Verando drops to his knees as he's released, while the creature rolls and screams. Coughing, clutching his throat as he tries to catch his breath, Verando presents his forearm to block the arm that swings towards us. His teeth grind from the effort, I wonder how his forearm didn't snap in half with the brute force. 

Quickly yanking off his belt, he tackles the brute. Verando managed to work his way behind the beast, locking the belt down under his knee to pin the thrashing man to the ground. I take a deep breath and extend my hand, pulling the blood from his body through the bullet wound.

 Taking blood through an already created exit required very little from me; it was simply allowing it to flow more freely. I throw it down on the metal grate, sick to my stomach from the attempt.

The man becomes still, and Verando takes a moment to catch his breath, panting as he rubs his throat. "What the fuck are these things?" He manages, carefully undoing the belt as if he expects the creature to leap back up. 

"I don't know. An experiment went wrong, something horrendous. Look at the face-" The metal under our feet trembles, a warning of the tidal wave of death quickly approaching. "Come on."

Verando jumps up, pushing me in front of him this time.

I never thought of him as slight, but the size comparison was unnerving. The face of the being was hardly that of a man, ears pulled up to resemble cat ears, face cut and carved to mirror the intricate curves and pads where whiskers might be, should he be in his feline form. The almond-shaped eyes were large and full of color, with no white to be seen, and hauntingly vacant against the slit pupils. 

Frightening a group of teenagers who were sitting on the front steps of the club's entrance, where I hoped for fresh air, I was met with the dank smog of these filthy streets. Verando grimaces the same as I do. I watched the teenagers run, grateful they felt no loyalty to ask what we were doing here. 

"I know where we can go," I tell him as he shoves the door shut. 

Grabbing the iron-wrought fencing that secures the porch railing, he jerks it out of the ground in a swift motion and carefully bends the bars to crisscross over the double door handles. 

The fence stretches across the expanse, sealing them. "That should let Marisol know this place is compromised and buy us a head start; it's not going to hold them if they're determined."

I lead him down the street, trying not to look too panicked as we attempt to blend into the still-ambling crowd. It must be nearing 4 am, and the streets are still alive with the early morning shift. 

"Relax." He tells me, yet I feel like it's for both of our benefits. Out of the darkness, though we are still in the haze, I have little fear of the impending ambush. Having no ability to see was the scary part; being hunted was what I was used to. "Where are we going?"

"There's-" I freeze, spinning to face him.. "Artifice." I yank off the vest and stomp on the shoulder pads as I throw it to the ground. "Son of a--  Do you have anything on that that could access Artifice?" 

Quickly searching him, he's not wearing a vest, and neither of us has a respirator. With a sigh of relief, I kick the article of clothing into the street, resisting the urge to spit after it for the trouble it's caused. 

 "That thing gave away our position last time, I'm sure they... damn it, what if they were listening? And your hair, I should have grabbed a hat, we're going to stick out too much if we stay on the street much longer." Verando regards me with so much amusement and admiration that I shrink away in embarrassment. "What?" I demand shortly. 

Verando shrugs, motioning to me to lead the way. "I didn't even think of that. I'm just impressed, now you're thinking like a leader." 

I hesitate at the compliment; there aren't many that he gives out so freely. "I had a good teacher." I allow stiffly.

Going down the narrow street to the small slum that I visited only yesterday morning, I'm relieved to be somewhere clean. The roads are still freshly scrubbed, the air slightly less offensive. My mind drifts to how he will accept these conditions, expecting the same disgusted reaction that I had, but I find that he looks no different than he did when we first arrived at the compound. 

Suspicions are high, but the condition of our destination doesn't seem to surprise him. I think back to the dream, the damp house, the crummy, busted shutters, and the multitude of rugs so their copious children had places to sit. I wonder what the smells would have been like. Perhaps not the exhaustion and suffering of today, but maybe I would have been greeted by fresh cooking and warm singing. 

At least, that was what I wanted to believe life was like for him. 

I scan our surroundings, huddling closer to him as steam spews from a ventilation shaft over an overhead building. The sound of the highway, alive with cars above, provides a background volume that I'm growing accustomed to. 

"There was an older woman whom Marisol talked to; she spoke to her in Spanish?"

"Would you recognize her?" 

I nod, wondering if these people would even be willing to accept us. "Tonic!" A man greets us, he's dressed in a bodysuit similar to ours, only he freezes when he notices that the man I'm with is not Tonic. 

As the man pulls out a gun, I quickly put my hands up to show we mean no harm. When Verando doesn't do the same, I elbow him sharply in the ribs. 

"Not Tonic, we were here yesterday morning?" I try. "It's me, Nicolas.. er.. Red? I cleaned your water?" 

"I wasn't here yesterday." He tells me shortly, his tan skin is dirty and stained with grit—his black, short hair glistens with grease. "We put out a distress call to the bar—broke down out here deliverin' food—and whatta ya know, you show up right when that call goes out. Soli send ya? And what's with you bein' on foot?"  

I consider lying, could I pull it off? Could I convince him that Soli had sent us? 

"No," Verando answers for me. "Cats just raided Soli's hideout. She and Tonic are out on a retrieval. Nicolas was injured in a car accident this morning, so we were resting when the attack happened. He suggested we come here as, apparently, you are supporters of the cause." 

My body stiffens, not expecting to give so much honesty. While I prepare for the man to throw us out, to my surprise, he only regards us, looking us over for a long moment before nodding. 

"Freakin' cats... I think I saw the mess from that car wreck on my way over. C'mon, maybe you can give us a hand fixin' this damn truck. Ain't the first time it's crapped out, and it sure as hell won't be the last. Cats been all over the freakin' place lately.." 

I expel a long breath, safe for now. The garage is dark, and I try not to scramble for the light switch, turning it on quickly just in case. 

"Don't worry. No cats in here."

"You'll have to excuse me for wanting to be sure," I tell him, struggling with the air quality. "We were pretty sure there were no cats in the compound either."

 Verando is quiet, his eyes scanning the small shop. We approach the vehicle as we would an animal, and the man watches us as if we're crazy. I try to straighten my body, away from the reluctant posture that suggests I haven't a clue what I'm doing. 

"What's wrong with it?"

"Dunno. Thing started blowin' steam, figured maybe it was a busted hose or somethin'. You lot're Soli's friends, huh? Figures—you're all a buncha weirdos. Act like you never seen a damn vehicle before. Relax, it ain't gonna bite ya."  

I laugh nervously and opt to keep our time traveling to myself. 

"Maybe you oughta just go sit down or somethin'. Soli's gotta stop hirin' guys who don't know jack about vehicles. You all look useful—'til somethin' actually breaks. Then it's me stuck doin' all the damn work—figures." He trails off as he leads us out of the garage and down the narrow path, a small passage between the assortment of closely built houses. 

Verando puts his arm in front of me, blocking me from entering each room until he's had a glance around. 

"Are you dogs, too?"

"Lycans." I correct, my tone stiff. "Just he is."

"You related to Tonic, big guy?"

"Something like that." Verando allows, not looking at him. 

"Ain't seen hair like that on anyone 'cept Tonic. Ya know, you two kinda look alike. Funny accent, though. Where you from, huh?" The rambling is a nice change, someone to fill the space. His voice blocks out the sound of the cars. "France or somethin'?"

"England."  

"Ooooooh." The drawn-out tone makes me laugh; what an animated character.  "Oh, ya like that, huh? Heh, you sound pretty funny yourself. Starin' at me like you ain't got a clue what's goin' on. So c'mon, Red. Where you from?"

"Romania."

"Never heard of it. England and Romania, huh? Couple of characters, you two. Might wanna lose the hair though. With all these damn cats runnin' around, you don't wanna be drawin' attention, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Me? I'm from around here. Name's Edward. People call me Eddie." Eddie delves into his life story as we walk, and it's strangely refreshing. 

He talks about his mother and his father, their car shop, and how it was shut down when the world began to close. He had eight brothers and sisters who lived with him in this neighborhood The woman who had started this small group was a grandmother figure with no blood relation, the famous Abuela, who had been talking with Soli. 

I steal a glance at Verando, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than listening to this man's tale, but I rather enjoy it. I wrinkle my nose at him with an attempt at a grin, encouraging him not to look so annoyed, and he forces a smile back at me, though it doesn't touch his eyes.

 Eddie tells us all about how he came to be on Soli's team, and that he wishes she would hire more mechanics, but he can understand they're hard to find. He likes to tell us that he likes Soli, but then quickly adds something that annoys him about her. 

I purse my lips, taking it all in. Honesty was a dying breed, and I would accept it in any form. 

"Here she is. Abuela, this is Red and... hmm.. didn't catch your name." 

Verando doesn't offer it, and I roll my eyes at him, so much for the open book, not even minutes before. 

"Nicolas." I corrected him, despite Marisol's warning not to use our names, and extended my hand. "Verando." I gesture to the tall man at my side, ignoring the grumble in his throat. She greets us warmly, and I'm glad that we came here; even if it turns out to be a facade, it's nice to have a moment with real people again. 

The stiff family that lives in the compound had their human moments, but among real, uncensored people, it was beyond compare. She reminds me of Zsophia, and it warms me to my toes. 

"Perro?" She asks Eddie, gesturing to Verando. 

"Lobo." Verando responds stiffly, and she blinks at him, tilting her head as if she isn't expecting him to speak the same language as her. 

"Tu hablas Espanol?" 

He doesn't look so confident, waving his hand dismissively. "Algo. Diferentes dialectos, tal vez."

She thinks it over, "Sounds like maybe some Castellano?" He nods, shrugging. "And your accent sounds like you're from England." 

I'm surprised by how well she speaks English. 

"Don't see much of those around here. Just a bunch of New Yorkers."

"What's wrong with New Yorkers?" Eddie grumbles, and she chuckles, patting him gently. It cracks the careful facade on my companion's face. 

"Not much in diversity." She soothes him. "These people are from way across the ocean. I hope you've been polite." 

Eddie makes a face and opts to leave us, not wanting to incriminate himself further. 

"What brings you here? Nicolas, was it? Thank you for what you did for us yesterday; Soli is quite impressed with you." She guides us into a small sitting room with an attached kitchen and immediately begins shuffling through her refrigerator for something to make. 

"Ma'am, you don't have to make anything-" 

Verando nudges me carefully, giving me a stern look that says not to bother. She waved me off, insisting that she would make us something if we wanted it or not; it was time to make breakfast anyway. 

I sit on a stool beside the makeshift kitchen island, expecting him to sit beside me, but he doesn't. Instead, he kicks off his shoes, leaving them outside the door, and goes to the sink to scrub and wash his hands. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he offers his assistance.

She smirks at him, her weathered face making her appear much older than I first envisioned. "You had an abuela, too, didn't you?" 

Reluctantly, he nods. 

"I did."

"Here." She puts some vegetables in front of him to cut. 

It's strange to me, considering I've been trying to feed this man for years with minimal success. On rare occasions, I have seen him cook, but he has never looked quite so at ease in the kitchen. 

While it is awkward for him, the way he slices the onion and peppers reveals that he struggles to get the fingers on his left hand to cooperate. It's a nice change, considering we were fighting for our lives only an hour ago. 

My body aches; as much as I'd like to be helpful, I take the moment to realize just how exhausted I am and consider sleeping on the counter. I'd finally reached my limit once more, and my body was threatening to give out. Or perhaps I'd just found a place where I could finally be comfortable. 

"You'll eat, then you'll rest." The older woman insists.

They speak quietly in Spanish, accepting my lack of energy as a means to let me have a break. I take the opportunity to swoon over the soothing melodic tone of a foreign language that mirrors my own in a way, scooting over to find a comfortable spot on the wall to lean as I take in the scene and the smell of vegetables cooking in oil in a large pan.

She kneads the dough and fills it with a potato filling she'd been working on with surprising speed. I was expecting a sandwich, perhaps a soup, not a full-course meal. I drift in and out, my body finding a place where it feels safe enough to let go, finally. I feel as though I just closed my eyes when I heard a plate being set in front of me. 

The doughy foldovers are fried and served surrounded by a heaping plate of rice and vegetables. "Empanadas and stir fry." She tells me passively. 

Her arm snakes around his waist, her height compared to his comical, and she squeezes him in a sideways hug. 

"You are a good helper; your Mama would be very proud. Hard to find a well-trained son!"

I can't help but scoff as I unceremoniously shove a spoonful of the vegetables into my mouth. "I need your manual then; I can't get him to cook for me." I sighed at the taste; how good food could come from such meager means was beyond me. "Abuela, this is amazing." 

Verando takes a cautious bite as if he's uncertain if he wants to partake in such a thing, but he visibly relaxes at the taste and settles into a chair to eat. She opens a side door, calling gently, and the room is suddenly overflowing with children.

Six or seven faces clamber around the sink in organized chaos, fussing but orderly, as they scrub their hands. It's a sea of oversized pajamas and messy hair. Where I expect an increase in volume and excitement, they're surprisingly well-mannered beyond sibling-like skirmishes. 

"Are they all your grandchildren?" I ask her. 

Her face falls as she takes her fingers through the hair of one older girl. "No, mine are all grown. These are the ones I take care of; their parents have been lost in some way or another, and it's hard here. The cats and the environment don't lead to a long lifespan, I'm afraid."

"My daddy died in a fire." One little boy tells me casually, stuffing one of the doughy potato balls into his mouth—a lump forms in my throat.

"Now. Is that polite conversation?" she corrects. 

He flushes, going to sit with his siblings. Verando snags a more petite boy, maybe nearing two years of age, and places him carefully in his lap to allow him to eat off his plate. 

I feel like we've intruded on these people's lives, and they've accepted us so graciously, although I wonder if this is something the others do more frequently. "Soli should be here as soon as she finds the distress call. She doesn't carry an Artifice, but this is her go-to spot; you were smart to come here." 

"Thank you for your hospitality."

She smiles warmly at me, "De nada, Nicolas.  Thank you for helping us with the water and cleaning the streets; the children could play all day yesterday. It makes life a bit easier when they can have some fun."

"We kicked a ball!" The boy in Verando's lap chimes in, rubbing his eye tiredly.

"Was it fun?" Verando's voice is soft as he folds his hands carefully in the boy's lap to keep him from slipping as he wriggles and shoves empanadas in his mouth. 

The boy nods enthusiastically, and I take in our surroundings, achieving a small glimpse into what his childhood might have looked like. Verando seems overwhelmed, as if he never wanted to leave, yet he could hardly stand to be here.

 Allowing the boy to slide down, he instinctively gets up to help clean up and pack up the leftovers while Abuela takes his spot and finishes off his food—my typical Verando, never one to eat much. 

As the children leave, she snaps her fingers at him, and he wheels around as if she'd struck him. 

"Don't think I wasn't watching you. Venti aqui! Eat." She points to the packed-up empanadas in his hands. He hedges, thinking it over as his hands tighten on the box, but, to my surprise, he pops the top off and obediently takes one out, taking a bite. 

"You're too skinny. Both of you are too skinny," she scolds, pointing a wooden spoon at him. 

I decided that Abuela was secretly a lion tamer and consciously decided not to cross her. 

"There is a room down the hall on the right. It's not much, but you can rest in there; you both look dead on your feet." 

"Gracias." He tells her.

"You can thank me by helping me with lunch when you have had a bit of sleep. Then, I'd like you to tell me about your Mama. You speak like a hooligan, you know." It makes him smirk, and she pats him on the chest lightly. "I can clean up your Spanish while you're here."

We drag ourselves to the bedroom and slide into the small, full-sized bed. I chuckle at the size, barely big enough for him, let alone both of us. "Going to have to get cozy," I tell him, trying to bring him out of this funk beyond our typical post-battle hangover. 

Silence is usual after taking a life, but this is a different type of quiet. His expression, the mental anguish, I feel like he's drowning. Those light eyes are locked on the ceiling as I push him as close to the wall as I can and crawl beside him. 

He angles his body to pull me close to him; the hard bed creaks and groans, and I wonder if it will support us both. "Are you okay? I know we barely got out of there, but... we've been through a lot worse."

Verando nods, his jaw tight. "I'm just... losing my edge. If you hadn't been there-"

"Remember you're retired; this is above your pay grade now." I insist, pressing my nose against his chest as I encourage him to hold me tighter.

"Not much caring for this whole retired thing... I haven't trained; I'm just not used to feeling so weak."

Cautiously, I peer at him. Catching my lower lip in my teeth, I move to hover over him. "So... help us?" That distant look returns, and I know he's more tired than just the exhaustion of being awake for nearly 36 hours. I decide he's had enough. "You did fine." I stretch to kiss his neck, flinching at the cuts on my side. "Get some sleep; with all these children, not a cat will get past that kind of security system."