ceto is so cat coded to me. like ik the popular interpretations are shark or heron but like sheâs soooo spicy kitty imo. trying to bond w ceto in the mbcc happens best when ur like. just kinda sharing space at first. sheâs across the room, curled up in a comfy bean bag, sharp eyes tracing along the rounded shapes of the picture book in her hands. the only sound is the clack of your keyboard as you type up yet another boring report. the silence is comfortable. safe.
a week later, she asks you what one of the birds is called. a seagull, you tell her. from before. itâs a seabird, you know.
ceto frowns. itâs fat for a seabird, she says.
you only shrug. you havenât seen a seagull either, so you donât know if theyâre meant to be that fat. red eyes appraise you carefully, before they return back to her book, to the chunky seagull soaring above shimmery, turquoise waves. neither of you say anything else, but ceto relaxes her hold on her book, letting you read the same page.
(in the drawing, the little seagull saysâ iâm flying home.)
ceto develops a habit of shadowing you, after that. she lingers close enough to keep you in her sight, but far away enough that itâs difficult to really strike up a conversation with her. and every time you do try, she becomes a sudden master of evasion, slipping into the throng of the bureau like a minnow in the rocks. youâve since decided to let her do her own thingâsheâll come up to you if she wants.
and she does, eventually. youâre sitting in the indoor gardens, nursing the beginnings of a migraine from staring at your computer screen for too long (again). youâre about to consider burying your face in the soil to escape the lights when a tattered but clean-smelling piece of damp cloth drapes over your eyes.
donât move, a voice, coarse like sand, orders gently. youâll make it worse.
cetoâ? you want to ask, before she cuts you off with a noise low in her throat, half-huff, half-growl.
donât talk, either. shut up and rest.
for the next 15 minutes, you donât make a sound. neither does she, but thatâs okay. silence is your third and familiar companion with her, its presence settling comfortably on the bench next to you. you canât tell if cetoâs sat down or not, but you feel her nearby all the same. itâs only when the lingering wisps of your migraine dissipate that she slips away again, and all youâre left with is the damp rag she used to cool you off.
she doesnât ask for it back. you keep it as a gift.
the next time your relationship with ceto progresses is when she touches you. itâs nothing majorâjust the sudden grasp of your wrist as you both stroll down the street in the rustfire camp you once boothed at. you donât often accompany ceto on her excursions, but youâve found some time off, and you figured, why the hell not. youâre quite curious to know where your latest detainee wanders off to, anyway. in this case, itâs the bustling market of rustfire, where actual produce (not processed tide crawlers) are on sale.
ceto sticks close to you even as she drowns herself in this new sea of sensationâof sights and smells and sounds she spent 30 years of her life without. your focus narrows to the gleam of her ruby eyes as they absorb everything around her, to the point you almost walk right into a vendor were it not for the way she yanks you by the wrist into her side.
sorry, sorry, you say hastily. cetoâs gaze sweeps over you again, and you feel, briefly, like every other item in the market being appraised. her fingers tighten around your wrist ever so slightly, before she relaxes, and releases her hold on you.
stay vigilant, she murmurs. you get hurt too easily.
didnât know you cared that much, you joke, but ceto fixes you with another look that shuts you up again. when she speaks, her voice barely carries over the hustle and bustle.
youâre my companion, is all she says. itâs short, but you canât deny the succint quality of it. you almost laughâhow distinctly ceto. instead, you offer her a smile, fingertips brushing from beneath your coat sleeve.
youâre my companion too, ceto, you respond. ceto doesnât answer, but she doesnât pull away from your touch, either. the rest of that market trip is spent in that same, companionable silenceâbut you swear you see the glimpse of a tiny, rare smile on cetoâs lips.

















