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This story begins, as many do, with a birth.

Alistair Romanovich waited anxiously outside the room where his beloved wife lay, their child forcing its way from her body almost a full month early. Alistair, known to his friends as Al, was a tall and rather graceful looking feline. His fur was white, with soft tan patches across his chest. His tail, flicking and curling nervously, had the same tan patch on its end as was on his chest. Despite his visible agitation and restlessness, his clothes were impeccable. He wore jet black loafers, the tops of which were neatly covered by the bottom of his coal colored trousers, held up with a slim brown belt. The shirt that completed this ensemble was a dull black, and was tucked evenly into his pants. Al could not keep still. He would sit down on the small plastic bench outside the chamber in which his wife struggled, then, as though stuck with a pin, would jump to his feet and begin to pace, tossing fearful glances towards the door. Then he would sit back down and the entire process would begin again. After a period of time- ten minutes? two hours? time had become erratic for Al- the door suddenly opened, disgorging a flurry of nurses wheeling out carts of gloves and instruments, the purposes of which Al did not know. After the flood of activity passed, the doctor that had been attending Mrs. Romanovich walked out, looking at Al with tired and grim eyes. Fearing the worst, Alistair detached himself from the wall where he had pressed himself and staggered toward the doctor, a stocky brown lizard. Their eyes locked, and with a tiny nod, the doctor pushed the door open with his sturdy tail so the nerve-wracked cat could finally enter. He slowly entered, eyes immediately noticing the heart monitor at the side of the bed, pulsing at a constant rate. She was alive. He sighed, a soft sound containing pure, unfiltered joy. But what about...? As though reading his thoughts, Andrea Romanovich opened her eyes, which were bleary from blood loss and anesthesia. "...a boy..." she whispered, giving Al an exhausted smile. "A beautiful little boy-kitten." Finally freed of the two fears that had plagued his thoughts, he looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms. Wrapped in fluffy blue towels was a tiny kitten, eyes squeezed shut, his tiny paws clenched and under his chin. Barely holding back tears, Al dropped to his knees beside the hospital bed, amazed at the miracle he and his wife had created. Tentatively, he stroked his newly born son's forehead, feeling the silky smooth fur. Then, the kitten opened his eyes, and Al found himself staring into a pair of bright blue-green eyes that were already brimming with curiosity. Al felt the tears begin to fall, and let them. He pressed his head to his wife's breast, sobbing with joy. All had ended well. His son was alive. His wife was alive. All had ended well.

The birth is complete. The game had begun. A new life has come into being. Let us leave this tender scene and turn now to facts.

We know what Alistair is, and we know of his love for his wife. What we don't yet know is now written. Alistair Romanovich is a homicide detective, the best the NYPD has seen in years. He has solved every case that has come his way, stopping multiple murderers from killing again, and even stopped a serial killer who had slaughtered fifty two dragons and lizards in an anti-scaley fueled wave. Al is an expert in multiple forms of self-defense, as well as being trained in the use of dozens of firearms and other weapons.

Now, on to his wife.

Andrea Romanovich is a strikingly beautiful feline. Her almond shaped eyes are a deep green, in which light dances and sparkles. She is a reporter, and loves to tell friends how it was her job that caused her to meet her husband. He was at the scene of a crime, where a young wolf and his fianc