The other shifter stirred fitfully and slowly, They'd drugged him...that much was clear to the fearsome slab of muscle that called himself Aleister Strad. He could feel it in his veins still. A little something injected into him to keep him placid. Docile. Something to slow his pulse and put a haze over his mind. But...he could feel it wearing off. Feel that haze clear. It started with the experimental flicking of an ear. Then his eyes cracked open, taking in the room around him. It was....bare. Spartan. Bare of any the bare minimum of niceties the police would have offered.<br/><br/>His mind was still slowed, somewhat, by the drugs. But it was clear enough what this was.<br/><br/>This was not a jail cell, that was evident. He had expected that. This was barely a holding cell. Slowly, the large feline pulled himself up off the floor. Taking in the cell in it's totality.....only to find his conclusions reinforced. Redoubled even. They were going to be sold off. And quite soon. This wasn't a cell fit for long habitation, and he knew the sick bastards behind this didn't like paying for damaged....product. His hissed at the thought, his tail foofing up fiercely. His claws slid from his fingers.  In a few scarce moments he went from a drugged cat to every inch a tiger ready to bounce.<br/><br/>Then his gaze settled on the other inhabitant of this hell. And those claws slid back. He felt his ears flick back and his tail start to sway. This other shifter-this other feline....he smelled of fear. And desperation. Just looking at him, how he moved, how his eyes flicked from place to place....Aleister could tell would his story was. This one was the type to fancy himself streetsmart. Canny and clever. He'd probably gotten by on scams and pure sex appeal before he'd ended up here. Most of the meals he'd had....were probably stolen. He wasn't deathly thin, so Strahd wagered he'd gotten quite good at stealing.<br/><br/>The police had probably gotten tired of him.<br/><br/>In a way, this feline's story was a mirror, of sorts, to his own.  The humans never liked having their power threatened. And the Octoberists-his friends and comrades-certain;y did that. They were red-clawed, crimson-fanged fighters for freedom and liberty. He'd earned those monikers when one of those pigs had gotten grabby. Idly, he wondered if the officer had died. Considering they'd....sold him off this operation, he thought it likely. If he'd just wounded the man, they'd have settled for beating him to death. This meant they wanted him to suffer.<br/><br/>But...for now....<br/><br/>He looked at the other feline. Meeting his gaze. Then he spoke, his voice thick with the accent of his native land. "Aleister Strahd." He said, by way of introduction. Then....."Are you alright? Did they drug you as well?" He was an Octoberist after all. He had...obligations to his kin. Aleister knew he was tough. Built like a vending machine, as it were. It would take much more punishment then these humans had dealt out thus far to hurt him in any permanent way. But this one....he was pretty. Lithe. Every inch a slinking, cunning, sleek feline.<br/><br/>That made him vulnerable, by Strahd's estimation. As his words hung in the air, Strahd mewed at his counterpoint. Adding some urgency to his question in a manner only felines would understand. His way of making it clear he would like an answer sooner rather then later.<br/><br/>A few seconds passed.<br/><br/>Then came another mew. Another metaphorical question mark added to the sentence.