The thing about being an indestructible cartoon entity with access to every animated fighting technique ever conceived, Cartoon Cat reflected as he clung to the side of a building in Hell's Kitchen using suction cups he'd pulled from hammerspace, was that life presented a constant stream of opportunities to test exactly how ridiculous those abilities could get.
It had been approximately six days since his encounter with the X-Men—or five days, or maybe seven, time was kind of fluid when you didn't sleep and operated on cartoon logic where a single day could contain forty-eight hours if the narrative required it. He'd spent that time exploring New York, leaving cryptic signs in random locations, occasionally helping people in weird ways (he'd saved a cat from a tree by extending his arm thirty feet and then realized the irony of a cat-shaped monster saving an actual cat), and generally establishing himself as the city's strangest urban legend.
The internet was going insane.
There were entire subreddits dedicated to him now. r/CartoonCatSightings had over 200,000 subscribers. People were making fan art—some of it surprisingly good, some of it deeply cursed. There were theory videos on YouTube with titles like "CARTOON CAT EXPLAINED: IS HE AN SCP?" and "Why Cartoon Cat is Actually a Skrull (PROOF)" and his personal favorite, "I Think Cartoon Cat is Just Trying His Best and We Should Support Him."
That last one had made him feel oddly touched in a way he hadn't expected.
But tonight's activity had nothing to do with internet fame or urban legends or making friends with superheroes.
Tonight was about something he'd overheard while perched on a rooftop in his favorite gargoyle impression (he could hold perfectly still for hours, another cartoon ability—the capacity to freeze in place like a paused video).
Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin. Crime lord, businessman, and a man who thought he owned Hell's Kitchen.
And apparently, according to the very interesting conversation Cartoon Cat had eavesdropped on between two terrified men in an alley, Kingpin was planning something big. Something involving weapons smuggling, human trafficking, and a shipment coming through the docks tonight.
Now, Cartoon Cat wasn't a hero. He'd established this. He'd been very clear about this to everyone he'd encountered.
But he really didn't like bullies.
And human trafficking? That was beyond bullying. That was evil. The kind of evil that even a chaotic neutral cartoon monster couldn't ignore.
Plus, he'd never fought a major Marvel villain before. Venom had been sort of an accident, more of a misunderstanding that turned into a fight. But Kingpin? That would be intentional. That would be a statement.
That would be fun.
So here he was, clinging to a warehouse wall near the docks at 1 AM, watching as several large trucks pulled up to a nondescript building. Men in suits—too well-dressed for dock workers, too armed for legitimate business—were directing the operation.
And there, stepping out of a limousine that probably cost more than most people's houses, was Wilson Fisk himself.
He was huge. Cartoon Cat had known this intellectually—Kingpin was famously massive, built like a wall made of muscle and expensive suits—but seeing him in person was different. The man stood at least six-foot-seven and had to weigh four hundred pounds, all of it solid mass that moved with surprising grace.
He was wearing a white suit that probably cost more than a car, and despite his size, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who owned everything he looked at.
Cartoon Cat's permanent grin stretched slightly wider.
Oh, this is going to be good.
He waited, patient as only a cartoon character could be—time meant nothing to him, he could wait for hours without discomfort—until the trucks were being unloaded and he could see what was inside.
Crates. Large ones. Being handled carefully.
And he could hear voices. Muffled, frightened voices. Coming from inside some of the crates.
People.
They were trafficking people.
Cartoon Cat's cartoonish hands clenched into fists. The white gloves creaked slightly, and for a moment, his usual playful energy shifted into something colder.
No more waiting.
No more observation.
Time to make an entrance.
He let go of the wall and dropped.
Forty feet, straight down, landing in the middle of the dock area between Kingpin and his men with an impact that cracked the concrete and sent out a shockwave of displaced air and cartoon physics.
The sound echoed across the docks like a thunderclap.
Every person present froze.
Cartoon Cat slowly stood to his full height—which he'd increased to about fifteen feet for maximum intimidation factor, his body stretching like taffy to achieve the new proportions. He towered over everyone present, a massive silhouette of darkness and wrong angles against the dim dock lighting.
And then he pulled out a sign.
"HELLO. I'M HERE TO RUIN YOUR EVENING."
The men in suits reached for their guns—predictable, really—but before they could draw, Cartoon Cat reached behind his back and pulled out...
A boom box.
A classic 1980s style boom box, rendered in perfect cartoon aesthetics, complete with the little shine effect on the corner.
He hit play.
The opening notes of Guile's Theme from Street Fighter began blasting from the speakers at a volume that should have required industrial equipment.
Because if he was going to do this, he was going to do it with style.
Kingpin's expression hadn't changed—the man had incredible control over his reactions—but his eyes had narrowed. "What is this? Some kind of costume? A mutant? One of Stark's projects gone wrong?"
Cartoon Cat dismissed the boom box and pulled out a new sign: "I'M CARTOON CAT. AND YOU'RE UNDER ARREST."
"I don't recognize your authority," Kingpin said calmly, adjusting his cufflinks. "And I don't appreciate interruptions to my business operations. Remove it."
The 'it' stung a little, but Cartoon Cat didn't let it show. Mostly because his expression couldn't change anyway.
The armed men opened fire.
Bullets filled the air, muzzle flashes lighting up the docks, the sound of gunfire echoing across the water.
And Cartoon Cat... started dodging.
Not normal dodging. Street Fighter dodging.
He moved like Ryu, his body shifting into the exact stance from the game, and the bullets passed through the space where he'd been a microsecond before. Then he shifted into Ken's stance, bobbing and weaving with practiced precision. Then Chun-Li's, his body somehow adopting her movements despite being twice her size and completely wrong anatomically.
The bullets weren't hitting him.
Couldn't hit him.
Because he was moving with frame-perfect precision, dodging like a fighting game character who'd achieved optimal play.
And then he attacked.
"HADOUKEN!" appeared on a sign he'd somehow pulled out while dodging.
Cartoon Cat planted his feet in Ryu's iconic stance, brought his hands together at his side, and pushed forward.
A ball of blue energy erupted from his palms.
An actual, honest-to-God Hadouken. The signature move from Street Fighter, a projectile of pure ki energy, rendered in reality by toon force and cartoon logic and a complete disregard for the laws of physics.
The energy ball flew across the dock and hit the ground in front of the armed men, exploding in a blast of force that sent them flying like bowling pins.
Nobody died—Cartoon Cat had pulled the damage, made it more about knockback than actual harm, because he wasn't trying to kill anyone—but they were definitely out of the fight.
Kingpin's eyes widened fractionally. "Interesting."
More men emerged from the warehouse. More guns. These ones had automatic weapons, the kind that could put dozens of rounds downrange in seconds.
Cartoon Cat grinned—not that he had a choice—and shifted his stance again.
This time, Guile's stance.
The automatic weapons opened fire, a wall of lead that should have shredded anything in its path.
Cartoon Cat's arms became a blur.
Not metaphorically. Literally. His limbs moved so fast they created that distinctive anime/video game motion blur effect, and he started punching the bullets out of the air.
Each punch connected with a bullet, deflecting it with a sound like ting that came from nowhere, the metal projectiles bouncing away harmlessly.
It was physically impossible.
It violated every law of momentum, speed, and basic sense.
It was also awesome.
The gunmen stopped firing, staring in disbelief at the giant cartoon cat that had just punched bullets.
Cartoon Cat shifted stance again. This time, E. Honda's.
And then he charged.
His body launched forward with the Hundred Hand Slap technique, his arms moving in that impossible rapid-fire motion, creating multiple after-images. He crossed the distance between himself and the gunmen in a heartbeat, and then his hands were everywhere, slapping the weapons out of their grips with precision that shouldn't be possible.
Guns went flying. Men stumbled backward, weaponless and terrified.
Cartoon Cat landed in the middle of them, pulled out a sign: "ANYONE ELSE?"
They ran.
All of them. Just turned and bolted into the night, abandoning their posts, their weapons, their employer.
Which left just Cartoon Cat and Kingpin.
The crime lord hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. He stood there in his white suit, completely calm, regarding Cartoon Cat with the analytical gaze of someone evaluating a problem.
"You're not a mutant," Kingpin said. It wasn't a question. "Your abilities don't match any known classification. You're something else."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER. TRY TO KEEP UP."
"A cartoon character." Kingpin rolled the words around like he was tasting them. "Operating on animated physics in reality. Fascinating. And you've come here to... what? Stop my operation? Play hero?"
Sign: "HUMAN TRAFFICKING IS EVIL. EVEN I HAVE STANDARDS."
"How noble." Kingpin removed his jacket, folding it carefully and setting it aside on a nearby crate. Underneath, his white shirt stretched across muscles that looked like they'd been carved from granite. "Unfortunately for you, I don't lose. Not to heroes, not to vigilantes, and certainly not to cartoon characters."
He rolled his shoulders, and Cartoon Cat could hear joints popping, muscles flexing.
"I built my empire with these hands," Kingpin continued, raising his fists. "I've fought Captain America, Daredevil, Spider-Man. I've won more than I've lost. What makes you think you're any different?"
Cartoon Cat dismissed his current sign and pulled out a new one: "BECAUSE I HAVE THE POWER OF ANIME AND CARTOON LOGIC ON MY SIDE."
And then he attacked.
Zangief's Spinning Piledriver.
Cartoon Cat's body spun, becoming a tornado of motion, and he grabbed Kingpin—the man was fast despite his size, but not fast enough to dodge a toon force grab—and jumped.
They went UP. Twenty, thirty, forty feet into the air, spinning the entire time, Cartoon Cat's body rotating with Kingpin caught in the grip.
And then they came DOWN.
The impact created a crater in the dock. Wood and concrete exploded outward. The shockwave shattered windows in nearby warehouses.
Cartoon Cat released Kingpin and backflipped away—Vega's backflip, complete with the claw swipe motion even though he didn't have Vega's claw—landing twenty feet away in a crouch.
The dust cleared.
Kingpin stood up.
He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his white suit was dirty, and he looked pissed.
But he was standing.
"Impressive," he said, wiping blood from his face. "But insufficient."
And then Wilson Fisk moved with speed that seemed impossible for a man his size.
He charged, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, and threw a punch that had his entire four-hundred-pound mass behind it.
Cartoon Cat tried to dodge—shifted into Dhalsim's stance, tried to teleport—but Kingpin had anticipated it, adjusted his trajectory mid-punch, and his fist connected with Cartoon Cat's face.
The impact sent Cartoon Cat flying.
He crashed through a warehouse wall—not phasing through it, actually crashing, his body creating a cartoon-character-shaped hole—and tumbled across the floor inside, knocking over crates and equipment.
Okay.
Ow.
Cartoon Cat stood up, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water, little cartoon stars and birds circling his head for a moment before disappearing.
Kingpin could actually hit him. The man had enough strength and skill to land attacks even against toon force dodging.
This was going to be more interesting than expected.
Cartoon Cat walked back through the hole he'd created, his body reforming from the slightly flattened state the punch had caused, popping back to three dimensions with a sound effect.
Kingpin was waiting, his fists raised in a professional boxer's stance.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "OKAY. ROUND TWO. LET'S GET SERIOUS."
He shifted his stance.
Akuma's stance.
And then his body began to glow.
Dark energy—cartoonish dark energy, rendered in that animated style with speed lines and dramatic shading—surrounded him. His eyes (which were already unsettling) began to glow with red light.
This was the Raging Demon setup.
The most powerful move in Street Fighter lore.
Cartoon Cat moved.
Not fast. Instantly.
He teleported—actual teleportation, disappearing from one spot and appearing directly in front of Kingpin—and his hands grabbed the crime lord's shoulders.
"MESSATSU!" appeared on a sign that materialized in the air.
And then Cartoon Cat unleashed.
His fists became a blur. Hundreds of punches, maybe thousands, delivered in the span of seconds, each one enhanced by cartoon physics and fighting game logic. The attacks came from impossible angles, struck pressure points that shouldn't exist, combined Street Fighter mechanics with toon force to create something that was both devastating and utterly absurd.
The finale was a massive uppercut—Shoryuken motion, complete with the spinning jump—that launched Kingpin into the air.
Cartoon Cat followed him up, his body extending and twisting, and delivered a meteor kick—Meteor Smash from Smash Bros, because why limit himself to just Street Fighter—that sent Kingpin crashing back down into the dock hard enough to create another crater.
Cartoon Cat landed gracefully, adopting Ryu's victory pose, and pulled out a sign: "K.O."
The dust settled.
Kingpin didn't get up this time.
He was still conscious—Cartoon Cat could see his chest moving, the man was breathing—but he wasn't standing. Wasn't fighting.
He'd been beaten by cartoon logic and video game physics.
Cartoon Cat walked over to the crates with the muffled voices, examining the locks. He could have broken them, but that seemed crude.
Instead, he reached behind his back and pulled out a comically oversized key.
It shouldn't have fit the locks. The locks were modern, electronic, sophisticated.
The key was a cartoon skeleton key, simple and brass-colored and ridiculous.
It worked anyway.
Because toon force said if he had the key, it would work, and reality just had to accept that.
The crates opened, revealing people inside. Frightened people. Men, women, different ages, all of them kidnapped and trafficked like cargo.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "YOU'RE SAFE NOW. POLICE ARE COMING."
He'd already called them—or rather, he'd pulled a phone from hammerspace ten minutes ago and made an anonymous tip. They'd be here soon.
The people stared at him in fear and confusion and relief all mixed together.
One woman, braver than the others, spoke: "What... what are you?"
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "A FRIEND. SOMETIMES."
And then, before they could ask more questions, before the police arrived, before Kingpin could recover, Cartoon Cat walked backward into a shadow and disappeared.
He emerged from a shadow on a rooftop six blocks away, his body reforming from the darkness.
That had been satisfying. Really satisfying. He'd stopped something genuinely evil, saved people, and used an entire fighting game's worth of moves to do it.
Kingpin would survive—the man was too tough and too well-connected to go down permanently from one beating—but his operation was busted, and he'd have a lot of explaining to do when the police found him unconscious in a crater surrounded by evidence of human trafficking.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign for his own benefit: "THAT WAS AWESOME. 10/10. WOULD HADOUKEN AGAIN."
He was about to head back to his abandoned subway station home when something caught his attention.
A sound. High-pitched. Musical. Coming from the sky.
Cartoon Cat looked up.
And saw a spaceship.
Not a plane. Not a helicopter. A genuine, honest-to-God spaceship, sleek and alien in design, with energy trails following it as it maneuvered through New York's airspace in ways that violated several aviation laws and probably some physics ones too.
It was heading for Central Park, descending rapidly, clearly in some kind of distress—smoke was trailing from one engine, and the flight pattern was erratic.
Cartoon Cat's permanent grin somehow conveyed excitement.
Space adventure?
Space adventure.
He ran toward Central Park, his body moving with anime speed, crossing rooftops in bounds that carried him dozens of feet at a time, his form blurring with motion lines.
He reached Central Park just as the ship was landing—or crashing, really, it wasn't a controlled landing so much as a barely-managed controlled fall. The vessel hit the ground hard, tore up a significant section of grass and pathway, and finally skidded to a stop near Bethesda Fountain.
The hatch opened with a hiss of depressurizing air.
And out stumbled the Guardians of the Galaxy.
Star-Lord came first, his helmet retracting, looking singed and annoyed. "I told you we should have taken the left hyperspace lane! But no, Rocket had to take the 'shortcut'!"
"My shortcuts work ninety percent of the time!" A raccoon—an actual talking raccoon with a gun bigger than he was—jumped out after him. Rocket Raccoon, pilot and weapons expert and definitely not a raccoon (don't call him a raccoon).
Gamora emerged next, her green skin and warrior bearing unmistakable, checking her sword. "We need to repair the ship before the Nova Corps tracks us here."
"I am Groot," said a walking tree. Because of course there was a walking tree. Groot, the Flora Colossus, looking slightly charred but otherwise intact.
And finally, Drax the Destroyer, who climbed out of the ship and immediately pointed at the sky. "The energy signature came from this planet! It is here! The artifact we seek!"
They were here.
The Guardians of the Galaxy were in New York.
In Central Park.
Right in front of Cartoon Cat.
This was too good.
Cartoon Cat stepped out from behind a tree—he'd been using it for cover, blending his black form with the shadows—and cleared his throat.
Except he didn't have a throat to clear, so instead he pulled out a sign and waved it.
"HELLO! WELCOME TO EARTH!"
The Guardians spun around, weapons drawn instantly.
Star-Lord's element guns pointed at Cartoon Cat. Gamora's sword was out. Rocket had his gun aimed. Even Groot's arms had extended into weapon-like branches.
"WHOA, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" Rocket shouted.
Drax studied Cartoon Cat with his literal-minded gaze. "It appears to be a cat. A very large cat. With incorrect proportions and a disturbing smile."
Sign: "I'M CARTOON CAT. YOU'RE THE GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY. I'M A BIG FAN."
Star-Lord lowered his guns slightly, confusion replacing combat readiness. "You... know who we are?"
"I KNOW LOTS OF THINGS. ALSO YOUR SHIP IS SMOKING. YOU SHOULD FIX THAT."
Gamora didn't lower her sword. "What are you? You're not Terran. Your physiology is impossible."
"I'M A CARTOON CHARACTER. DIFFERENT RULES."
"That explains nothing," she said.
"I KNOW. IT'S GREAT."
Rocket was sniffing the air, his enhanced senses working overtime. "It doesn't smell like anything I recognize. No biological markers. It's like it's not even really here."
"Rude," Cartoon Cat's sign said. "I'm totally here. Very present. Extremely existent."
"I am Groot?"
"He wants to know if you're friendly," Star-Lord translated.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign with a smiley face: "VERY FRIENDLY! WANT TO HELP FIX YOUR SHIP?"
The Guardians exchanged glances, having a silent conversation that came from working together through countless dangerous situations.
Finally, Rocket spoke: "You know how to fix a Milano-class ship with quantum engine damage and a compromised power coupling?"
Cartoon Cat paused, then pulled out a sign: "NO. BUT I CAN PULL TOOLS FROM HAMMERSPACE AND I'M VERY ENTHUSIASTIC."
"That's... actually potentially useful," Star-Lord admitted. "We've got the knowledge, but some of our tools got destroyed in the fight that damaged the ship."
"What fight?" Cartoon Cat's sign asked.
"Space pirates," Gamora said. "Trying to steal the artifact we're tracking."
"What artifact?"
Drax stepped forward, his literal nature making him the most straightforward. "A cosmic cube of great power. It crashed on this planet three days ago. We tracked its energy signature here, but then our ship was damaged and we had to make emergency landing."
A cosmic cube.
On Earth.
That sounded important.
That sounded like something that would attract a lot of attention.
That sounded like exactly the kind of adventure Cartoon Cat wanted to be part of.
He pulled out a sign: "I'LL HELP YOU FIND IT. AFTER WE FIX YOUR SHIP. DEAL?"
The Guardians conferred again, this time verbally.
"Could be a trap," Gamora said.
"Could be genuine," Star-Lord countered. "And we need help. The Nova Corps will be here soon, and we can't afford to get caught on Earth. It'll create a diplomatic incident."
"I am Groot."
"You're right, we don't have many options."
Rocket sighed, his ears drooping. "Fine. But if it tries anything weird, I'm shooting it."
"DEAL!" Cartoon Cat's sign said. "LET'S BE SPACE FRIENDS!"
What followed was the most bizarre repair session in Guardian of the Galaxy history.
Cartoon Cat would pull tools from hammerspace—wrenches, welding equipment, replacement parts that somehow fit despite being cartoon versions of alien technology—and hand them to Rocket, who would use them to repair the ship while muttering about "physics-defying nonsense" and "impossible torque ratios."
Groot provided structural support, his branches extending to hold damaged panels while repairs were made.
Gamora kept watch, making sure no Earth authorities or other threats approached.
Drax helped with heavy lifting, and also asked Cartoon Cat approximately forty questions about Earth culture, all of which Cartoon Cat answered with signs that were sometimes helpful and sometimes just confusing.
"Why do Earthlings wear clothing?" Drax asked at one point.
Sign: "SOCIAL NORMS. ALSO IT'S COLD."
"I do not understand. I do not wear much clothing."
"YOU'RE BUILT DIFFERENT. LITERALLY."
Star-Lord, meanwhile, was trying to scan Cartoon Cat with his ship's sensors and getting increasingly frustrated results.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered, looking at his handheld scanner. "The readings keep changing. Sometimes it registers as organic, sometimes as energy, sometimes as just... nothing. It's like scanning a glitch in reality."
Cartoon Cat walked over and looked at the scanner, then pulled out a sign: "THAT'S BECAUSE I AM A GLITCH IN REALITY. KIND OF."
"That's not scientifically possible."
"NEITHER ARE TALKING RACCOONS BUT HERE WE ARE."
"I'm not a raccoon!" Rocket shouted from inside the ship.
"SORRY. TALKING TRASH PANDA."
"THAT'S WORSE!"
After about two hours of work—which felt like both longer and shorter than two hours, time was weird around Cartoon Cat—the Milano was repaired enough to fly.
"Alright," Star-Lord said, wiping grease from his hands. "Ship's functional. Not perfect, but it'll get us off-planet once we find the artifact. Speaking of which..." He pulled out a tracking device, a sophisticated piece of tech that glowed with soft blue light. "The energy signature is coming from... Queens. Specifically, a residential area."
"I KNOW QUEENS!" Cartoon Cat's sign said. "I CAN TAKE YOU THERE!"
"How?" Gamora asked. "Do you have a vehicle?"
Cartoon Cat reached behind his back and pulled out...
A car.
A full-sized car.
A cartoon car, rendered in that classic animated style, with oversized wheels and a friendly face on the front grille and a paint job that was somehow both red and every color simultaneously.
He'd pulled a car from hammerspace.
"EVERYONE IN!" his sign said. "CARTOON CAR ROAD TRIP!"
The Guardians stared at the car.
"That's not possible," Star-Lord said weakly. "That's... you can't pull a car from nowhere. That's not how physics works."
"I AM GROOT."
"No, I don't think we should get in the impossible car!"
"I am Groot."
"Yes, I know we need to find the artifact, but—"
"I am Groot!"
Star-Lord sighed. "Fine. Groot says we should trust you. Against my better judgment, we're getting in the cartoon car."
They piled into the vehicle—which was somehow spacious enough to fit all of them despite looking like it should barely fit three people—and Cartoon Cat got in the driver's seat.
Except there was no driver's seat.
He just sort of... sat in the front, his body positioned where a seat should be, his oversized cartoon hands on a steering wheel that materialized when he needed it.
And then they were driving.
Not on the road. They lifted off the ground, the car's wheels spinning in that classic cartoon fashion that provided thrust instead of traction, and they were flying through New York's airspace at speeds that should have been illegal.
"WE'RE FLYING," Star-Lord shouted over the wind. "THE CAR IS FLYING. WHY IS THE CAR FLYING."
"BECAUSE IT'S MORE FUN THAN TRAFFIC!" Cartoon Cat's sign said, somehow visible despite him driving.
They zoomed over buildings, wove between skyscrapers, took turns that violated inertia and common sense. Rocket was whooping with excitement—despite his complaints, the raccoon loved dangerous piloting. Groot had his branches extended like he was enjoying the wind. Drax was laughing that booming laugh of his. Gamora looked like she was questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.
They reached Queens in minutes—a trip that should have taken at least thirty—and the car descended toward a residential neighborhood.
Star-Lord checked his tracker. "The signature is coming from... that building. Third floor."
It was a apartment building. Normal. Unremarkable. The kind of place where normal people lived normal lives.
They landed—the car touching down on the street with a gentle bounce—and everyone piled out.
"Okay," Star-Lord said, checking his element guns. "Standard retrieval operation. We get in, find the artifact, get out. Minimal property damage, minimal civilian interaction."
"BORING!" Cartoon Cat's sign said. "WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?"
"The fun is in not creating an intergalactic incident."
They approached the building, and Gamora used her skills to unlock the main door—or rather, she would have, but Cartoon Cat just walked through it, phasing through the solid material.
He poked his head back through—just his head, the rest of his body still on the other side—and waved at them.
The door unlocked from the inside.
"Show off," Rocket muttered.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor, following Star-Lord's tracker to a specific apartment. Number 3C.
Star-Lord knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
"Maybe no one's home?" he suggested.
Gamora tried the handle. Locked.
Cartoon Cat reached through the door—his arm phasing through like it was water—and unlocked it from the inside.
The door swung open, revealing a normal apartment. Small, lived-in, with furniture and photos and all the markers of someone's home.
And in the living room, sitting on a coffee table, glowing with soft cosmic energy...
A cube.
Not the Tesseract. Not an Infinity Stone. But definitely alien, definitely powerful, definitely important.
"There it is," Star-Lord breathed.
Drax walked forward, reaching for it. "Finally. The artifact that the Collector seeks. This will pay well."
"Wait!" Gamora grabbed his arm. "We should scan it first. Make sure it's not booby-trapped or—"
Cartoon Cat walked past them, picked up the cube, and examined it curiously.
The moment he touched it, the cube's energy flared, brilliant light filling the apartment, and there was a sensation like reality hiccupped.
And then the light faded.
Cartoon Cat was fine. The cube was inert in his hands, no longer glowing.
He pulled out a sign: "HUH. NEAT."
"What did you do?!" Star-Lord demanded.
"PICKED IT UP?"
"It's not glowing anymore!"
"MAYBE IT RAN OUT OF BATTERIES."
Rocket scanned the cube with his device, his eyes widening. "The energy signature is gone. Completely gone. It's just... a cube now. An inert piece of alien metal."
"I am Groot?"
"How should I know?! The cat thing touched it and it turned off!"
Gamora looked at Cartoon Cat with something like awe. "Your toon force... it negated the artifact's power. The cartoon logic overrode the cosmic energy."
Cartoon Cat looked at the cube, then at the Guardians, then pulled out a sign: "SO... DO YOU STILL NEED IT?"
Star-Lord laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "I mean, we were supposed to retrieve a powerful cosmic artifact. This is just an expensive paperweight now."
"The Collector will not pay for a powerless cube," Drax said, sounding disappointed.
"SORRY?" Cartoon Cat's sign offered.
"Actually," Star-Lord said, his expression thoughtful, "this might be better. The artifact was dangerous. People were fighting over it, trying to weaponize it. If it's powerless now, nobody gets hurt."
"We also don't get paid," Rocket pointed out.
"Yeah, there's that."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "I CAN PAY YOU."
He reached behind his back and pulled out a bag.
A bag of gold coins.
Cartoon gold coins, rendered in that perfect animated style, each one stamped with a smiley face.
He offered it to Star-Lord.
"This is..." Star-Lord opened the bag, examining the coins. "This is cartoon gold. Is this even real?"
"It's real enough," Gamora said, taking a coin and testing its weight. "The molecular structure is genuine gold. It just looks animated."
"I PULLED IT FROM HAMMERSPACE. IT'S REAL IF YOU WANT IT TO BE REAL."
Rocket grabbed the bag, examining it with a professional eye. "This is worth... actually, this is worth quite a bit. Maybe not as much as the artifact would have been, but enough to cover our expenses and make a profit."
"I am Groot!"
"You're right, it is pretty generous for accidentally ruining our salvage operation."
Star-Lord looked at Cartoon Cat, at the bag of gold, at his team, and then started laughing again. "Okay. Okay, you know what? This works. We get paid, nobody gets hurt, and we have a great story for the next time we're drinking with Cosmo."
"WHO'S COSMO?" Cartoon Cat's sign asked.
"Telepathic Russian space dog. Long story."
"I LOVE THIS UNIVERSE SO MUCH."
They were heading back to the car—Cartoon Cat still carrying the now-inert cube because he thought it looked cool and wanted to keep it—when Star-Lord's communicator beeped.
He checked it, and his expression shifted. "Uh, guys? We have incoming."
"What kind of incoming?" Gamora asked, her hand going to her sword.
"Nova Corps. Three ships. ETA two minutes."
"THE SPACE POLICE?" Cartoon Cat's sign said.
"Yeah, basically. And they're probably here to either arrest us for the artifact theft or to retrieve the artifact themselves."
"THAT SOUNDS LIKE A PROBLEM."
"Very much a problem."
Rocket was already running calculations. "We can't outrun them with the ship still damaged. We need a distraction."
All the Guardians looked at Cartoon Cat.
He pulled out a sign: "WHY ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT ME?"
"Because you're a reality-defying cartoon entity who can apparently do anything," Star-Lord said. "Can you distract the Nova Corps long enough for us to escape?"
Cartoon Cat considered this.
On one hand, he didn't want to cause an intergalactic incident.
On the other hand, the Nova Corps had really cool helmets.
And he'd always wanted a really cool helmet.
He pulled out a sign: "I'LL DISTRACT THEM. BUT I WANT ONE OF THEIR HELMETS."
"Why?" Gamora asked.
"BECAUSE IT'S SHINY AND I LIKE SHINY THINGS."
"That's... actually fair," Star-Lord admitted. "Okay, deal. You distract them, you can keep a helmet. We'll owe you one."
"SPACE FAVORS! I'M COLLECTING SPACE FAVORS NOW!"
The Nova Corps ships appeared in the sky—sleek, gold, official-looking vessels that radiated authority and advanced technology.
A voice came from one of them, amplified and commanding: "Guardians of the Galaxy, you are wanted for questioning regarding the theft of a class-three cosmic artifact. Surrender peacefully and no harm will come to you."
Star-Lord grabbed Cartoon Cat's shoulder. "You sure you can handle this?"
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "WATCH THIS."
And then he stepped into a shadow and disappeared.
He emerged from a shadow directly on top of one of the Nova Corps ships.
The pilots inside didn't notice immediately—their sensors apparently couldn't properly detect him, that same glitch that affected all technology around him.
Cartoon Cat waved at the cockpit window.
The pilot, a Xandarian woman with the distinctive Nova Corps uniform and helmet, screamed.
"WHAT IS THAT?!"
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "HI! I'M A DISTRACTION!"
And then he punched the ship.
Not hard enough to damage it seriously—he didn't want to hurt anyone—but hard enough to send it spinning, the vessel losing control and spiraling away from the others.
The other two ships immediately opened fire.
Energy beams lanced through the air, bright blue and crackling with power.
Cartoon Cat dodged with anime speed, his body blurring, creating after-images, moving in ways that made the targeting computers cry.
And then he pulled out a sign: "MY TURN."
He reached behind his back and pulled out...
A fishing rod.
A cartoon fishing rod, simple and wooden with a red-and-white bobber.
The Nova Corps pilots had approximately half a second to wonder what he was going to do with a fishing rod before he cast.
The line extended—stretched impossibly far, defying every law of physics—and the hook caught on one of the ships' wings.
Cartoon Cat yanked.
The ship was pulled toward him like a fish on a line, and when it got close enough, he reached out and grabbed the cockpit.
Gently—he was careful, didn't want to hurt anyone—he opened it like opening a lid on a jar.
The pilot inside, a Kree with the distinctive blue skin, stared at him in terror.
Cartoon Cat waved, then reached in and carefully took the pilot's helmet.
The pilot was too shocked to resist.
Cartoon Cat put on the helmet.
It was way too small for his oversized cartoon head, sitting at an angle that looked absolutely ridiculous, but he didn't care.
He pulled out a sign: "THANK YOU FOR YOUR DONATION TO THE CARTOON CAT HELMET FUND."
And then he jumped off the ship, landed on a nearby building, waved at the Nova Corps vessels, and disappeared into a shadow.
The Nova Corps ships hovered there, confused and weaponless against an enemy they couldn't effectively track or fight.
Below, the Guardians were already in their ship, engines warming up.
Cartoon Cat emerged from a shadow in the Milano, startling everyone.
"HELMET ACQUIRED!" his sign announced proudly.
"You actually stole a Nova Corps helmet," Star-Lord said, somewhere between impressed and horrified. "That's... that's going to cause problems."
"FUTURE ME'S PROBLEMS."
"I like it," Rocket said, grinning. "It's shiny."
"I KNOW RIGHT?!"
The Milano took off, escaping into the sky before the Nova Corps could regroup, leaving Earth's atmosphere and jumping to hyperspace in moments.
Inside the ship, as they traveled through the weird non-space of FTL travel, the Guardians and Cartoon Cat sat in the common area.
"So," Star-Lord said, leaning back in his chair. "That was a thing that happened."
"I am Groot."
"Yes, it was definitely an experience."
Gamora looked at Cartoon Cat, who was still wearing the too-small Nova Corps helmet at a jaunty angle. "Will you be alright getting back to Earth? We're already several thousand light-years away."
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "I'LL BE FINE. I CAN SHADOW-WALK ACROSS DISTANCES. PROBABLY."
"Probably?"
"NEVER TRIED INTERSTELLAR DISTANCES BEFORE. SHOULD BE FINE. 80% SURE."
"That's not reassuring."
"IT'S THE BEST I CAN OFFER."
They talked for a while longer—Cartoon Cat asked about space, the Guardians asked about Earth, Rocket tried to figure out how hammerspace worked and gave up when the math became literally impossible, Drax asked if Cartoon Cat wanted to fight him for honor (Cartoon Cat declined politely).
Finally, as they were approaching a space station where the Guardians planned to resupply, Cartoon Cat stood up.
"TIME FOR ME TO GO," his sign said.
"You sure you can get back?" Star-Lord asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"PRETTY SURE. IF NOT, I'LL JUST CAUSE CHAOS IN SPACE UNTIL SOMEONE GIVES ME A RIDE."
"That tracks."
Cartoon Cat pulled out one final sign: "THANKS FOR THE SPACE ADVENTURE. 10/10. WOULD ACCIDENTALLY DEPOWER COSMIC ARTIFACTS AGAIN."
"Please don't," Gamora said. "But... thank you for your help. And for the gold."
"I am Groot."
Cartoon Cat nodded—he'd learned that "I am Groot" with that particular tone meant "you're weird but we like you"—and held up a hand.
Star-Lord clasped it in a handshake. "Come visit us sometime. If you can figure out interstellar travel. We're usually around Knowhere."
"I'LL TRY!"
And then Cartoon Cat stepped backward into a shadow on the Milano's wall and pushed.
Not just into the shadow. Through it. Across it. Using it as a doorway not just to another location, but to another distance.
The sensation was like falling through an infinite tunnel made of darkness and cartoon logic, reality stretching like taffy, distances becoming meaningless because toon force said if he wanted to be back on Earth, then he could be back on Earth.
He emerged from a shadow in his abandoned subway station home, stumbling slightly—okay, that had been harder than expected, interstellar shadow-walking was definitely more difficult than local shadow-walking—but intact.
And still wearing the Nova Corps helmet.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign for his own benefit: "THAT WAS THE COOLEST THING EVER."
He looked at his stolen helmet, admiring the way it gleamed even in the dim subway lighting.
Then he carefully placed it on a shelf he'd made from hammerspace furniture, a trophy from his space adventure.
Next to it, he placed the inert cosmic cube. Another trophy. Another story.
Cartoon Cat sat down on his cartoon couch—pulled from hammerspace weeks ago, ridiculously comfortable despite being literally drawn into existence—and thought about his night.
He'd beaten up Kingpin using every Street Fighter move he could remember.
He'd gone on a space adventure with the Guardians of the Galaxy.
He'd stolen a Nova Corps helmet.
He'd made friends with space heroes and confused an interstellar police force.
It had been, by any measure, an absolutely perfect night.
Cartoon Cat pulled out a sign: "I LOVE BEING A CARTOON CHARACTER IN THE MARVEL UNIVERSE."
He dismissed it and pulled out his phone—the one from hammerspace that somehow had service everywhere, even in abandoned subway stations.
There were messages.
From Spider-Man: "Dude did you fight KINGPIN last night??? The news is going crazy!!!"
From Deadpool: "I HEARD YOU WENT TO SPACE WITHOUT ME. WE'RE FIGHTING. CARTOON FISTICUFFS. TOMORROW."
From an unknown number that was probably Tony Stark based on the message content: "JARVIS picked up some weird readings last night. Was that you? Also, did you seriously beat up Kingpin using Street Fighter moves? I have SO many questions."
Cartoon Cat grinned—not that he had a choice—and typed out a response to all of them:
"Yes to everything. It was awesome. 10/10. Would recommend."
He sent the messages, then laid back on his couch, his too-long body sprawling across it in a way that shouldn't be comfortable but was.
Tomorrow, he'd deal with the consequences. The questions. The inevitable follow-up from heroes and villains who'd heard about his exploits.
Tomorrow, he'd probably cause more chaos, help more people, confuse more organizations.
Tomorrow, he'd continue being Cartoon Cat, the reality-defying cartoon entity who just wanted to have fun in the Marvel Universe.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was going to rest, admire his space helmet, and maybe watch some cartoons.
Because even cartoon characters needed downtime.
And Cartoon Cat, formerly Marcus Chen, dead from gas station sushi and reborn as an internet horror icon with toon force powers, was going to enjoy every ridiculous moment of his second life.
The adventure was far from over.
In fact, it was only just beginning.
And somewhere in space, the Guardians of the Galaxy were telling the story of the cartoon cat who stole a Nova Corps helmet and paid them in animated gold.
Somewhere in New York, Kingpin was waking up in a hospital, trying to explain to his associates how he'd been beaten by video game physics.
Somewhere in the Marvel Universe's vast cosmic awareness, entities that monitored reality were making notes about the glitch in existence that called itself Cartoon Cat.
But Cartoon Cat didn't care about any of that.
He was too busy being happy.
And in the end, that was all that mattered.