The streets of London
T he Cheshire now possessed a politician’s body. A middle-aged minister in an ironed suit and tie. After ordering people left and right, he sat back in his comfortable chair and glanced at the rainy London through his office window.
It wasn’t like the Cheshire hadn’t possessed politicians before. Only this time he made sure not to let his persona overcome that of the politician. Instead, he let the man’s mind seep through, so the Cheshire could read it all.
It wasn’t surprising how the politician didn’t give a damn about the world’s turmoil at the moment. The man rocked in his chair, lit a cigar, and started thinking about how he could benefit from the crisis of the Chessmaster holding the world’s leaders hostage.
His thoughts were like this: Would the American dollar rise or decline in such times? Never mind the British pound. It may be as strong as a rock, but it means nothing in the world’s economy. Should I be investing in certain things now? Should I start planning to take the prime minister’s place?
In short, the politician was a scumbag, and the Cheshire was far from surprised. It was what he’d always expected from humans, though he’d begun mildly sympathizing with humanity, especially since he’d time-traveled to the future and possessed Jack’s soul.
Of course, it baffled him how he partially remembered that journey when he shouldn’t know anything about it. He couldn’t explain it, and he didn’t remember much anyway.
All he remembered was that fuzzy feeling in his chest toward Alice, which were Jack’s feelings, of course.
But the Cheshire felt changed since then. Not that he had converted to loving humans—the politician he was possessing made sure of that—but he was confused.
Part of the Cheshire’s confusion was that he still didn’t belong to a body or identity. It seemed like it was time he stuck to one person and lived their life. But who?
He picked up the remote and turned on the TV.
There was a show about cats, where a woman loved them and fed them and took care of them. All the cats looked really well-groomed, too cute, too loving.
“Disgusting,” the Cheshire said, and turned over the channel, wondering how much they paid those cats to act like they enjoyed the company of humans.
As he flipped through channels, he suddenly remembered that at some point he’d possessed the knowledge of the whereabouts of the Six Impossible Keys, but had forgotten it when he returned to the present again.
“Dang!” he said in the politician’s voice.
He stopped at the channel that broadcast the Chessmaster in Russia and laid the remote on the table.
The Cheshire knew a few secrets about the Chessmaster. He even had an idea of why he might be killing the world’s leaders. A few secrets the Cheshire preferred to keep to himself.
The one thing he didn’t know, that puzzled the purrs and furs out of him, was what, or where, Miss Croatia 1454 was.