Vanilla knew, only from careful watch of her masters, the truth of the distinction of cat-girl and human. It was imposed upon them, and moved like the sides of an accordion. The paper would fold, and they would be equals. Then, that cruel conductor of mice and musician would pull the sides apart, and they would be master, again, god of their existence. If she strained the ears perched upon her head, she could hear quite well over the mournful song of the accordion that floated above them, an ode to the hypocrite. Ironic, perhaps, that the last remaining parts of her unaltered form, the final, most visible proof of what she would have been before God was ripped from the sky and made the mad push into greed, would be the parts that see most clearly through the likes of her ‘would be gods’? No. Entirely expected.