#highfive

Yes, but please be caref-

Miko Kubota's Cat Motif in Glitch Techs: A Deep Dive Theory (Player One = Feline Queen?) 😼🎮

Hey Glitch Techs fans! You've probably noticed Miko Kubota (aka ME_K.O.) is the ultimate Player One—hyper, agile, fiercely loyal, and always pouncing into action. But zoom in: she's dripping in cat motifs that go way beyond coincidence. From her shirt to her weapons, glitches, and even that chaotic wire-tangle in "I'm Glitch, William," it's like the show's screaming "Miko = Cat Girl Supreme!" Using canon from the Glitch Techs Wiki (where accessible), episode recaps, and fan breakdowns, here's the full analysis. Buckle up—this is purr-fectly substantiated.

1. Appearance & Gear: Cat Central

Signature Cat T-Shirt: Miko's yellow crop top with a black winking cat face is her "good luck shirt." It's on constantly—casual wear, Tech uniform base, even cosplay refs call it out. Her twin tails and sharp, playful expressions amp the feline vibe (narrowed eyes, smirks like a scheming kitty).

Cat Bubble Weapon: Her gauntlet's star tool—a pink containment bubble stuffed with floating cats and chiptune music. Traps glitches in feline prison. Iconic for captures.

Pet Ties: Owns Aerith the cat (FF nod) with family dog Cloud. Loves cats IRL—fits her chaotic energy.

2. Personality: Peak Cat Behavior

Miko's no "dog-person" team player—she's defensive, pouncy, impulsive:

Pouncing/Clawing/Biting: Leaps on friends/enemies with acrobatic takedowns (high kicks, grapples). Bites/claws glitches in fights—raw, feral style. Protective AF of High Five & fam (hisses at threats like Mitch).

Cat Traits: Hyper bursts then naps, scratches plans (prefers action), loyal but sassy. Inhuman agility/stamina fuels "Is Miko a Glitch?" theories—cats land on feet, right.

Miko's glitch log is a cat parade—she collects 'em like yarn balls!

Chomp Kitty: Giant, pixelated maw-cat from arcade game. Eats everything—first major boss fight!

Miko Connection: Miko's intro battle; she wrangles the beast solo-style (with Five's assist).

Episode: Age of Hinobi

Glitch Kitties: 2D pixel cats from Itty Bitty Kitty Collector AR game. Low-threat, collectible swarms (rare variants like Pancake McGuffin).

4. Wire Motif: "Cat Cables" Unraveled (I'm Glitch, William Special)

You nailed it—no "cat cables" exactly, but wires = catnip chaos! In S2E5 "I'm Glitch, William":

Miko gets tangled in glitchy wires/cables during a messy fight (William glitch + cable overload in Hinobi HQ). She thrashes like a kitten in yarn—hilarious, frantic, pure cat energy. Ties to tech theme: cats + cords = disaster (chewing, batting). Fanfics/recaps amplify it as Miko's "glitchy feline snag."

Broader: Gauntlet cables, server wires in resets—Miko's immunity hints "glitch cat" origins?

5. Theory Ties: Why Cats? Miko as "Glitch Cat"

this is the first fic I've ever written, so I hope its alright!

The clipboard hit the desk with a sharp clack, sending a tremor through the half-empty coffee cup beside it. Dr. Easterman didn’t so much as glance up from his notes, his fingers tapping the pen against the paper in a rhythm that felt less like impatience and more like a habit worn deep into his bones. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting the sterile white of the lab in a faint, clinical glow.

"You're late," he said, still not looking up. They didn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, they settled onto the edge of the desk, legs swinging lightly, the toe of their shoe brushing against the leg of Dr. Easterman’s chair. A quiet, wordless apology. The doctor’s pen stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming its rhythm, but his shoulders relaxed just enough to be noticeable.

"Subject 43’s vitals spiked during the last round of testing," he muttered, flipping a page. "Unpredictable. Like you." His tone was flat, but there was something underneath it—a fondness worn smooth by years of this same dance. They leaned forward, plucking the pen from his fingers and tucking it behind his ear with practiced ease. They had tracked this routine down to the second; every movement was a rehearsed beat in a script they both knew by heart.

Dr. Easterman exhaled sharply through his nose—his version of a laugh—as the pen found its familiar place behind his ear. His fingers flexed briefly, missing the weight of it, before he reached for the coffee cup instead. The liquid inside had long gone lukewarm, but he took a sip anyway, grimacing slightly as it hit his tongue. They watched, swinging their legs just a little faster now, the quiet squeak of rubber soles against tile punctuating the hum of the lab equipment. The toe of their shoe bumped his chair again, deliberate this time, and he finally lifted his gaze.

His eyes were the same color as the fluorescents—cold, bright—but something flickered in them when they met theirs. Dr. Easterman’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and they held it, unblinking, like a cat basking in the warmth of a sunbeam. Then, with a deliberate slowness, they slid off the desk and onto their knees beside his chair, folding themselves into a neat, compact shape—legs tucked under, hands resting palms-up on their thighs. The posture was entirely instinctual now, a shape their body assumed the moment they were dismissed from his direct line of sight. The doctor didn’t acknowledge the movement, not outwardly. But his fingers tightened around the coffee cup, knuckles whitening just slightly before he set it down with a soft click.

"You’re blocking the vent," he said, nudging their shoulder with his knee. The vent wasn’t even on. They grinned anyway, shifting an inch to the left, pressing their side against his leg like a radiator seeking heat. Silence settled between them, thick but comfortable. The lab equipment whirred and beeped in the background, a symphony of sterile sounds. Dr. Easterman’s fingers twitched toward his pen—still tucked behind his ear—then dropped back to the desk.

Instead, he reached down, his hand resting heavily on the crown of their head. His fingers combed through their hair with a clinical detachment, less like a caress and more like a supervisor checking the integrity of a familiar instrument. They pressed their forehead against his knee and exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if counting the seconds until he reacted—and when he finally sighed and dropped his hand to their shoulder, his thumb brushed the edge of their collar, where the fabric was frayed from constant fidgeting. The touch lingered, roughened fingertips catching on the worn threads, before he tugged lightly, an unspoken correction. Stop picking at it. They didn’t—couldn’t—stop, of course. The fraying edges were as much a part of them as the way they curled against him now, a living, breathing footnote to his work. Dr. Easterman’s fingers tightened minutely, not quite gripping, before sliding up to cradle the back of their neck. The weight of his palm was warm and heavy, grounding in a way that made their pulse stutter—not from fear, but from the sheer familiarity of it. He never held them like they were fragile. Never treated them like they might break. They arched into the touch, pressing their cheek against his thigh, and his breath hitched, just once, before he exhaled through his nose again.

The office was quiet save for the steady hum of a fax machine and the distant drip of a leaky faucet. The doctor’s thumb traced idle circles over the knob of their spine, a thoughtless rhythm that matched the tapping of his pen from earlier. They could feel the tension in his leg beneath them, the way his muscles twitched when they turned their head just so—deliberate, testing. He knew what they were doing. They knew he knew. It was part of the dance.

The fax machine whirred to life suddenly, spitting out a sheet of paper with a mechanical screech. Dr. Easterman didn’t move to retrieve it. His fingers stayed tangled in their hair, his other hand resting heavily on their shoulder like an anchor. They tilted their head slightly, just enough to peer up at him through their lashes—his expression was unreadable, the fluorescent light carving sharp shadows under his eyes. But his thumb had stilled against their neck, pressing just a little harder than before. A silent command. Stay. They obeyed, settling back against his leg with a quiet sigh, their own fingers curling into the fabric of his lab coat where it draped over his knee. The material was starched stiff, smelling faintly of antiseptic and the bitter tang of old coffee stains. They nuzzled into it anyway, lips brushing the edge of a frayed pocket seam. Dr. Easterman’s breath hitched again, barely audible over the hum of the fax machine, but they caught it—the way his fingers twitched in their hair, the way his knee pressed more firmly against their side.

The fax finished with a final, grating beep. The silence that followed was thick, charged. Then, with deliberate slowness, Dr. Easterman shifted, his chair creaking as he leaned forward just enough to snag the paper from the tray. He didn’t let go of them to do it—just stretched, his forearm brushing their cheek, the motion effortless, like they were merely an extension of his own body. The paper crinkled as he scanned it, his expression flattening further.

"Subject 43’s results," he muttered, more to himself than to them. "Inconclusive. Again." The fax crumpled slightly in Dr. Easterman's grip as he tossed it onto the desk with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The movement was sharp, precise—a clear end to whatever unspoken moment had lingered between them seconds before. His fingers returned to their hair, but the warmth was gone, replaced by the cold efficiency he used when calibrating a microscope.

"Up," he said, voice flat. "We have work to do." They didn’t move immediately, pressing their forehead harder against his knee in silent protest. His fingers tightened slightly—not a caress, but a warning. "Now."

The word left no room for argument, and they reluctantly unfolded themself, rising to their feet with the practiced grace of someone who’d spent too many hours kneeling on cold tile. Dr. Easterman didn’t watch them stand. His attention was already back on the fax, his pen scratching across the paper with quick, efficient strokes. The lab felt colder suddenly, the hum of the fluorescents louder.

They hovered awkwardly beside the desk, their usual perch now feeling off-limits. Dr. Easterman didn’t glance up, but his free hand twitched toward the empty space beside his chair—a habitual gesture, as if he expected them to be there even as he dismissed them. They caught the movement, hesitated, then deliberately stepped back instead. The doctor’s pen stilled for half a second before he resumed writing, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The fax machine beeped again—another incoming document—but Dr. Easterman didn’t react. His focus remained locked on the notes in front of him, pen moving in tight, controlled lines. Without a word, they stepped forward and knelt beside the machine, catching the paper as it slid out. They held it up toward him, arm extended like a shelf, waiting.

The doctor didn’t take it immediately. His fingers flexed around the pen, knuckles pale with tension, before he finally plucked the sheet from their grip with a curt nod. Their arm didn’t waver, didn’t tremble—just stayed suspended in the air until his fingers brushed against theirs, fleeting and impersonal.

Dr. Easterman’s chair scraped against the tile as he pushed back, standing abruptly. The movement was sharp, deliberate, leaving no space for them to rise with him. They stayed where they were, knees pressed into the cold floor, hands resting palms-up on their thighs again. A human end table. A living footrest.

The doctor’s shadow fell over them as he paced to the filing cabinet, his lab coat brushing against their shoulder. They didn’t flinch, didn’t follow—just tilted their head slightly, tracking his movement with their eyes. The drawer squeaked as he yanked it open, rifling through the folders with rough, efficient motions. A sheaf of papers slipped from the stack, fluttering toward the ground. They caught it before it could land, lifting it toward him without a sound.

Dr. Easterman didn’t thank them. His fingers closed around the papers, tugging sharply, as if testing their grip. They let go instantly, fingers curling back into neutral readiness. The drawer slammed shut with a metallic clang, and the doctor’s heel came to rest against their thigh—not quite a kick, not quite a nudge. Just pressure. A placeholder.

The heel of Dr. Easterman’s shoe dug into their thigh just slightly harder—not enough to bruise, but enough to leave the ghost of pressure behind when he finally shifted his weight away. He didn’t look down at them as he strode back to the desk, the folder tucked under his arm like an afterthought. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting his shadow long and sharp across the tile, and they stayed perfectly still beneath it, a human paperweight anchoring nothing.

"Subject 43’s cortical scans," he muttered, more to himself than to them, flipping open the folder with one hand. His other hand hovered momentarily over the desk, fingers twitching—a subconscious search for the pen still tucked behind his ear. They watched the movement from their spot on the floor, tracking the minute hesitation before he remembered and plucked it free. The tip scratched against the paper in quick, decisive strokes. "Inconsistent neural patterns. Degradation in the prefrontal lobe."

His voice was clinical, detached, but his thumb rubbed absently at the edge of the folder, smudging the ink of some hastily scribbled margin note. They shifted just enough to press their shoulder against the leg of the desk, the cool metal biting through the thin fabric of their shirt. The movement was deliberate, calculated—not enough to disturb him, but enough to remind him they were there.

Dr. Easterman’s pen stilled for half a heartbeat before he resumed writing, his free hand dropping to the desk’s edge, fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the laminate. His knuckles grazed their temple—a brief, hard contact that felt entirely accidental, though neither of them moved to correct it.

The fax machine whirred again—another useless report sliding into existence—but Dr. Easterman didn’t react. His attention stayed locked on the cortical scans spread across his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically press the fatigue out of his skull.

They watched from the tile, tracking the subtle shift of his weight, waiting for the exact moment his attention would fracture. It didn’t. He exhaled sharply, tossing the pen onto the desk with a clatter. "Inconclusive," he muttered, not to them, not even to himself—just to the empty air between the fluorescents and the tile. His fingers flexed, then curled into a loose fist against the desk.

They leaned forward, pressing their forehead against the side of his chair, close enough to feel the heat of his leg through the fabric of his slacks. Dr. Easterman’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t pull away. The lab hummed around them—the steady drip of the sink, the distant whine of machinery down the hall. They closed their eyes, counting the seconds between his breaths. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Then, with deliberate slowness, they lifted a hand and pressed their palm flat against the side of his shoe. Not grasping. Just there. A paperweight. A bookend.

Dr. Easterman went very still. A beat passed. Two. Then his heel came down lightly on their fingers—not enough to hurt, just enough to pin them in place. The pressure was warm, firm, grounding. They exhaled through their nose, flexing their trapped fingers slightly, testing. His weight shifted, just a fraction, but it was enough. Approval. Or at least, something adjacent to it.

Dr. Easterman's heel shifted, releasing their fingers with a slow, deliberate lift—like peeling tape off skin—but his shoe stayed close enough that they could still feel the heat radiating from the leather. The fax machine had gone silent again, leaving only the rhythmic drip of the sink and the quiet rasp of his breath. He didn't look down at them. Instead, his fingers traced the edge of the cortical scan, smudging the ink further, as if searching for answers in the blur. They didn't move their hand from where it lay, palm-up, beside his shoe. A silent offering. A placeholder.

After a moment, Dr. Easterman exhaled through his nose, a sound too sharp to be a sigh but too soft to be irritation. "The wall," he said abruptly, voice low, "wasn't personal." The words hung in the air like a clinical observation, devoid of inflection. But his thumb paused mid-smudge, pressing too hard into the paper.