rapidly thickening fur, were starting to feel less suited for nuanced console work and more suited for pouncing on dust motes. A terrifying, compelling urge to stretch his back out and make biscuits on the control panel overwhelmed his professionalism.

"Doc, I'm serious! I'm growing fuzz, I'm getting twitchy, and I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to knock this coffee mug off the console!"

He wrestled with his hand, trying to keep it from batting the mug.

"Chakwas, answer me!"

The comm remained silent. Down on Deck 3, Dr. Chakwas was still hunting for a tiny, striped dignitary near the bio-labs.

Joker cursed, a long, low stream of space profanity. He had a starship to fly, and now he was getting dizzy, his hearing was too good, and the Captain’s Chair suddenly felt like the perfect place for an afternoon catnap.

He leaned forward, adjusting the throttle with his rapidly thickening digits. "Great. Just great. I'm going to turn into a cat, and I can't even tell the Commander—er, the first cat—that she’s got a partner in crime."

A powerful, involuntary yawn stretched his jaw, and he shut his eyes. The gentle vibration of the Normandy’s drives felt incredibly soothing.

Just five minutes, he thought. I’ll just close my eyes for five minutes. The ship flies itself, right?

He began to purr. It started as a low, embarrassing buzz, then grew into a rattling, satisfied noise that echoed strangely in the Cockpit. The Normandy SR-2 now had two feline officers and was dangerously close to drifting into the nearest nebula, simply because its command crew was suddenly exhausted and easily distracted by laser pointers.

Deck 2: Crisis at the Helm

Garrus stood rigid in the Cockpit on Deck 2, staring at the tiny, frantic ginger kitten currently batting at Liara's omni-tool. The tactical display was flashing an angry red alert: Proximity warning: Asteroid field boundary in T-minus 12 minutes.

"Joker, stop that!" Garrus commanded, his Turian voice a low rumble. "We have a course correction due now."

The Joker-Kitten paused its assault on the omni-tool, looked Garrus directly in the eye with his signature blend of defiance and exasperation, and then proceeded to ignore him entirely, turning its attention to the dizzying spectacle of stars streaking past the cockpit window. The moving lights, the vast, shimmering darkness—it was infinitely more fascinating than a simple asteroid field.

"He's not responding to verbal command, Garrus," Liara noted, securing her omni-tool. "The instinct is overriding any remaining human discipline."

"Terrific. The most critical pilot in the galaxy is now distracted by shiny things." Garrus sighed, his mandibles twitching. He slid into the co-pilot seat. "EDI, can you initiate manual course correction?"

“Negative, Lieutenant Vakarian,” EDI’s calm voice replied. “The manual overrides require hands capable of fine motor dexterity, which appear to be currently preoccupied with recreational activities. Furthermore, Flight Commander Moreau's purring vibration is interfering with the chair's internal sensor array.”

Garrus looked at the array of complex human-designed controls. His massive, taloned hands were built for weapons, not nuanced throttle adjustment. But he had no choice.

"Liara, stabilize the console. I'm taking the stick," he ordered. He carefully wrapped three fingers around the main flight stick, feeling like a giant trying to thread a needle with a wrench.

He tried to engage the thrusters. The Joker-Kitten, mistaking the motion for a new, exciting game, immediately launched itself onto Garrus’s arm, using his wrist as a launchpad and his thick armour as a claw sharpener.

"Ow! Get off, you furry menace!" Garrus yelled, shaking his arm. The ship lurched violently, triggering a new wave of warning sirens.

Liara, demonstrating surprising agility, scooped the Joker-Kitten up mid-air and tucked the flailing bundle under her arm like a rugby ball. "Stay, Jeff. The galaxy is currently in danger of your enthusiastic climbing."

Garrus managed to wrestle the ship back onto a stable course, forcing the nose away from the densest part of the asteroid cluster. It was a stressful, muscle-burning process, made worse by the constant, high-volume purring coming from the agitated cat tucked under Liara's arm.

The Triplicate Cat-astrophe

The comm channel finally crackled with Dr. Chakwas’s voice, now slightly more composed but still edged with disbelief.

“Garrus, Liara—report! Did you secure Jeff? And has anyone located Commander Shepard? She was last seen near the AI Core, possibly still in the vicinity of Deck 3.”

"Joker is secured, Doctor, but he's currently attempting to chew Liara's elbow," Garrus reported grimly. "And the Normandy is ten kilometers off course. We're diverting to a low-risk nebula."

"Understood," Chakwas replied. "Here is the critical update: I've cross-referenced the Cerberus artifact's residual energy with Jeff’s current bio-signature. This is a highly contagious, touch-transferable, nanite-borne morphogenic agent. The scratch is all it takes. This means…"

There was a heavy pause on the comms.

"This means anyone the Commander or Jeff made physical contact with is likely infected. I need a status report on Lieutenant Commander Williams. She was on a maintenance run to the AI Core and may have encountered the Commander, or the crate she was hiding in."

Garrus exchanged a horrified look with Liara. Ashley had been close to both of them.

"Ashley was heading to the Shuttle Bay on Deck 5 to dispose of old storage equipment," Liara provided, holding the now-squirming, increasingly grumpy Joker-Kitten tighter. "If she touched the crate the Commander was in—"

A frantic, high-pitched meow suddenly erupted from the comm speaker, followed by a metallic clank and the sound of something large tipping over.

"Doctor? What was that?" Garrus demanded.

"That," Chakwas panted, "was another cat. A new one. It just ran out of the Hazardous Cargo Bay and tried to climb up my trouser leg. It was pure white and black, like an ordinary Earth animal. And it looked furious."

A new cat? The contamination was spreading exponentially.

Garrus stabilized the flight stick and turned to Liara, who was now expertly stroking the Joker-Kitten's neck to keep him placated. "Right. The mission has changed. We can't fly the ship, and we can't let this morphogenic agent spread further. The entire bridge crew is now compromised. And we need to find three—possibly four—cats."

Liara nodded, her expression serious. "We need a secure containment area."

"The Cargo Bay," Garrus decided instantly. "It's large, relatively empty, and we can secure the doors. New priority, Liara: You and I are officially on Cat-Herd Duty. We need to find Shepard, Joker, and Williams—assuming she is also... a bit fluffier now—and bring them to the Cargo Bay."

The Joker-Kitten under Liara's arm let out a loud, demanding hiss.

"I take it you disagree with that course of action, Jeff?" Liara asked.

The Joker-Kitten responded by sinking its tiny claws into her sleeve and letting out a string of demanding meows that, in the silence of the cockpit, sounded exactly like, Get me down! I need to explore!

The Normandy is officially overrun! Garrus and Liara are the last line of defense against the "Feline Federation."

Feline Firepower: Ashley's New Stripes

Deck 5: The Sweet Embrace and the Viral Nip

Lieutenant Commander Ashley Williams stood in the massive, echoing Shuttle Bay on Deck 5, still holding the warmth of the tiny kitten against her chest. She had just scooped the little ginger fluff-ball out of the discarded shipping crate, completely overriding her military caution with pure, irresistible adoration.

“Oh, you sweet, tiny soldier,” she cooed, tightening the gentle squeeze. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

The Kitten, who was actually Commander Shepard, was having none of it. She was violently awakened from a perfect nap, trapped in a hot, confining space, and suffocated by a familiar but overwhelming scent. Her tiny body was flooded with rage. The last vestiges of Shepard’s human awareness—the recognition of Ashley's face—were completely overridden by the animal impulse to escape the predator.

With a desperate, furious thrash, the Kitten bit Ashley's wrist. It was a quick, sharp pinprick—barely drawing blood—before she used the fabric of Ashley's uniform as leverage and vaulted free. She landed silently on the steel deck plates and disappeared instantly, a blur of striped orange, seeking a new, less huggy refuge.

Ashley barely noticed the scratch. Her delight remained, and she rubbed the tiny mark on her wrist absently. "You little spitfire," she chuckled, already looking around to find the tiny warrior.

The Burning Change

The warmth in her wrist spread immediately. It was a buzzing, relentless itch, familiar from Dr. Chakwas’s initial report, but feeling it personally was dizzying. Ashley's strong, familiar human body suddenly felt wrong, too heavy, too slow.

She leaned against the bulkhead. Her breath hitched as she felt her bones shifting—not agonizingly, but with a terrifying, rapid precision. The sensation began at her extremities: her fingers and toes merged, compacting into plush, soft paw pads.

She looked down at her hands. The deep pink skin was dissolving beneath a rapid bloom of peach coloured fur, which deepened into thick, vibrant ginger and stark white patches. The colours of her old fatigues were being replaced by the colours of her new pelt.

I have to get to Chakwas. I have to report the exposure. The ship— The logical thought evaporated as her head swam, overcome by the intense, dizzying smell of the landing bay floor: oil, dust, and something sweet and metallic.

Her vision tunneled, the world becoming a vast, looming landscape. Her spine felt like a snapping whip as it shortened and thickened, and her strong jaw pulled into a tiny muzzle. A magnificent, white-tipped ginger tail burst forth, twitching with uncontrolled, manic energy.

With a whoosh of displaced air, her armour and clothes collapsed around her. Lieutenant Commander Ashley Williams was gone. In her place sat a sturdy, white-chested ginger kitten, slightly larger than Shepard, with the same determined, fiercely territorial glare.

The final, overwhelming instinct: attack the large, confining fabric. She immediately began shredding her collapsed uniform with a ferocious series of back-kicks and furious biting.

A Feline Family Reunion

Just as Ashley-Kitten was mid-pounce on a particularly tempting patch of uniform sleeve, a loud, indignant Mrow! cut through the air.

The Shepard-Kitten emerged from behind a cargo container, her tail held high. She saw the new arrival—another cat, same colours same shape, but slightly bulkier, and currently violating her previously claimed Shredding Territory.

The human part of Ashley’s mind was a tiny, panicked whisper: Commander! I'm here!

The feline part, however, saw an intruder with a challenge posture.

The two kittens went instantly from zero to sixty. They met in the centre of the bay in a blur of orange and white, transforming into a single, glorious, acrobatic ball of fur. They weren't fighting maliciously; they were engaging in the ritualistic, high-stakes wrestling match reserved for siblings or rivals.

They tumbled and swiped, tiny claws batting air, sinking teeth into thick shoulder scruffs, and driving powerful hind legs into vulnerable bellies. The only sounds were a furious torrent of chirps, hisses, and growls, amplified by the vast, empty space of the shuttle bay.

The Shepard-Kitten landed a clean bite to Ashley's ear. The Ashley-Kitten retaliated with a synchronized, double-pawed swipe to Shepard's face.

The Temptation of Vega’s Boots

The wrestling match was heading toward a decisive victory for the slightly more aggressive Ashley-Kitten when both tiny commanders froze mid-tussle. The fight was instantly forgotten. Their massive, hyper-sensitive noses had picked up a faint but deeply compelling scent.

They simultaneously turned their heads toward the Armoury station, which was located on the starboard side of Deck 5. The source of the glorious smell was a stack of clean, unused, slightly sweaty combat boots belonging to Lieutenant James Vega, set neatly by his modification bench.

Vega's boots were, quite simply, irresistible. They were large, slightly salty, made of tough, wonderful leather, and were clearly begging to be used as a cozy, safe, and highly satisfying den. With a shared, primal understanding, the two former rivals broke apart. They sprinted toward the boots, a synchronized pair of ginger streaks.

Shepard-Kitten immediately plunged head-first into the top of the nearest boot, seeking the dark, enclosed warmth. Ashley-Kitten, more focused on tactile destruction, began a relentless attack on the laces of the second boot, using both front paws and her teeth with single-minded fury.

The boots were only the beginning. Just above the armoury bench, a set of diagnostics cables for Vega's M-8 Avenger were hanging slightly off the table, swaying gently in the subtle air currents. The cables, thin and black, looked exactly like a trio of dangling, tempting black snakes.

Shepard-Kitten, temporarily done with the boot, looked up, let out a piercing chirp of excitement, and then launched herself onto the table, immediately engaging the cables in a savage, thrilling battle. Ashley-Kitten abandoned the laces and followed, eagerly joining the multi-cat assault on the technological threat.

The Normandy's armoury was rapidly descending into complete, adorable, feline-driven chaos.

Cat-alysis on Deck 4

Deck 5: The Call of the Button

Shepard-Kitten and Ashley-Kitten, still vibrating with the combined adrenaline of a fierce wrestling match and an attack on Vega's cables, found themselves near the Deck 5 Elevator Console. The panel was an array of perfectly smooth, enticingly lit buttons. The floor selector, glowing a hypnotic blue, was particularly appealing.

"Mrow?" Ashley-Kitten chirped, tilting her head at the mesmerizing shimmer of the light.

Shepard-Kitten, ever the commander, saw the console less as a toy and more as a strategic climbing opportunity. She leaped, landing perfectly on the smooth vertical face of the panel, and began to 'climb' the surface, using her tiny claws to dig into the minute space between the panel and the wall. As she scrambled upwards, her paw brushed against the smooth surface of the Deck 4 button.

K’chunk.

The elevator doors immediately hissed open. The two kittens exchanged an astonished, wide-eyed look. This metal box was dark, enclosed, and moving! It was the ultimate hideaway.

They dashed inside, finding a corner to settle. The elevator doors sealed, and the smooth, silent ascent began. The gentle hum and motion were incredibly soothing. Shepard, who hadn't had a proper nap since the transformation began, started purring so loudly the tiny vibration tickled Ashley's fur.

Deck 4: The Engineer's Target

The doors opened onto the vast, cavernous Engineering Deck. This deck was dominated by the deep-throated, comforting hum of the drive core and the warm, slightly oily scent of the power systems. It was a sensory overload for the newly developed feline noses.

Shepard and Ashley burst out of the elevator, moving instantly into a low, exploratory crouch.

They immediately spotted a source of interesting noise and movement: Engineer Donnelly. He was down the port side, near the access point for the Cargo Bay, leaning into a storage cabinet and pulling out a handful of thermal relays. He was entirely focused on his task, oblivious to the two tiny, striped predators stalking him.

Donnelly’s feet, encased in heavy, slightly scuffed work boots, were twitching rhythmically as he balanced on one leg to root around in the cabinet.

Movement!

The instinct was irresistible. The two kittens exchanged a lightning-fast, silent glance—a complete understanding forged in shared cat-hood. This was clearly a game of attack-the-moving-targets.

They approached low, tails twitching. Ashley-Kitten, with her aggressive enthusiasm, led the charge. She didn't pounce; she simply ran full-tilt into the back of Donnelly’s ankle, delivering a playful, but solid, head-butt.

Donnelly jumped, dropping a thermal relay with a clatter. "Whoa! What the—"

He looked down and saw two extremely adorable, furiously determined kittens batting at his laces. He laughed, dropping his toolkit.

"Well, look at you two! Where did you smuggle yourselves from, huh?" He lowered his hand to give them a pet.

The Ashley-Kitten saw the lowering hand as an opportunity to win the game. Instead of batting, she went for the ultimate, satisfying retaliation: she launched herself up, snagging his ankle with a swift, punishing nip that was fueled by pure, over-excited feline glee.

A Black-and-White Problem

“Agh! You little monster!” Donnelly yelped, pulling his foot back. The bite was fast and shallow, but the nanites did their work instantly.

Donnelly looked down at the tiny puncture mark. A tingling sensation—sharp and hot—exploded outwards from the wound.

He watched in mounting horror as his skin began to sprout fur. But unlike the fiery ginger of the two kittens on the deck, Donnelly's fur was a patchwork of stark white and glossy black.

He stumbled back, knocking against the power console. "My gods! My leg is growing... a pelt! Chakwas! I need—"

The thought was incomplete. The systematic change hit him with the speed of a warp jump. His body compressed, his bones shrinking and shifting rapidly. The world stretched, and the roar of the engines became overwhelming.

Within ten seconds, Engineer Donnelly collapsed out of his coveralls and landed on the deck: a small, startled black-and-white kitten, looking utterly bewildered, with enormous, gold coloured eyes.

He didn't have time to process his fate. His first, immediate, overpowering feline thought was: Too loud! Too exposed!

The Shepard-Kitten, meanwhile, had had enough. Her nap had been rudely interrupted by an aggressive hug, a fierce brawl, and now, this noisy giant. The deep, animal need for warmth and security was overwhelming.

She looked at Ashley-Kitten, her green eyes conveying a clear, wordless order: Now. Snuggle. Quietly.

Ashley-Kitten—who was just as exhausted from the adrenaline and the transformation—chirped in instant agreement. They left the terrified, newly-formed Donnelly-Kitten to stare at his massive discarded shoes and bounded away.

The two original kittens sprinted past the humming, glowing core controls and found a dark, narrow space where the main engine conduits met the ship’s hull. It was incredibly warm, entirely hidden, and vibrated with the soothing, deep-bass rumble of the engines.

Curling up side-by-side, Shepard and Ashley, the two commanders, settled into a perfect, purring, multi-striped ball of ginger fluff. They were safe, warm, and finally, asleep.

The Asari Contagion: Liara's Final Mission

Deck 2 & 3: Securing the Pilot

"I can stabilize the flight path from here," Garrus announced, his voice tense as he wrestled the flight stick. 

"Liara, you need to contain Jeff. We can't have him interfering with critical systems."

Liara, still holding the wriggling, furious Joker-Kitten, nodded. "Acknowledged. I'll secure him in the Containment Pen."

She carried the Joker-Kitten (who alternated between aggressive purring and trying to climb her uniform to reach her shoulder) down to the Starboard Observation Lounge on Deck 3. A temporary, high-walled pen constructed of heavy composite material stood in the centre of the room. Guarding it was EDI's mobile frame, a tall, silver-skinned figure with a distinctly feminine, non-threatening aesthetic.

“I have prepared the containment area as requested, Doctor T'Soni," EDI stated, her synthesized voice devoid of emotion. "The interior is lined with thermal blankets and contains several stimulating toys, including a synthesized mouse construct."

Liara deposited the Joker-Kitten into the pen. He immediately began trying to dig through the thermal blankets, muttering tiny, indignant mews that sounded suspiciously like "This is ridiculous! I demand a stick!"

"Thank you, EDI. Monitor him. I'm going to follow up on the Commander's last known whereabouts near the AI Core, and try to find Ashley."

Liara turned, heading toward the main elevator, the image of three high-ranking officers reduced to fluffy house pets firmly rooted in her mind.

Deck 4: The Fury of the Boot

As the elevator doors opened onto the Engineering Deck (Deck 4), Liara’s sensitive Asari hearing picked up a tiny, furious sound echoing over the constant thrum of the drive core. It was a complex blend of frustrated hissing and the rhythmic scratch-scratch of claws on metal.

She moved toward the source—the area near the Port Storage access—and peered around a support pillar.

There, in a small clearing near a tool bench, was a small black-and-white kitten. It was completely oblivious to her presence, engaged in a life-or-death battle with a massive, discarded work boot. This was clearly Engineer Donnelly.

The Donnelly-Kitten was terrified and disoriented, but his new feline instincts had channelled his fear into monumental combat. He would dive-bomb the laces, bat the sole, then roll onto his back and use his hind legs to kick the stiff leather with surprising power. He was fighting his shoe with the intensity of a Turian tactical team assaulting a Reaper Destroyer.

Liara, recognizing the panic and the need for immediate, comforting restraint, moved quickly and silently. She knelt, scooped up the tiny, trembling creature in her hands, and brought him gently but firmly to her chest.

The Donnelly-Kitten was overwhelmed. One minute he was a hero, fighting the monumental leather beast; the next, he was soaring through the air, clutched against a giant, warm, blue surface. His terror spiked. His instincts took over completely, demanding a defensive strike against the giant predator.

With a desperate, frantic effort, the Donnelly-Kitten turned its head and bit the nearest accessible patch of skin: Liara's breast, right above her heart.

The bite was sharp—more of a quick, shocked stab than an aggressive attack—and Liara inhaled sharply, the pain a sudden cold counterpoint to the heat of the engine room.

The Donnelly-Kitten immediately stopped struggling, horrified by its own action.

"Well," Liara said softly, her expression calm despite the small, stinging wound. She knew what this meant. "There goes the Chief Science Officer."

The Delayed Reaction

Liara carefully walked back to the elevator, holding the subdued, remorseful Donnelly-Kitten. She deposited him with EDI, giving the AI a simple order: "Contamination confirmed. Contain this one, and monitor for a new infection source. I'm going to search the rest of the ship."

She started walking toward the Crew Deck (Deck 3) to look for the two missing ginger kittens, trying to ignore the pulsing sensation in her chest. Asari bodies, Liara knew, were highly adaptable. Her body was fighting the nanites, slowing the transformation, but not stopping it.

Liara’s Perspective:

The search felt wrong. Every step I took was too loud, too heavy. The Normandy's internal lights seemed harsh and aggressive, and the subtle thrumming of the engines was slowly turning into a comforting, rhythmic pulse that made my eyelids feel heavy. I rubbed my chest, feeling the pinprick where Donnelly had bitten me. The tingling was spreading rapidly, not with the agonizing speed reported by Shepard and Joker, but with a creeping, pervasive warmth.

I reached the Rec Room on Deck 3, scanning behind the bar and the poker table for any sign of orange or white fur. Nothing.

A strange, foreign sensation registered on my skin. I glanced down at my arms. The familiar, smooth, violet-blue tone of my Asari skin was suddenly overlaid with patches of soft, downy fur. It was the most shocking blue I had ever seen, interspersed with swirls of deep purple—my hair colour It was beautiful, but terrifying.

My mind, still functioning with human clarity, was racing. My god. The nanites are using my unique physiology as a template.

I felt a slight, involuntary twitch in the base of my spine, the first unsettling sign of my tail beginning to form. My excellent peripheral vision, a product of Asari evolution, was suddenly enhanced to an unnatural degree. I could see the individual dust motes dancing in the light near the ceiling.

My focus, however, was slipping. The complex task of searching for my missing command crew was being challenged by a much more immediate, primal urge: to find a high shelf and observe my domain.

I spotted the narrow, dusty ledge above the door to the Crew Bunk Room. It was dark, high, and looked incredibly safe.

No. I am Liara T'Soni, Shadow Broker. I will not climb on furniture.

I pressed my hands against the wall, trying to push away the creeping animal mind. But the compulsion was profound. I took one step toward the ledge, then another. The thought that dominated my consciousness was not about Cerberus, but about the overwhelming need to find a place where no one could sneak up on me, where I could be warm and completely hidden.

I needed to find Shepard. I needed to warn Garrus. But my knees were bending, my back was arching, and all I could see was that perfect, dusty ledge.

The Folly of the Pillow

Deck 3: The Rec Room Diversion

Liara T'Soni, her mind consumed by the primal urge to seek a high vantage point, was mid-crouch, preparing to leap onto the dusty ledge above the door to the Crew Bunk Room. Her body felt strangely light, and the blue and purple fur blooming across her skin was making her uniform feel horribly confining.

The ledge is stability. The ledge is safety, her inner cat purred.

Then, a sudden, far more engaging sight arrested her attention. Across the Rec Room, on one of the plush, worn sofas near the fully stocked bar, sat a cushion. It wasn't just any cushion. It was one Ashley had custom-made on the Citadel—a vibrant fire-engine red square with a cheap, embroidered cartoon face blowing a massive, mocking raspberry.

To the highly rational, logical mind of Liara T'Soni, it was a piece of tacky decor. To the rapidly forming feline brain, it was a vicious, brightly colored enemy with a challenge posture.

The cushion was mocking her. It sat there, soft and plump, its cartoon mouth distended, practically daring her to approach. The need for safety vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense bloodlust.

Kill the Mocking Thing.

With a sudden burst of speed, Liara abandoned the high shelf and launched herself across the floor. She hit the sofa in a blur, sinking her rapidly hardening fingernails (which were almost small claws now) into the red fabric. She attacked with a silent, focused fury, biting the embroidered face, kicking the sides with her increasingly powerful legs, and ripping the seams with a primitive vengeance.

The cushion didn't stand a chance. Within moments, the red fabric was breached, and a cloud of fluffy, white poly-fiber stuffing exploded into the air, raining down like snow in the Rec Room. Liara wrestled the remnants of the cushion until it was a defeated, flat husk, its annoying face torn to shreds.

She paused, breathing heavily, surrounded by the remnants of the defeated enemy. Triumph. The feeling was intoxicating.

Deck 2: Garrus's Breakthrough

Up in the Cockpit on Deck 2, Garrus was fighting a losing battle against the ship’s controls.

“EDI, I’m trying to enter the navigation data manually, but my digits are too large for the console!” Garrus was shouting, his talons awkwardly jamming the smooth surface of the touchscreen. “The Normandy is going to be adrift if I can’t stabilize the primary thrusters!”

“Understood, Lieutenant Vakarian,” EDI replied smoothly. “To fully transfer control back to the AI pilot, you must disengage the manual override lock. You need to press the small, recessed green button located beneath the primary throttle housing.”

Garrus looked down. The button was tiny—designed for a human thumb, not a Turian claw. He sighed, removed his glove, and, with excruciating care, managed to use the very tip of one talon to depress the button.

K’thunk.

“Control returned to EDI,” the AI confirmed. “I am now correcting course and transferring propulsion to optimal cruising speed. We are safe, Garrus.”

Garrus leaned back in the seat, rubbing his aching joints. "Thank the Ancestors. Now, we have bigger problems."

He stood up, heading for the elevator. "Dr. Chakwas confirmed the Commander was last near the AI core, and Jeff was likely near me. But Ashley was on Deck 5, and Donnelly was on Deck 4. Logic dictates the contamination is spreading from the initial host. I'm going to Deck 4 (Engineering). If I can find Ashley and Shepard, I can secure them."

He entered the elevator, leaving EDI to calmly pilot a ship that was currently under siege by its own command staff.

Deck 3: The Final Change

Liara, exhausted but victorious, surveyed the stuffing-strewn battlefield. The fierce adrenaline was draining away, replaced by profound, bone-deep weariness. The need to hide returned with renewed intensity. She looked up at the high ledge above the door. It was no longer a strategic threat; it was a warm, safe bed.

She climbed onto the sofa remnants and gathered herself for the jump. As she shifted her weight, she saw her limbs. Her elegant, four-fingered Asari hands were gone, replaced by four small, furry paws with retractable claws. Her uniform had stretched and ripped across her back where a plush, blue and purple-swirled tail was fully formed and twitching lazily.

The transformation is nearly complete, the last vestige of Liara's Asar logic noted, sounding disturbingly detached. I am now a felid.

She gave a powerful leap. She cleared the sofa and landed perfectly on the high, dusty ledge. The landing felt completely natural—silent and soft.

The final change swept over her like a tidal wave. Her head compressed, her beautiful crest of tentacles dissolved into soft, short purple fur, and her face elongated slightly into a feline muzzle. Her massive, luminous blue Asari eyes remained, but they were now framed by thick, darker fur.

Liara T'Soni, the Shadow Broker, the Asari scientist, was gone. In her place sat a blue and purple kitten, slightly larger and more graceful than the ginger ones, with the same contemplative, calculating expression she always wore when studying Prothean artifacts.

She curled up on the ledge, satisfied, purring a complicated, low-frequency sound that could probably be translated as, "The view is acceptable, and this tactical position is superior to the sofa."

And then, she slept. The three kittens Shepard, Ashley, and Liara were all now safely asleep in different hidden, warm spots on the ship, leaving Garrus to hunt in the wrong place.

The Fuzzy Assault on Engineering

Deck 4: The Coolant Coupling Conundrum

Engineer Gabby Daniels was far more concerned with micro-fissures in the coolant coupling of the Drive Core than the escalating feline crisis engulfing the rest of the ship. Down on Deck 4, the deep thrum of the core and the pervasive, metallic warmth made for an isolating environment.

She was currently wedged halfway into a tight maintenance access port near the main engine conduits, quietly grumbling to herself.

“Donnelly was supposed to have these thermal relays ready three hours ago,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the metal housing. “Now I have to do this whole coupling and chase parts. You just cannot find good help when you need it.”

She focused, her strong hands guiding a spanner onto the final, stubborn bolt. She had to slide herself awkwardly into the space to get the leverage she needed.

Just as she was about to give the spanner the final, decisive twist, a quiet, insistent purring noise, deep and resonating, reached her ears.

Gabby paused, dropping the spanner with a light clank. That sounded less like a functioning coolant pump and more like... a contented animal. What in the seven hells?

She carefully wiggled her body out of the maintenance access. As she backed out, presenting a prominent, curvy target encased in her slightly-oiled jumpsuit, she unknowingly presented the ultimate climbing challenge.

The Biscuit Attack

Ashley-Kitten, having finished her perfect nap near the warm conduits with Commander Shepard, had just woken up and was seeking her next exciting target. She saw the sudden, massive, and perfectly stationary curve of Gabby's backside emerging from the access hatch.

It was an impossible lure. It was warm, it was soft, it was high, and it demanded to be climbed and kneaded.

With a joyful, silent leap, the Ashley-Kitten launched herself straight onto Gabby's posterior. Gabby, still focused on the odd purring, was momentarily startled by the sudden, concentrated weight on her backside. She craned her neck, looking over her shoulder.

There, perched proudly on her own uniform, was the most ridiculously adorable sight: a ginger-and-white kitten, stretching its forelegs high, sinking its tiny, rapturous claws into the soft fabric, and beginning to make biscuits with aggressive enthusiasm. The purr emanating from the tiny body was loud enough to compete with the engine hum.

Gabby's internal defenses collapsed instantly. All her annoyance over Donnelly and the coupling vanished.

“Oh, you are just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” she cooed, her voice softening into a maternal mush.

She made the fatal mistake. She turned, leaning forward to gently scoop up the tiny cat for a hug, heedless of the ship-wide cat-astrophe unfolding.

The Tabby Transformation

The Ashley-Kitten, perfectly content kneading her ideal warm surface, was again violently disturbed by the sudden, confining sensation of two giant hands. Her human instinct to snuggle was long gone, replaced by the deep-seated feline fury at being restricted.

The wrestling match was brief and desperate. Ashley-Kitten wriggled fiercely, letting out a series of high-pitched, indignant mewls. Her claws scrambled for purchase on Gabby’s uniform.

In her frantic escape, her small mouth found Gabby's bare forearm, exposed as Gabby adjusted her sleeve. The Kitten delivered a quick, sharp pinch-and-nip before twisting free and leaping onto the deck.

Gabby winced, rubbing the tiny scratch. She watched the Ashley-Kitten dart away, instantly diving behind a stack of crates to rejoin the still-snoozing Shepard-Kitten.

Gabby didn't have time to process the cuteness. A searing heat began in her forearm, and the familiar, aggressive tingling started to spread.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Gabby groaned, staring at her arm.

Where the skin was smooth, a rash of fur began to bloom, but this time, the pattern was different. It was a dense, short coat of smoky grey, white, and stripes of darkest black—a classic Earth Tabby pattern.

Her body rebelled, the transformation seizing her. She felt herself shrinking, her world tilting. She scrambled instinctively to the floor, her own clothes feeling like a suffocating shroud.

Within moments, Engineer Gabby Daniels was reduced to a small, stocky tabby kitten, her eyes flashing with a mix of scientific curiosity and profound annoyance at the indignity of her new stature.

She looked at the huge, warm body of the Drive Core—the source of all the wonderful heat and vibrations—and the final vestige of her human consciousness evaporated, replaced by the urge to sleep on the engine.

The new Tabby-Kitten stumbled toward the core, purring a deep, resonant rumble that matched the engine pitch, and quickly curled up in the safest, warmest spot she could find.

Six Cats and a Spanner 

Deck 4: The Arrival and the Unseen

The Deck 4 elevator doors hissed open, and Chief Engineer Kenneth Adams stepped out carrying the coolant conduit, discussing the "unbelievable nonsense" of the situation with Garrus Vakarian.

"Look, I'm just telling you what Chakwas said. Nanite infection, touch-transferable," Garrus explained, trying to keep his voice low. "Donnelly is secured with Jeff in the Observation Lounge—"

"And yet he failed to prep the relays for the coolant coupling!" Adams fumed, stopping near the central consoles. "I'm heading to the Core now. If I find that cat, I'm putting a little warning sign on his collar."

"Just... if you see any highly aggressive ginger or tabby cats, don't touch them," Garrus instructed. "I'll start checking the Port Storage for the missing Commander and Ashley's uniform, then loop back."

They split up. Garrus headed toward the shadowy Port side, scanning for large piles of discarded clothes. Adams walked directly into the Engine Control

The Engineer’s Three Little Problems

Adams was immediately frozen in his tracks by the sight of the chaos around the core.

The kittens had finished their naps and were now fully awake and energized, their instincts in high gear. Instead of finding a calm, organized workplace, Adams was confronted by a miniature battle zone:

Two ginger kittens (Shepard and Ashley) had taken over the main console, batting the large, rubberized emergency stop button on the helm with synchronized paws, triggering loud but thankfully harmless warning chirps from the system.

The newly transformed Tabby-Kitten (Gabby), having woken up from her nap by the heat of the core, had located a coil of flexible data cable and was enthusiastically trying to drag the entire coil into a hiding spot beneath a maintenance hatch.

"Great Maker," Adams breathed, dropping the heavy conduit with a loud clang that echoed through the chamber. "Three of them? And that one's playing tug-of-war with a sensor array!"

Adams saw his priority: protecting the system. He headed straight for the Tabby-Kitten, whose massive gold eyes stared back at him with a mix of concentration and defiance.

He knelt down, extending a cautious hand to scoop up the disruptive tabby. "Alright, you. Let go of the cable. That's a five-thousand-credit repair."

Gabby-Kitten, however, saw the hand as a challenge to her prize. She let out a fierce, territorial HSSSS! and clung to the cable with all four claws.

Adams decided to use force. He grabbed the small cat, but the Tabby was a strong, wriggling bundle of fury. In the resulting struggle, Gabby managed a desperate twist, sinking her teeth into Adams's forearm.

"Agh! Damn it!" Adams bellowed, shaking her off. The Tabby-Kitten immediately disappeared back under the maintenance hatch.

From Chief to Silver Sleek

The transformation was immediate and brutal. The intense heat of the nanite infection raced through Adams's blood. He watched in horror as his forearm erupted in a short, dense coat of smoky silver-grey fur.

"No! Not me! I run the reactor core!" Adams cried, stumbling backward until he hit the main console.

His body compacted and shrank with terrifying speed. His coveralls collapsed like an abandoned tent, and he tumbled to the deck, his human form replaced by a stocky, powerful silver-grey kitten. His massive head, now tiny, was consumed by a single, powerful instinct: Get back to the Core.

The sudden crash of the Chief Engineer's collapse had the opposite effect on the other cats. Shepard-Kitten and Ashley-Kitten, seeing the new, terrified silver kitten, immediately stopped playing. They exchanged a look, and then, with perfect feline synchronicity, they bounded back toward the warm security of the engine conduits, abandoning the noisy, stressful open floor.

The new Adams-Kitten was left alone, utterly lost and enraged. He glared at his massive, discarded boots, then at the engine core. He let out a piercing, demanding "YEEOW!"—the sound of a highly competent engineer demanding a spanner and a proper set of blueprints.

Garrus’s Terrible Realization

Garrus rushed back into the Engineering Control Room, weapon drawn, following the crash. He found the discarded uniform, the abandoned coolant conduit, and the sight of a highly agitated, beautiful silver-grey kitten making tiny, frustrated leaps at the main console.

He lowered his weapon. He knew that glare.

"Chief Adams," Garrus sighed, pinching the bridge of his visor. "Welcome to the team."

He then pulled out his omni-tool, checking his inventory and the ship's current status. He had to be sure of the number of active, unsecured threats.

"EDI," he commanded, his voice tight with weariness. "Confirm current cat deployment. I have an updated count."

“Affirmative, Lieutenant Vakarian,” EDI replied instantly. “Commander Shepard (Ginger) and Lieutenant Commander Williams (Ginger) are currently at large on Deck 4. Engineer Daniels (Tabby) and Chief Adams (Silver-Grey) are also at large on Deck 4. Pilot Moreau (Ginger) and Engineer Donnelly (Black-and-White) are secured in the Observation Lounge on Deck 3. Doctor T'Soni (Blue/Purple) is in transition and likely on Deck 3. Total unaccounted-for targets: Five. Remaining human officers: Twenty one."

Garrus looked at the tiny, furious silver cat demanding access to the engineering controls. "Five. Right. Well, Adams, your first task is containment. I have to go deal with an angry Asari scientist who is probably trying to climb the walls."