The 414 in this stage: 23 × 18
Stage one. The Distrustful cat hasn't seen anything yet, and that is exactly what bothers him. He closes the curtains during the day. He reads the terms and conditions twice and still doesn't sign. Most cats start here, and plenty are happy to stay. Nobody is after them. Probably. They keep the hood up anyway, just in case someone checks. The first agents show up here too, one of each, trying very hard to look like they aren't agents. 414 cats share this stage, which is 23 × 18, which the cats find suspicious.
The original. Grey hood, huge eyes, one small frown. He doesn't do anything. He just watches the window in case the window starts watching back. 407 Watchers exist, each with its own hood, fur, eyes and extras, and the fact that no two match is deeply reassuring to them.
Neat black hair, a small scar, an earpiece with a coiled wire and a badge that just says המוסד. He looks calm. He is not calm. He has already checked the exits of this card twice and would like you to stop reading so loudly.
Black hat, black sunglasses, black suit, earpiece. The plan was to blend in. The plan has not worked once. He still wears the sunglasses indoors, at night, because you never know who is reflected in them.
Fur hat with a red star, green coat, a lanyard reading КГБ. The ear flaps stay down at all times. Not because it's cold. The walls have ears, and he would prefer they didn't hear him thinking.
White headscarf, black sunglasses, earpiece, lanyard reading مخابرات. Perfectly composed on the outside. On the inside he is running a background check on the pixel next to him. It came back clean. That's what worries him.
Blue turban, cream tunic, one bead of sweat. He only went out to buy milk. Now he is fairly sure the milk was watching him. He bought it anyway, but he's keeping an eye on it.
Long hair, red bandana, camo jacket, bloodshot eyes and a cigarette he forgot he was smoking. Behind him a UFO is quietly beaming light into the sky. He hasn't noticed. When he does, he will say he told you so.
Grey hood, full gas mask, one filter, two big round lenses. He is ready for a gas attack at any moment of the day or night. In eleven years of waiting, the only gas he has ever had to smell was, now and then, his own. He keeps the mask on anyway. Especially then.
Nobody asked Watcher 523 to watch the stars, one by one. He does it anyway. Grey tabby, unremarkable on purpose. The grey hood is standard issue, which is exactly why he chose it. Nobody asked. He'll tell you anyway.
Every night, Watcher 592 watches the parking meter. One bead of sweat. Permanently. He keeps glancing left. There is nothing on the left. Yet. Status: watching.
Watcher 141 keeps an eye on the cat flap. His pupils have been enormous since the street lights went off one by one. Tuxedo fur, always dressed for an interrogation. He is fine. He says.
Nobody asked Watcher 572 to watch the crack in the ceiling. He does it anyway. There is a bug on his hood. He knows. He is pretending he doesn't, to lure it out. He is trying to watch two things at once, and it shows.
Watcher 690 watches the calendar, especially the 23rd, in shifts, alone. The plaster is from a paper cut from a printed privacy policy. One eye for the day shift, one for the night shift.
Every night, Watcher 571 watches the gas meter. The scar is from a door that closed too quietly. His eyes stay on the right, where the exit is.
Watcher 658 watches the man who reads the same newspaper every day, in shifts, alone. He hasn't slept since his calendar showed a meeting he never booked. He looks up a lot, because nobody ever checks the ceiling.
Nobody asked Watcher 250 to watch the vending machine. He does it anyway. The badge on his hood says nothing. He wants it that way. He keeps his eyes on the floor, where the cables are.
Every night, Watcher 281 watches the calendar, especially the 23rd. One bead of sweat. Permanently. His pupils shrank to dots the day his smart speaker laughed. Report filed.
Every night, Watcher 92 watches a white van that is always parked. The monocle is for looking at exactly one thing, very closely. Bloodshot from staying up to keep an eye on the escalator that runs without anyone on it. File closed. File reopened.
Every night, Watcher 81 watches the vending machine. Green eyes that glow a little in the dark, which he regrets. Black fur. In a dark room he officially does not exist. He is fine. He says.
Watcher 52 keeps an eye on the cat flap. There is a bug on his hood. He knows. He is pretending he doesn't, to lure it out. His eyes wander in every direction, so nothing gets past him. Nothing gets in focus either. He is not paranoid. He is prepared.
Send 23 NOID for a mystery cat. Stage 1 has a chance of 60.0 % per draw.
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