#no matter how many signs get put up there's always some idiot city tourist

[tcypionate]

tourists are actually insane out here. national park middle of fucking nowhere. other than the firestation there's no services for hours. and just watched a pack of children descend on a herd of deer screaming ??

[friendlyneighborhoodpsyop]

Quotes about Kaz Brekker:

Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppy show.

The boy called Dirtyhands didn’t need a reason any more than he needed permission.

He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges.

“Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?” “If the cripple is you, then any man with sense.”

“I’m a business man,” he’d told her. “No more, no less.” “You’re a thief, Kaz.” “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I’m not here for a taste. You want a war, I’ll make sure you eat your fill.”

The boy he’d been talking to had been cocky, reckless, easily amused, but not frightening—not really. Now the monster was here, dead-eyed and unafraid. Kaz Brekker was gone, and Dirtyhands had come to see the rough work done.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, Brekker.” “I will,” said Kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

“Well I’m the kind of bastard they only manufacture in the Barrel.”

Inej was always trying to wring little bits of decency from him. “When everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”

“Greed is your god, Kaz.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Inej. Greed bows to me. It is my servant and my lever.” “And what god do you serve, then?” “Whichever will grant me good fortune.”

“What’s the difference wagering at the Crow Club and speculating on the floor of the Exchange?” “One is theft and the other is commerce.” “When a man loses his money, he may have trouble telling them apart.”

“You’re a blackmailer—“. “I broker information.” “A con artist—“. “I create opportunity.” “A bawd and a murderer—“. “I don’t run whores, and I kill for a cause.”

“You see, every man is a safe, a vault of secrets and longings. Now, there are those that take the brute’s way, but I prefer a gentler approach—the right pressure applied at the right moment, in the right place. It’s a delicate thing.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.” “Each more grotesque than the last.” Brekker’s hands were stained with blood. Brekker’s hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker’s touch burned like brimstone—a single brush of bare skin caused your flesh to whither and die. “Pick one. They’re all true enough.”

Kaz was not a giddy boy smiling and making plans for a future with her. He was a dangerous player who was always working an angle.

“Please, my darling Inej, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honor of acquiring me a new hat?”

Brick by brick. It was a promise that let him sleep at night, the drove him everyday, that kept Jordie’s ghost at bay.

Kaz’s servant, greed, luring them South like a piper with a flute in hand.

“Being angry at Kaz for being ruthless is like being angry at a stove for being hot. You know what he is.”

“I wouldn’t trust you to tie my shoes without stealing the laces.”

Matthias knew monsters, and one glance at Kaz had told him this was a creature who had spent too long in the dark—he’d brought something back with him when he’d crawled into the light.

“The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. You take his attention and direct it where you want it to go.”

“You can’t spend his money if you’re dead.” “I’ll acquire expensive habits in the afterlife.”

“I don’t want to die.” “I’ll do my best to make other arrangements for you.”

“You came back for me.” “I protect my investments.” Investments. “I’m glad I’m bleeding all over your shirt.”

Matthias suspected that Brekker would drag the girl back from hell himself if he had to.

He’d gifted her her first blade, the one she called Sankt Petyr—not as pretty as wild geraniums, but more practical.

“Kaz told me...he said it was my choice, that he wouldn’t be the one to mark me again.”

Because I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to your for two days.

He needed to know she believed in him.

“What to do you want, then?” The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. You, Inej. You.

Kaz would always remember that moment, when he’d seen greed take hold of his brother, an invisible hand guiding him forward, the lever at work.

There could be no judgement from a boy known as Dirtyhands.

“Let’s say the mark is a tourist walking through the barrel. He’s heard it’s a good place to get rolled, so he keeps patting his wallet, making sure it’s there, congratulating himself on just how alert and cautious he’s being. No fool he. Of course every time he pats his back pocket or front of his coat, what’s he doing? He’s telling every thief on the Stave exactly where he keeps his scrub.”

It was because she was listening so closely that she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the barrel and the deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.

He’d heard there were sharks in these waters but they wouldn’t touch him. He was a monster now, too.

He’d imagined his death a thousand ways, but never sleeping through it.

It was as if once Kaz had seen her, he’d understood how to keep seeing her.

“If it were a trick, I’d promise you safety. I’d offer you happiness. I don’t know if that exists in the barrel, but you’ll find none of it with me.” Better terrible truths than kind lies.

He knew he was being reckless, selfish, but wasn’t that why they called him Dirtyhands? No job too risky. No deed too low. Dirtyhands would see the rough work done.

A good magician wasn’t much different than a proper thief.

She could see it took every last bit of his terrible will to remain still beneath her touch. And yet, he did not pull away. She knew it was the best he could offer. It was not enough.

“Some people see a magic trick and say, ‘Impossible!’ They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good nights sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for the skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind”

“You love trickery.” “I love puzzles. Trickery is just my native tongue.”

“Do you know the secret to gambling, Helvar? Cheat.”

There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not been healed wrong. There was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.

Her eyes were shut, her oil-black lashes fanned over her cheeks. The harbor wind had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in the world. She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.

You’ve cheated death too many times. Greed may do your bidding, but death serves no man.

He needed to tell her...what? That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her.

“Saints, Kaz, you actually look happy.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. But there was no mistaking it. Kaz Brekker was grinning like an idiot.

“I can hear the change in Kaz’s breathing whenever he looks at you.” “You...you can?” “It catches every time, like he’s never seen you before.”

“How will you have me? Fully clothed, gloves on, your head turned away so our lips can never touch? I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

“I’m not big on bluffing, am I, Inej?” “Not as a rule.” “And why is that?” “Because he’d rather cheat.”

Inej wanted Kaz to become someone else, a better person, a gentler thief. But that boy had no place here. That boy ended up starving in an alley. He ended up dead. That boy couldn’t get her back. I’m going to get my money, and I’m going to get my girl.

“A proper thief is like a proper poison. He leaves no trace.”

There were no good men in Ketterdam, Kaz said. The climate didn’t agree with them.

“If you don’t care about money, Nina dear, call it by it’s other names.” “Kruge? Scrub? Kaz’s one true love?” “Freedom, security, retribution.”

“It’s pragmatic. If I were cruel, I’d give him a eulogy instead of a conversation.”

“You haven’t been alive long enough to rack up your share of sin.” “I’m a quick study.”

Patience, he reminded himself. He’d practiced it early and often. Patience would bring all his enemies to their knees in time.

“You’ve got the devil’s own blood in you, boy.”

Kaz was going to have to find a new language of suffering to teach that smug merch son of a bitch.

“I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

“My mother is Ketterdam. She birthed me in the harbor. My father is profit. I honor him daily.”

Desperate for some sign that he might open himself to her, that they could be more than two creatures united by their distrust of the world.

They could continue on with their armor intact. She would have her ship and he would have his city.

Sure, a lock was like a woman. It was also like a man and anyone or anything else—if you wanted to understand it, you had to take it apart and see how it worked. If you wanted to master it, you had to learn it so well you could put it back together.

He always liked returning to a home or business he’d had cause to visit before. It wasn’t just the familiarity. It was as if by returning, he laid claim to a place. We know each other’s secrets, the house seemed to say. Welcome back.

“When people see a cripple walking down the street, leaning on his cane, what do they feel? They feel pity. Now, what do they think when they see me coming?” “They think they’d better cross the street.”

“We can endure a lot of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.”

“I don’t hold a grudge. I cradle it. I coddle it. I feed it fine cuts of meat and send it to the best schools. I nurture my grudges, Rollins.”

It was as if Kaz had a secret map of Ketterdam that showed the city’s forgotten spaces.

“I’ve taken knives, bullets, and too many punches to count, all for a little piece of this town. This is the city I bled for. And if Ketterdam has taught me anything, it’s that you can always bleed a little more.”

Was Johannus Rietveld meant to be his Jakob Hertzoon? Or had it been some way of resurrecting the family he’d lost? Did it even matter?

“I wreak all the havoc I can until my luck runs out, use our haul to build an empire.” “And after that?” “Who knows? Maybe I’ll burn it to the ground.”

Tell her to get out, a voice inside him demanded. Beg her to stay.

Kaz thought he knew the language of pain intimately, but this ache was new. It hurt to stand here like this, so close to the circle of her arms.

“These things don’t wash away with prayer, Wraith. There is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.”

Two of the deadliest people the barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both keeling over.

A black glass boy of deadly edges.

A bit of entertainment, the dramatic end of Kaz Brekker, the humbling of Dirtyhands. But this was no cheap comedy. It was a bloody rite, and Per Haskell had let the congregation gather, never realizing the real performance had yet to begin. Kaz stood upon his pulpit, wounded, bruised, and ready to preach.

“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood, and I’m happy to pay with yours.”

“What is wrong with him,” Nina grumbled. “Same thing that’s always wrong with him. He’s Kaz Brekker.”

“Rich men want to believe they deserve every penny they’ve got, so they forget what they owe to chance. Smart men are always looking for loopholes. They want an opportunity to game the system. The toughest mark is an honest man. Thankfully, they’re always in short supply.”

“Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.”

“What do you think my forgiveness looks like, Jordie?” “Who’s Jordie?” “Someone I trusted. Someone I didn’t want to lose.”

He put his gloves back on and didn’t take them off. He became twice as ruthless, fought twice as hard. He stopped worrying about seeming normal, let people see a glimmer of the madness within him and let them guess at the rest.

The rage inside him burned on and he learned to despise people who complained, who begged, who claimed they’d suffered. Let me teach you what pain looks like, he would say, and then he’d paint a picture with his fists.

That was what destroyed you in the end: the longing for something you could never have.

“I will kill you, Brekker. I will kill everything you love.” “The trick is not to love anything.”

“Suffering is like anything else. Live with it long enough, you learn to like the taste.”

She smiled then, her eyes red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. It’s a smile he thought he might die to earn again.

“He doesn’t say goodbye. He just lets go.”

“Ketterdam is made of monsters. I just happen to have the longest teeth.”

[about-notthing]

Trompe l’Oeil

·Hello everyone! So this is the first thing i post that i’ve actually written. It’s the first part of a story i’m currently writing. I’m sure it’s going to have a thousand mistakes, so please tell so i can correct it. Hope you like it!·

Trompe l’Oeil

part i

Sirius had thought that being the director of one of the most important museums, not only in the country but internationally, would have been more entertaining. Art is something fascinating, something that should make people get goosebumps, something that everybody would be willing to create. Wasn’t he supposed to be witness to that excitement as the representative of the entity?

Apparently not. He only had meetings and more meetings with besuited people, signed papers about moving works and revised the accounts. It was such a bore. The most thrilling things were the Art School’s event, and there weren’t exactly a lot every year.

The School of Fine Arts had been the most ambitious project the museum had ever got into. That had had such an impact on the media - it had been a much-talked-about topic for weeks. It was even more important than when they bought six canvas that Vincent Van Gogh had painted. It all started as a way to put works of art closer to art students from University, and shortly after it had become bigger than anyone would have imagined.

The School had been functioning for more than a lustrum, and its students were already well-known artists all around the world. At the beginning of each school year, there was a great event where graduated students passed the baton to those students who “started their journey”. The whole ceremony was charged with symbolism, and Sirius, as the jewel in the crown, had to be there.

He actually liked the topic of the event, but formalities made him be so bored...His entertainment each year was trying to make his speech as irreverent as he could without the media getting all over him. His honorable mother always got what he meant - it had been more than once that she had pierced his skin with her nails so that he’d had to meet people with blood stains under his suit. Some years she had “warned “ him even before he got on stage.

However, he wasn’t very excited this time. Maybe it was because of the complaints the institution had received lately, or maybe it was because of Irina. Their breakup had been quite notorious. All the museum’s employees had chatted about it at least once. But who could blame them - it’s not every day that your chief breaks his engagement.

There had been a variety of reactions. Some women -and men too- couldn’t help but be at least a bit excited about his boss’ newly acquired bachelorhood. Others felt sorry for him, and his secretary had even held his hand as if someone had died. His mother had gone mad and had ordered him to make her a visit. He hadn’t been able to go to work for a couple of days until his swollen eye had got better.

But the cruelest had been the journalists. They had nearly destroyed him. A Sirius’ ex worked in the most important gossip magazine of the country, and he had never come to terms with their breakup. It seemed he had finally achieved his revenge. However, stating that he had behavioural problems and that he couldn’t have a relationship was just too much. The worst part was that he couldn’t deny the last part. He really wasn’t the kind to have long term relationships. In fact, his longest relation had actually been the one he’d had with Irina. They had known each other for a year and a half by the time they got engaged. A month after the news was out they would have reached two years of happy relationship. Unluckily, they wouldn’t celebrate their anniversary again.

Sirius kicked a crushed can that was lying on the ground. The object hit a lamppost and fall to the road, but the bloke didn’t care. He was looking down, hands in his pants’ pockets and the jacket hanging loosely over his arm. he was having some pretty bad days, and locking himself up in his flat, as luxurious and comfortable as it was, would only make him angry. He would end up frustrated, with a few broken plates and laying on the floor, completely drunk.

It wasn’t so late yet. It had been only two hours since the museum had closed, but nightlife was starting. Bars were already serving plates, and many small shops were taking stock and counting the money they had earned during the day. It was a calm evening at the end of August.

The biggest attraction seemed to be himself. Pedestrians turned back to look at him, surprised to see him wearing a suit - office work schedule had ended a few hours ago. Two seventeen-year-old girls laughed excitedly at his sight and tried to sneak a picture of him. Right away, a lady standing next to them told them who he was and how disastrous his life was. That damn article.

Luckily, Sirius didn’t realize that. He was used to be the centre of attention, he did like it. However, if it was because of something he wasn’t in control of… He just hated it. He felt as if his privacy was being somehow violated, that people entered his inner world and walked around it, touching and breaking everything without caring about the consequences. He was his own museum when a stupid someone tried to touch a painting and then blamed the security staff.

He wandered distractedly. He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he wasn’t in the mood to check it. It was his brother - he didn’t even have to look at the screen to know it. Sirius had stayed at his house for the past two days - partly because he wanted to hide from the media, partly because he felt so alone. When they broke up, Irina had taken all her things with her. Sirius wasn’t ready to face that lipstick heart she had drawn on the bathroom’s mirror.

He raised his head and felt a bit out of place. He had let his steps guide him, but he had ended up in a part of the city he didn’t know very well.

Sirius shrugged. It didn’t matter anyway. He was about to leave when he saw a little alley on his right. At the end of it, he could see people walking and cars traveling at top speed. He doubted for a few second - should he turn back and go home or go straight down? Well, the alley looked like a shortcut - why not?

The street was really narrow, certainly. There were almost no lampposts, and the limited sunlight rays couldn’t go through the tall buildings surrounding him. Sirius started to feel uneasy but kept on walking. There was no point in turning back.

He was almost midway when he saw light coming from a lateral street. He walked in and, just when he was around the corner, he had to close his eyes shut. He blinked a couple of time before getting used to the clarity. Then, he smiled. He knew that avenue, it was quite close to the city centre. But that meant more people could recognize him. His smile faded slightly.

Sirius crossed the street with his head down and tried to hide in a group of Argentinian -judging by the language- tourists. They walked together for two blocks until, taking advantage of a collective inattention -a few girls had been trying to talk to him for the last minutes- he entered the first café he saw. He walked fast through tables, dodging clients, and he fell on the most forgotten corner of the place. It was only then that he breathed again, letting the air he didn’t know he had been restraining out.

He put his head over his arms and inhaled deeply. He was tired of running away from everyone and everything. His thoughts and his emotions fought against each other. He was dying inside. But he had to keep a straight face so the media and his own coworkers wouldn’t know it all affected him. Showing insecurity would do nothing but destroy him.

“Would you like to order something, sir?”

Sirius lifted his head, fast as if he had been pricked. In front of him, there was a smiling boy. As soon as he saw the logo on the green apron he cursed himself. He should have looked better the place he entered.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

He struggled to find the words but finally managed to articulate a proper sentence.

“No… No, I’m-I’m fine. I’ll have coffee.”

The waiter looked at him for a few seconds, doubting if he should as him the kind of coffee he wanted. He decided not. Although the man ha said he was fine, he didn’t quite believe it.

“Thank you.”

The guy nodded and went back to the counter. Sirius followed him with his eyes. When he disappeared, Sirius rubbed his eyes, tired. “Idiot” a voice in his mind whispered. That’s the way he would look.

Entering a franchise café is a great plan if you want to go unnoticed, as long as you order something. The problem? Those were places where they call out your name so you would pick up your order. Of course, he could lie and say another name, but people would recognize him anyway. However, the waiter was probably doing something he shouldn’t do by going to his table to take his order. Sirius hoped that wouldn’t get him in trouble. It was not the boy’s fault that his life was falling to pieces.

“Here it is. It’s four fifty”

The bloke put a paper glass on the table. Sirius couldn’t help but notice the dimples he had on his cheeks. He stared at him until he realised he was making the guy uncomfortable. He went back to reality and handed him a ten pounds note.

“Take the rest”

“Thank you” He smiled back and walked away.

Although he tried, he couldn’t avoid thinking about the waiter. He was quite handsome. And very young. He would be twenty at most. Sirius looked at him as discreetly as he could. He moved airily in the counter, filling cups with whipped cream and caramel syrup. He joked with his co-worker but did everything she asked him. Twice, he disappeared behind a door and came with a big box in his arms. He worked hard, but he wore a tender smile just like it was painted.

By the time he finished his drink, it was already cold. He lifted the glass to his lips and was surprised by the lack of liquid.

Then he really looked at the class.

It was simple, white, with the green logo in the middle. However, somebody had drawn around it with a black marker. Thin lined intertwined with spirals and soft shapes. Little flowers appeared here and there and dissapeared just as much.

It was a mandala. It was a big and beautiflu mandala decorating his vase.

He was shocked. This looked just like something that one of the Arts’ School students would have done as a project for any subject. He turned the object in his hands, trying to soak up the drawing.

He was about to leave it on the table when he discovered a little sing at the bottom. It was crossed out as if the author had done it mechanically and then had regreted it. However, you could still see the letters “RL” written in cursive.

So those were the initials of whoever had drown that. Sirius didn’t know why, but he had the sensation it had been the boy who had done that. It wasn’t certain, as he hadn’t seen the bloke doing it, but he just felt it.

He took out his phone with a sigh. He had five new messages and six missed calls from his brother and his best friend. He answered fast, trying to be as impersonal as he could. Sometimes, he hated that people cared about him, especially if they were his beloved ones. He felt responsible for his actions. He knew he could destroy them without pretending to. And hurting someone he loved would reduce him to ashes.

He looked for a pen on his pant’s pockets, feeling about his thighs until he found it. He took the cap off and a couple of napkins too. He put one over the other so the ink wouldn't stain the table if it bled. He wrote slowly, carefully, choosing the right words and trying to make his calligraphy as neat as he could.

Once he finished, he left the paper on the table and stood up, straightening the shirt’s sleeves. He put his phone away and took the vase. He looked at it, with a little smile on his lips. The drawing was wonderful, and it had cheered him up a little. His head still felt cloudy and he barely processed what happened around him.

A cool breeze greeted him when he went out of the café. He rubbed his arms. It was late, and it was starting to be cold. He put his hands in his pockets and walked absently. It was time to go home.

He had barely taken a few steps when he remembered the note he had left. He couldn’t help but smile, a little smirk hanging from his lips. He was never going to change. He didn’t want to, anyway.

·Caelum·

[ifridiot]

Honey, Don’t Feed It

Sometimes you can’t help people, even when they’re the ones you most want to.

Naia meets a young Stryfe. 

Naia is not a babysitter.

Fact of the matter is, Naia doesn’t like kids that much. Didn’t like kids when they were a kid, and now that that tenuous connection to that subset of humanity is gone, they would rather avoid them as much as possible, thank you so much for asking.

Okay, maybe that’s not fair. Naia might suck with babies (they’re too loud and the fact that they cry but can’t explain why they’re crying gives them anxiety) but once kids are old enough to communicate they can handle them pretty well for small doses. Little kids could even be endearing, once they got over their fear of Naia’s extra limbs and intimidating size. Kids usually did better than adults when it came to Spider-man rescuing them; they held on and stared in awe and then they ran back to their parents or to their siblings or to whoever came to collect them.

“I’m not a child.”

It’s teenagers Naia really can’t stand.

“Kid, you’re like twelve, hush.”

Standing between the kid and the cops, Naia has their arms spread in the traditional peacekeeping posture, one set of palms spread toward the boys in blue, one toward the telepathic kid on the edge of murdering a pair of bigots. Honestly, even if the kid wasn’t a kid, Naia knows who’s side they’d be on.

Cops are always wrong, and bigots belonged in the ground, but the issue here was more that it was seven in the morning and the kid is obviously strong enough to kill the assholes he’s got caught in some kind of telekinetic death grip but isn’t. Which means he’s not the bad guy.

Now to get the cops to put their guns down.

The crowd that has gathered around the scene is doing that collective silence thing that always makes Naia a little nervous. There are a lot of witnesses -- and potential victims, if the kid decides to go off. Judging by the fierceness on his face and the creep laying on the cement with blood trickling from his mouth, eyes, ears, and nose, the kid has a lot of power. Thus far he’s managed to reel it in -- the pavement-creep is breathing like it hurts, and from what Naia has gathered, he deserves it -- but if people start shooting, Naia doesn’t think self-control is going to be the first thing on the kid’s mind.

Ugh, telepaths. Kids and telepaths. This is gonna be the death of them, this exact bullshit. Kids and telepaths, they both want to get inside your head and then get mad when your thoughts aren’t the ones they wanted to hear.

Kid, they project, trying to remember how Mom taught them to do this. Shielding and trying to hold a private conversation is difficult and weirdly exhausting. You promise not to kill anybody and I’ll get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe, help you out as best I can. But you gotta put those guys down and come with me.

They wince, almost lose their shields, at the force of emotion -- rage and contempt and a sort of pain threaded through it that Naia is pretty sure they’re not supposed to pick up on -- that is slammed back at them. They insulted me! They deserve to die!

Someone makes a helpless noise of agony, and blood starts gushing from one of the asshole’s nose. The kid has them suspended in air and, as far as Naia can tell, the two humans can’t move at all. Now one of them has a broken nose. That’s pretty fantastic control for a kid.

Dangerous, too.

Kill ‘em and the cops start shooting. You’re gonna have the whole damn city after your ass, even if you can wipe all of us out. Public enemy number one.

Why shouldn’t I? The kid’s telepathic voice is cold, dripping with condescension, but the emotions that twist through the telepathy are laced with uncertainty. The kid is lost, obviously. Naia doesn’t know the whole story, is pretty sure they don’t want to know, but they do feel a sort of vague sympathy for the kid.

Whatever pain he’s working through, being insulted by a group of anti-mutant bigots was probably the least of it. He’s a very powerful kid, but he’s just a kid, one who’s been hurt bad by someone he probably trusted.

Naia sighs.

C’mon, kid. Don’t make me side with cops.

There’s a startled sense of amusement, which is a hopeful sign. A question curls around their brain, wordless, just the impression of consideration and hesitation. It wouldn’t be bad, except Naia can feel the kid peeling at their telepathic shields. He’s damn powerful, but no one’s evidently taught him subtlety.

I am so subtle! The kid snarls, and Naia smiles under their mask. The anger fades a little, replaced by curiosity. You can get me away from here?

“The kid is gonna come with me,” Naia says out loud, keeping a steady gaze on the cops. Unsurprisingly, none of them lower their weapons, but everyone’s hesitant to shoot Spider-man after he’d saved so many people. He was a symbol, and most of the cops knew you couldn’t publicly execute a symbol without good cause. “He’s gonna drop the assholes and we’re gonna go. No shooting necessary. No one dies, you can take the creep on the ground to the hospital, it all works out.”

Put the idiots down, kid. Show of faith, c’mon.

And wonder upon wonders, the kid does. He doesn’t do it gently; he drops them like the sacks of shit they are -- it doesn’t take a telepath to find a Neo-Nazi when the jackasses love to advertise their nationalist bullshit on their clothes -- and in another miracle, the assholes stay down.

Glancing at each other, the cops finally lower their weapons, and Naia nods. “We’re gonna go. Make sure the guy bleeding all over public property gets to the hospital. Or better yet, give him a ticket for littering. Public indecency. Whatever.”

That said, Naia moves quickly to the kid’s side. One of the assholes cranes his head up to glare at them, and he growls, “Fuckin’ muties.” Naia wants to put a boot through his teeth, but before they can move, the asshole screams, blood pouring from his eyes and his nose, altogether too similar to the one unconscious over by the cops. He collapses face first back against the pavement, hopefully just passed out, and Naia feels the prickly tingle of the danger-sense just before the sound of a gun being cocked reaches them.

“Goddamnit, kid,” Naia snarls, and before he can protest, they’ve got their right two arms around him, holding him against their body as they leap up onto the roof of the nearest building. He shouts, and shoves away as soon as they’re both on their feet.

“You can’t do that,” he says sharply, hands balled into fists, glaring.

“What, prevent your dumb ass from getting shot?” Naia snaps back, and it’s gratifying to see his mouth fall open, shocked. “Kid, I had you out of there scot free, and now your fuckin’ face is gonna be up all over the city as a dangerous mutant wanted, consider him armed and dangerous. Half those people down there were filming that. Gonna be all fuckin’ over YouTube now.”

The danger sense prickles again, and they half expect the kid to lash out, but his head twists toward the roof access door, eyes still wide. Naia sighs.

“They’re coming after us. So let’s get the fuck outta here. I can stash you somewhere for a while. Couple hours, ‘til the heat dies down some and you can get out of town tonight.”

“I have business here, I can’t leave!”

Kids. Fuckin’ kids and telepaths, Naia could just about scream. “Rain check your business, dipshit! Now can you use the TK to float or do I need to carry you?”

They’d seen Cable do that a couple times, but he was supposed to be super powerful or something. And he was old, had a lot longer to practice.

Looking back at them, the kid scowls. “I do not need to be carried.”

“Then float. Let’s go.”

Really, with the kind of attitude this kid’s got, Naia half expects him to obstinately stay put, or maybe run off on his own. He seems the sort of kid to refuse help on principle, but he also has that wide-eyed touristy look, and his clipped, formal way of speaking reinforces the idea that he’s not from around here.

As if the metal chest plate and cape thing wasn’t communicating that clearly enough.

He at least stops trying to pry into Naia’s head as they lead him into Brooklyn, leaping from building to building until they get to a quiet, rundown neighborhood. Most of the windows on the building they lead the kid do have been boarded over, and the place sucks to be stuck in during winter, but on a nice September day it shouldn’t be too bad.

“This building is abandoned,” he says, sounding disdainful. “You expect me to stay here?”

They sigh, prying open the plywood-covered maintenance door and holding it for him to go in first. “I know it’s not the Ritz, kid, but I’ve got food and a place to relax instead of being hunted all over the fucking city and getting your ass handed to you by one of the masked guys who don’t have a soft spot for idiot tourist kids.”

He stares again, but only for a second, before glaring and scowling, stalking into the building with a swish of his cape. “I’m not a kid,” he grumbles, and Naia finds it really funny that he thinks that’s the part of their assessment that needs correcting. They drag the door shut and hurry to get in front of him, leading him through the abandoned building to the ground-floor apartment they’d appropriated as a safe house. It was one of the only ones that had a door in the front room that hadn’t been kicked down or taken off its hinges.

“I can’t believe you’re happy your room still has a door,” he says, still scathing in that snotty way kids who grew up with nice things had.

“You should be glad too,” Naia says cheerfully, closing the door carefully behind them. “Means no homeless people have broken in and pissed on the couch again.”

It’s not the nicest safe house they’ve had, but it’s not bad. No electricity, but the broken down couch was comfy and there had been a number of cats locked in the apartment when they’d found it. Most of them and left and never come back when they’d left the windows open for them to roam, but one big tom, old and possessed of a rusty, broken meow, had stayed.

Presently he was curled on the center seat of the couch, sleeping. The kid stood looking at the cat like he wasn’t certain if he should chase it away or leave it alone.

“Cat’s not gonna bite, just take a seat,” Naia says, amused. “Luce is nice, but he doesn’t usually like strangers much.”

This was a lie, but Naia told it to everyone they brought here because it made them happy when Luce wanted to get in their lap or purred for them. And it’s really not a surprise that he perks up when the kid sits next to him, shoved up into the corner of the couch closest to the door. He stares at the cat for a moment longer and then looks away, folding his arms across his chest.

“You said there was food.”

Naia snorts softly, moving into the kitchenette. There was a useless (and ancient) fridge, but since there was no electricity it was more a pantry than anything. Somewhere to store stuff they didn’t want Luce (or any other animal who slipped in through the cracked window) to chew into. They pry it open and take stock of what’s available. “Yeah kid, just gimme a sec. You a picky eater?”

“No,” he says, and somehow makes it sound like he’s being gracious by telling them. “And my name is Stryfe.”

“Strife?” Their eyebrows rise under the mask, leaning back from the fridge to look at him. He is staring down at the cat, who is now sniffing carefully at the edge of his cape. “Is that, like, a code name, or…?”

“It’s my name,” he says primly, head held up and jaw set. “It’s spelled with a ‘y’.”

“Ah, okay,” they say, sticking their head back in the fridge. “So your parents just hated you.”

It’s meant playfully, but they can feel the sharp way he stares at them, and it’s like all the breath in the room went out. A raw nerve, and one they just kicked hard. Fuck.

“Uh, sorry, kid, that wasn’t… That was a bad joke, I didn’t mean anything by it.” The kid starts breathing again, and Naia thinks that’s okay then. They grab a couple ramen packets and a can of chicken and step over the the counter. “So, what’re you in town for?”

His silence is telling, and they can feel him in their head again, pushing at the shields they have up, prying into them, looking for some ulterior motive, some hidden threat. They wish they were better at this telepathic shielding shit, because as it stands, they’re out of practice and it’s exhausting.

“Kid, I want to help. I’m not cooking for you so I can stab you in the back later. You think I’m gonna call the cops on you? I’m Spider-man, me and cops don’t exactly go hand-in-hand.”

The mental pressure eases somewhat, but doesn’t entirely disappear. For a long moment, he’s quiet, and they think he’s not going to answer. That’s fine, it’s not really their business, and they’ve already had a long night. Then, he says, “I’m from the future.”

Naia tries not to feel exasperation. Time-travel shit is always exhausting. They rarely have to deal with it, but they’ve been dropped into enough parallel universes to know that they’re lucky in that regards. They get pan-dimensional bullshit, let the X-Men and the Avengers deal with the time-travel shit.

“Oh,” they say as tactfully as possible, pouring a couple bottles of water into a pot and setting it on the camp-stove. “So what’s brought you, uh, to the past?”

“I’m cleaning up other people’s mistakes,” he says archly. “That’s as much as you need to know.”

Silence swallows them for a while, Naia focusing on cooking the ramen and draining the chicken and making the meal as palatable as possible. They’re running out of supplies in this place, so they’ll have to stock up soon, but they figure, what the hell, and dump a can of mixed vegetables into the ramen as well. Kid looks like he could use the fuel.

The kid eats with Luce curled up in his lap, eating with that careful sort of control that says he wants to wolf it but feels that sort of display would make him look bad. Measured and obviously relishing every bite. It would be flattering if Naia wasn’t busy trying to think about how much the future must suck if instant ramen with some canned goods tossed in is that good to the kid.

When they do start talking, they don’t talk about much. He seems pleased when they tell him the cape is a nice touch, almost smiling as he sits up a little straighter.

“I find it important to make a visual statement,” he says. Naia raises their water bottle to that, and tactfully doesn’t make any comments about drapery. The kid looks at them where they’re leaning against the wall and frowns to himself, dragging his fork through the broth that remains in his bowl. “Why do you keep the cat here if this is not your home?”

Naia shrugs, pushing away from the wall and coming to take his bowl. “He was here first. I figure if he wanted to go to a different home he would. He didn’t like it when I tried taking him out of here, so I brought him back. I make sure he gets fed and he has his couch. Also possibly he likes to hang out with the ghost of whatever cat-hoarder used to live here. There were a lot of cats when I took this place over.”

“That sounds stupid. Ghosts don’t hang around to watch cats.” They laugh, and he goes on a very serious diatribe about superstition being the crutch of a weak mind. Naia wonders if 4Chan is still big in the future. Kid sounds like he’d fit in real well with those sort of pretentious ‘intellectuals’.

While they wash up the dishes and put everything away, making note that they’re going to need more water here next time they stock up, too, they pull up music on their phone and play it to fill the silence. The kid makes faces, but doesn’t complain.

It’s a little past noon when they try to get the kid to open up again about what he’s trying to do, and he very clearly doesn’t want any part of it.  

“I have the matter in hand,” he says heatedly, arms crossing again, until Luce makes a plaintive sound at the sudden loss of being pet. He scratches at the cat’s neck, glaring daggers at Naia. “I don’t need help.”

“Well, you sure weren’t doing super hot on your own when I found you.”

He scowls and they soften a little.

“C’mon. You’re new in town, and this is a big place. I’ve been in the city all my life, I know where everything is. I can at least point you in the right direction.”

They have a little staring contest for a moment, and it surprises Naia that he’s the one to look away first. “I have to do this on my own.”

“Fuck, gimme a break. You were talkin’ so smart a minute ago, don’t shove your head back up your ass, c’mon. More hands makes less work.”

He huffs, glaring at them again, mouth pressed in a tight line. “I am on my own to prove a point, I do not need help.”

“Everybody needs help, kid.”

“I’ve told you, my name is Stryfe! I demand you stop calling me kid!”

The mask does little to hide Naia’s grin at that. If the kid weren’t sitting down with a lap full of contented cat, they think he’d have actually stamped his little foot. “How old are you, kid? Thirteen going on three?”

“I am sixteen, I’m not some child.”

Naia gentles again at that, at least a little. It’s all right to tease, but he’s so vehement, it’s clear enough that this is somehow important. Probably something someone’s pushed the kid into thinking. “The future must really suck if sixteen is when you have to start being an adult.”

“The future makes sense.” He proclaims, and Naia doesn’t know whether to laugh or just shake their head. “Once I finish what I came here to do, the future will be perfect.”

Setting their head to one side, they watch him for a minute. He’s focused on Luce, stroking over the soft fur of the cat’s head.

“If you’d tell me what you’re trying to to do,” they offer, tone as gentle as the voice modulator will allow, “I would help you.”

He looks back at them, suspicious but almost hopeful too. “You wouldn’t. And I must do it myself. That’s the whole point.”

“I’ve already been helping you. Why would I stop now?”

“You’re not unknown in the future. You wouldn’t help me.”

It’s hard to argue with an evasive time-traveler, but that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. As much as they want to help the kid, he sounds a little like a baby villain. All brooding secrets and deep hurts, ugly intentions. “You gonna kill someone?”

“I have to.” He says it flat, like it’s the obvious recourse any sixteen-year-old would come to. “He… they ruined everything. I’m going to take care of it.”

“You can’t just kill everyone who wrongs you, kid.”

His face screws up, angry, furious even. “Can’t I? That’s what you do, isn’t it? What makes Spider-man’s judgement better than mine?”

He says it like it’s a gotcha, and it’s a little surprising, how hard the words hit. Naia wants to say something about how they’re at least an adult, old enough to throw their life away crusading against actual murderous assholes. Not everyone who upset them, not even everyone who injured them. They’d had experience. This kid was just angry -- justifiably, maybe, but… he needed help. He needed patience, someone to help him unlearn this arrogant shit he used to wrap himself up and shield him from the ways he’d been hurt.

But then he smiles, sharp and cutting, and says, “Or should I just call you Naia?”

The way he pronounces their name, it sounds like a taunt, like the sound of it is something to mock. His expression does nothing to disguise the threat implied in his words.

Really, Naia’s a little sick of it. They’ve been playing nice all day despite the kid’s shitty attitude, and Naia was never a patient, kindly person. They’re not a parent, they’re not a big sibling, they’re not required to put up with this shit.

"Kid,” they say, looking down at him, scowling under the mask as they square their shoulders, “your name is Strife-with-a-Y and you ‘ported back from the oh-so-enlightened future with the manners of a four-year-old and the fashion sense to match, so just because you picked my name out of my brain, don't act like you're superior. You’re angry, and I can respect that, but you’ve done nothing to give me any reason to respect you. Bullies ain’t worth shit."

They expect anger. Yelling, maybe a punch thrown. The kid’s obviously practiced in hurting people with his TK, so maybe something like that.

Instead, the kid looks like Naia punched him. His eyes, normally narrowed and angry, are suddenly wide and open. He looks startled, like he’s grasping for his anger but so completely unused to being spoken to like that that he doesn’t know how to handle it. Naia tries to imagine that, imagine going sixteen years without anyone snapping you back in place when you were out of line, about being that secure in your right to treat anyone and everyone like shit, and finds they can’t quite do it.

“Less than a decade from now, you die a failure,” he hisses after a moment of that stunned shock. The viciousness of his tone is especially taut, the sort of tone used to mask pain with anger. He wants to lash back and hurt them. “You die ugly. Slow. And it doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah?” Naia snaps back, nowhere near as mild as they’d like to be. “That supposed to make me, what? Stop? I might die as a loser, but I sure as shit don’t live like one.”

In a second, the kid is on his feet, Luce hitting the floor with a noise of feline offense and rushing off to the other end of the safe house. “I should kill you myself,” He says, hands balled into angry fists Naia knows he wouldn’t bother to use. He’d do for them with the TK to keep his hands clean.

“It make you feel better, threatening the only person you had on your side in this era?”

Their head bounces loudly off the wall. They hear something crack and hope to any god listening that it’s the drywall and not their skull. Collapsed on the floor, they have a hard time getting their eyes to focus through the mask, blackness lancing through their vision. They feel more than see Stryfe looming over them, and grin crookedly at him from where they sprawl.

“You’re not worth killing.” He says, savage. “Me killing you would honor you.”

They want to say something. They’re not even sure what; a dozen tones dance through their head, ways to play what just happened out to distinct, impactful ends. There’s a part of them that wants to push the kid to doing it, but they don’t know if he’s really still moral enough to get the satisfaction of his feeling bad about doing it. And thinking that makes them feel weirdly guilty. Guilty for doubting that a kid could be so devoid of humanity, for thinking he might be so far beyond help.

He makes a sharp noise at that, and they can feel it, when he finally withdraws from prying at their mind. His cape snaps at the air when he turns sharply away.

Really, a good hero would shake off the likely-concussion, get up, say something clever and thoughtful that would get him to stick around. They would try to stop him, try to save him.

Naia stays on the floor, eyes closed, and carefully shore up their telepathic shields. It’s easier to make them strong when you’re not focused on other things, like standing.

The kid’s boots click importantly against the tile, and when he shuts the front door behind him, it’s slammed sharply in place.

[notapaladin]

all the rainbow’s heavy tones

okay. so. this is LONG AS SHIT and contains, in no particular order: fight scenes, concussions, blood loss, death magic, and a Very Good Dog. but i decided obsblood needed a modern au, and so i have provided! can also be read on AO3, as usual.

Acatl, chief of the Mictlan Division, hunts a beast of shadow on what was supposed to be his day off. Fortunately, he has help in the form of one (1) confident young undergraduate and his trusty dog. The dog is fine. Acatl...less so.

At least he manages to get Teomitl's number out of it.

-

-

Acatl was halfway through his morning routine (offer blood to the gods, brush teeth, wash face, feed the cat, grudgingly remember to feed himself while Little Skull twined around his shins and purred) when his phone rang.

When he realized the ringtone was the one he used only for work calls, he closed his eyes briefly. He’d been having a good morning, too; he’d slept well for once, without any nightmares of failure in his new post or wistful dreams of his old one. The sheets had been the perfect temperature when he’d woken, and he’d allowed himself five extra minutes to just lay there and enjoy it. Little Skull had been sleeping on his chest as a ghost’s butterfly investigated the potted plant Mihmatini had brought him to, in her words, “make it look less like Mictlan in here.” (He hadn’t bothered to point out that, as the new head of the Mictlan Division, he knew very well it was impossible to mistake Mexico City for the land of the dead no matter how small his apartment was.)

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, he picked it up. It looked like he wasn’t going to get to use his day off to catch up on any of his much-needed rest after all. “Yes?”

“You picked up so early even on your day off! Wonderful.” Acatl felt a muscle start to twitch in his cheek, but held his tongue as Ichtaca continued. “We need you here. There’s been a body found.”

There were always bodies being found in Mexico City, but if it was a work matter, that meant the death had underworld magic about it. Acatl hoped fervently that it hadn’t been found near the sewers. Ahuizotls could and did swim up the larger pipes, and they would require help from the Tlaloc Division to track down. A particularly bad infestation would even mean he’d have to work with Acamapichtli again.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for informing me.”

As soon as he could meant he would have to ride his bike. It was the only way to get through the traffic near the Old City in any reasonable amount of time; he’d made the same trip a million times in his college days. Unfortunately, it made Ichtaca twitch in fury every time he saw him showing up to work on a battered gray bike; though Acatl’s second-in-command never said a word to him about it, he knew he thought it was unbecoming for the dignity of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day priest of the dead. He could handle that; a priest was meant to serve their people, and there was no need to put on unnecessary airs. Besides, he liked the city, liked the noise and the chaos of it. It was home. It was—alive.

Of course, in another way, it was also quite dead.

The crowd on the sidewalks ebbed and flowed around little pockets of cold emptiness; as he turned his head at one stop sign, a translucent woman in an old-fashioned tunic and skirt bowed to him, and he nodded back. It always paid to be polite to ghosts. Cars in front of him stopped in the middle of the street to let a faded, barely visible man push a wheelbarrow across a road that no longer existed; despite the delay in their commutes, nobody honked their horns. Acatl quietly approved. In other places, he knew, people were much less calm about bits of the underworld leaking through to their everyday lives, but in Mexico—and especially in this city—the underworld very nearly was their everyday lives. Ghosts walked the streets they had loved in life, and when they passed on, they took the forms of butterflies that brightened the hearts of their loved ones. And if they made trouble...well, that was what people like him were there for.

He pedaled on, thinking of work. It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to; though he’d never been good with people, he’d truly enjoyed his post in Coyoacan where much of the job had lay in talking to bereaved families, following threads of magic, and occasional heartstopping moments of sheer terror as whatever had crawled out of the underworld decided to take a bite out of him instead. It had all been very straightforward. Meanwhile, being the Chief of the entire Mictlan Division meant any case he had to examine himself was going to involve politics, and he knew he was entirely out of his depth there. Fuck you, Ceyaxochitl, he thought grumpily—but not too loudly. He wouldn’t have put it past her to be able to read his mind from across the city.

He doubted the last High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli had had to deal with a Ceyaxochitl of his own. And if he had, at least she hadn’t had a cell phone.

Then again, I’m sure he had much more immediate problems to deal with. The Europeans showing up with steel and horses, for one thing. The history books all said that the Mexica had held out for a time, but when they faced total annihilation—their deaths, the destruction of their temples, the destruction of their gods—the last High Priest had joined together with his fellows, the last Guardian of the Duality (his little sister, the codices said, and Acatl thought of Mihmatini with a pang every time), and the last Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (the Guardian’s husband, and the High Priest’s...friend said the grammar school textbooks, and lover said the college ones on the strength of some very emotional surviving poetry) in a desperate ritual to...well, nobody, even now, could agree on what they had been trying to do. Kill all the Spaniards? Save their own lives? Strengthen the wards between all three realms, so that even if they died the world would live on? Whatever their goals had been, the result was this: a world where very few people rested quietly in death, where monsters sometimes walked the streets, and where the gods’ gift of magic was spread thin to keep the world intact.

Of course, the distance of the gods worked in their favor now. The sun rose without being fed by human hearts, and star demons were a thing of the distant past. (Election years were bad enough. He didn’t even want to imagine how bad they’d be with the threat of Coyolxauhqui hanging over everyone’s heads.) Only minor, more-easily-killable creatures still threatened them. Historians generally agreed it had also spared a larger part of his people and culture than might otherwise have been the case (he’d had nightmares as a child of what could have happened, of the Great Temple trampled into the dust and a church built atop it), so on the whole Acatl was inclined to look very favorably upon the spiritual predecessor whose knives allegedly were the ones sealed in a glass case in his office. And if he happened to have been intimate with Emperor Ahuizotl (whose namesakes had very explicitly eaten Hernan Cortez, described with glee by contemporary commentators), then good for him.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through traffic and an unpleasantly exciting near-collision with a car that was apparently immune to a Mictlan officer’s aura, he came to the Division headquarters. From a distance it looked just like any other office building, until you got close enough to notice the owl-and-spider motifs in the stone and the skull prominently displayed over the door. They might no longer officially be priests of Mictlantecuhtli, but the symbols remained. (Including the official regalia of the High Priests, which Acatl had to wear for the big rituals and feast days, and which he hated more than he thought he could hate a bit of fabric and feathers. The loincloth helped, but ritual sites never had air conditioning; adding a giant skull mask and heavy cloak only made it worse.) He attempted to smooth down the mess the trip had made of his hair and was about to lock his bike up when the doors slid open and Ichtaca strolled out.

Unlike Acatl—windblown, sweaty, sporting a black mark of uncertain provenance on his uniform pants—Ichtaca was immaculate. His standard-issue uncut hair was pulled back neatly, his shoes gleamed, and the prominently displayed owl badge on his chest proclaimed his status to anyone who cared to look. Even his short-sleeved uniform shirt had been pressed and ironed, and the spider trim shimmered. “Don’t bother, sir. The...deceased is in the Old City. We’ll be heading there straightaway.” Unspoken, but clear in his tone was I would have told you that but you hung up on me, you idiot.

Acatl grimaced. Trying to take bodies out of the Old City without at least some token prayers tended to end badly. “To the Old City, then. You’ll be walking?”

“...I also brought a bike.”

When the last High Priests and the last Emperor had snapped the boundaries like so many dry twigs, they had succeeded in preserving a single part of their city. In the middle of Mexico City, a mile-wide circle of Tenochtitlan remained as it had been in the last days of the Empire, a place of perfectly preserved adobe buildings and now-dry canals with the Sacred Precinct at its center. Between the ghosts and the fact that electronics tended to fail there, it had been abandoned for centuries—the province of religious rituals, heavily supervised archaeological expeditions, and rare tourist walks. These days, there were checkpoints with armed guards to make sure nobody snuck in and got themselves eaten; rumors that vagrants seeking a place to sleep had woken up covered in a protective blanket of butterflies were officially declared false. (Acatl believed them. The people that had laid the spell had loved their city.)

Acatl waited until they were within the borders, away from the noise of traffic, to say, “Tell me about the deceased. What do we know so far?”

Ichtaca set a hand to the hilt of one of his regulation knives (obsidian, six inches, fixed-blade, sanctified by three drops of human blood and sharp enough to slice a single hair). “Female, possibly Nahua, roughly in her late forties. The body was...mauled, and the area stinks of magic.” At Acatl’s look, he added, “More than the usual, anyway. It’s how we found her; we were exercising the xolos.”

He nodded. While humans could sense magic, dogs were better at it, and the best breeds for it were those that were native to the area. The three main divisions all had their K-9 units. “No identification on her?”

Ichtaca shook his head. “None. We think she must have been trying to sleep in one of the buildings...ah. Here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a tiny adobe house by a canal, watched over by a young officer, her dog, and a wheelbarrow full of ice. Acatl could smell the blood from the street, and something else…

When he stood in the doorway, the howling emptiness of Mictlan hit him like a truck. For a moment he could barely see the woman’s corpse curled up on the floor, and then his gaze focused again. Ichtaca was right. She had been mauled. Her limbs were still attached, but something had raked its claws over her to the bone, and giant jaws had opened her chest. It was impossible to tell the original color of her tank top.

“We leave this earth,” he whispered. “This world of jade and flowers—the quetzal feathers, the silver. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the ceder trees. Safe journeys, my friend. Safe journeys. All the way to the end.”

And then he pulled his rubber gloves on and knelt to examine her corpse, turning her over gently to inspect the wounds. He almost didn’t have to; the bottom of his stomach felt like it had dropped to hell and froze over there, which would have been a clear indicator of something from the underworld even if her heart and lungs hadn’t been torn from her chest cavity. A beast of shadows, he thought, and then, Damn it. They could only prowl in places where no light shone, making them the chief predators of anyone sleeping alone in the Old City and blessedly rare everywhere else, and only obsidian could kill them. He still had the scars where one had caught his arm before his comrades had saved him. At least they were solitary, unable to bear the presence of another even in the same city; he didn’t even want to think about dealing with a pack of the things. The problem was that he couldn’t tell where this one had gone. And if it managed to escape the Old City, the mayor would have his head.

The young officer—he hadn’t gotten her nametag—spoke up. “We couldn’t find a trail, sir. It’s like it was summoned here.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. There would be signs. It must have slipped in from somewhere. You couldn’t even track it with the dogs?” There had once been spells that would track things from the underworld—he’d seen the codices—but with the breaking of the boundaries they were weak and unreliable, prone to throwing up false positives.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Let’s take her to the morgue and see what comes up. If it’s necessary, I’ll get us the permits for a full search of the Old City.”

&

In the end, there wasn’t anything to find. The autopsy showed nothing suggesting the woman had been targeted by a sorcerer with a grudge, so Acatl returned to the Old City on his own; by the time he finally stopped for a rest—dusty, footsore, and exhausted—in the house that had once belonged to the last High Priest of the Dead, he’d checked every inch of it and wanted nothing more than to go home. A dead end. Wonderful.

He fiddled with his earrings, running his fingers over the thin scars at his earlobes. His gaze drifted over the worn frescoes of owls and spiders without really seeing them. Five hundred years ago, his spiritual predecessor had lived and grown old here; Acatl had seen reconstructions of the place before the museums had descended and knew that there had been a quetzal-feather fan there, that just over there had been a single well-worn reed sleeping mat. Judging by the childish paint smears at roughly knee height, he’d also played host to a number of the Emperor’s children and grandchildren. He’d probably shed blood from his own earlobes here every morning, just as Acatl did. He wondered how he’d feel to be summoned for advice; it was a seriously tempting prospect, but one he ultimately dismissed. One did not summon the Last Priest on a whim; he surely had enough to do with guiding the dead through Mictlan safely.

He checked his phone, mostly to have something to do with his hands. As expected, it was hovering at a dismal 30% battery life and no signal, but the picture on his lock screen—Neutemoc and his children, with Mihmatini holding Little Skull in her lap—was as clear as ever, and still made him smile.

Impatient footsteps—one set human, one set canine—made him look up just as a boy entered the doorway. Silhouetted by the setting sun, at first Acatl couldn’t make out his features; then he stepped inside, leading a truly impressive xoloitzcuintle, and Acatl felt his heart drop into his shoes. He knew the features of that face. He’d seen them in the news and in a dozen press releases, every time the mayor gave speeches with his family in tow. If he wasn’t a relative of some sort, Acatl would eat his own shoes.

The boy—a young man, really, around his sister’s age—had dressed for the weather, at least. Acatl took in the sight of sandals, cargo shorts, a camo-print tank top, a thermos clipped to his belt along with a stone knife. The high cheekbones and hawkish nose that were so familiar sat on a face that looked much more used to smiling than anything else; the military-style buzz cut was at odds with the gold studs in each ear and below his lip. “Excuse me. Are you Chief Acatl?” He was eyeing him like a tricky page in a codex.

Acatl studied him for a moment. He felt human, though the faint glitter of the light caught in the little hairs on his arms spoke of powerful magical protections on him. (He was also very handsome when he started to smile, but Acatl told himself firmly that now was not the time to be noticing that.) “I am. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you. Ceyaxochitl sent me; she said you’d need assistance.” Acatl’s heart wanted to sink, but it was somehow very hard to manage when the young man aimed that confident half-smile at him. “My name is Teomitl, and this—” he gestured to the dog “—is Yaotl." Acatl wondered if Ceyaxochitl knew the man's dog shared a name with her PA. "We were told there was underworld magic to track.”

“There is.” But Teomitl shouldn’t be doing it. This was a beast of shadows, a matter for the Mictlan Division, not a boy with a dog. On the other hand, Ceyaxochitl had sent him, and it was best not to anger her if he could avoid it. Sighing, he started to stand up and immediately dropped his phone in the dirt.

Teomitl bent and picked it up, only to stare at the lock screen. “How do you know Mihmatini?”

Acatl blinked at him. What a small world we live in. “She’s my younger sister. Why?” When Teomitl handed him his phone back, he made sure to slip it safely into his back pocket.

He grinned. “I’m in Advanced Solar Divinity and Warding Magic 201 with her. She’s amazing.”

Great. Mihm, you have another admirer. On one hand, Mihmatini deserved everything she could ever wish for. On the other hand, a possible relative of the mayor...he thought back to the aftermath of a few family dinners when she and Neutemoc had started discussing (arguing about) politics, and decided she could definitely do better. At least their shared university courses explained the glimmering magic around Teomitl; Mihm had once turned in a term paper in a similar class that had left flowers appearing in her steps for a week. They’d had to stop their nephew from putting them in his mouth. Teomitl was clearly skilled enough with Huitzilpochtli’s magic to protect himself. “Mm-hmm. How much were you told regarding this case?”

Teomitl fixed his gaze to a point over Acatl’s shoulder and rattled off, “An unknown woman was found dead eight hours ago—“

Has it really been eight hours? Gods.

“—with the clear marks of a Beast of Mictlan on her corpse, and no trail to follow. It’ll be easier to track now that the sun’s going down.” Now he made eye contact, and Acatl spared no thought to hiding the expression on his face.

Because the idea of tracking a beast of shadows at dusk—never mind at night—was certainly more effective, but it was also suicidally dangerous. It wasn’t something Acatl would dare attempt without backup. A thousand retorts flew through his mind—you’re insane, we’d both be torn apart, it’s slower but so much safer to just kill it while it sleeps—but, looking at Teomitl’s proud eyes, he found he couldn’t voice any of them. What came out instead was, “Are you telling me you can track it now?”

Teomitl patted Yaotl’s head. The dog whuffed quietly. “Yaotl can. He’s descended from the Emperor’s hounds and blessed by Mixcoatl. And I can fight it.”

Acatl rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and it wasn’t all due to the fizzing, hot-blood sensation of Mixcoatl’s magic he could sense on Yaotl when he focused. I owe Ceyaxochitl much. I can recognize that. But to put this young man at risk… It took no effort at all for him to remember his last junior partner. Payaxin had died in front of him. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Teomitl spoke again, voice low. “Please. Let me prove myself. Let me help. This is my city too, and my people’s heritage this thing is using for a hunting ground. I’ll be of use to you, I swear it.”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a single aggrieved sigh. “Very well. Follow me.”

Back to the scene of the crime. It was too hot for anyone sensible to exert themselves, but this didn’t appear to stop Teomitl. He power-walked like he thought the sun couldn’t touch him. Acatl trailed behind, finding his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should on broad shoulders and lean, strong back muscles; he was perversely grateful Teomitl wasn’t looking at him. Pathetic. I’m on the clock. I have to keep my mind on the job. (Also, if he went to school with Mihm, he was almost definitely too young for him even leaving aside the obvious admiration when he spoke of her; Acatl might have been lonely, but he had some standards.)

Teomitl turned the wrong way, and he cleared his throat. “We make a left here.”

The boy shook his head. “Yaotl really wants to go this way.”

He eyed the dog. Blessed or not, if you are chasing after a dead pigeon I will be very upset. “...Fine. But slow down, Teomitl. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.”

Teomitl unhooked his thermos; Acatl must have made a noise at that, because he looked over with worry in his eyes. “I’m fine, I have Gatorade. But you—you should drink something. Here, have some.”

He had dignity. He hated Gatorade. But the sloshing of the thermos had reminded him that he was desperately thirsty, and so he threw his head back and drank deep without even tasting it. Later, the aftertaste would no doubt remind him that this had been a stupid idea, but now all he felt was relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Teomitl watching him and belatedly flushed, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Teomitl turned his face away, but not before Acatl saw his dark skin tint a shade redder. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep moving.” Not that he had much of a choice; they’d stopped to let Acatl drink but Yaotl wanted to keep going, tugging insistently on the end of his leash when his master stopped moving.

They continued on, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Whatever Yaotl was smelling, it was leading them on a long walk. At least Teomitl hung back to walk next to him, saying nothing at the way Acatl had taken to leaning on his bike. They were both silent; Acatl didn’t dare speak, knowing full well that not every creature unleashed by the shattered boundaries was confined to nighttime hours. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation even if it had been safe. He cast a sideways glance at Teomitl and found him grave-faced and focused, gaze flicking towards every unexpected movement.

They were mainly ghosts. The Old City was filled with them—mostly Mexica, but a good sprinkling of others ranging from Spanish conquistadors to unfortunate tourists and, Acatl knew, at least one archaeologist who’d fallen off the Temple steps and hit his head. Acatl nodded to each of them, even the conquistadors, until he became aware of the steadily increasing tension emanating from Teomitl. He turned back to him then, feeling an answering irritation rise in his own heart. “What?”

“You keep stopping to be polite. We’re wasting time.”

His eyes narrowed. “My vocation demands no less. You should try it, too; you never know when you might need something a ghost can provide, and they do not appreciate rudeness.” Nor do I. “Besides,” he added, “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Teomitl fell quiet again after that, but the next time they passed a ghost—a little girl—he bowed, and she clapped her hands and cheered in silent delight at him. Acatl felt something warm in his chest, and found himself gazing at his new ally thoughtfully. Prickly and privileged and impatient, yes—but considerate too, when it’s pointed out to him as an option he should take. Maybe this won’t be so bad. (And he’s nice to look at, whispered a little voice that he staunchly ignored.)

The sun was setting. The shadows grew longer. They quickened their steps, and Yaotl broke out into a trot—

—And then, quite suddenly, into a run. Teomitl had to unclip the leash; it was that or have his arm yanked out of the socket. As he broke into a sprint, Acatl hopped onto his bike and pedaled after. Teomitl kept pace, which shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The part of his brain that was always devoted to spellwork wondered just how many magical protections had been layered over the boy.

There wasn’t much time to think about that, however. Yaotl led them through the city without stopping. Left—right—left again—the sun had vanished, and they were navigating by the reflective patches of the dog’s collar—and then the stench of blood and the bottomless grief of Mictlan hit him, and he gasped too-loud in the gathering gloom. Teomitl stopped dead with an instinctive retch and then continued on. Impressive, Acatl thought. Normally they throw up or start crying when they first sense that. He’d done both.

By the time Yaotl stopped in front of a house, stiff-legged and growling at the empty doorway, Acatl was wishing he’d waited for permission to bring a full crew. It would have to be just him and Teomitl, then. He slid off his bike with a grimace and grabbed Teomitl’s arm before he could rush in. He could just make out a ragged shape lying against the wall. The beast of shadows could be back any minute.

If it wasn’t already waiting for them.

He drew a knife and crept in by Teomitl’s side, holding his phone in his other hand for light. The beast’s latest meal had been male, white, age indeterminate, with a scruffy attempt at a beard. The blood was still fresh and pulsing with magical power. He breathed out, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “You leave behind your fine poems. You leave behind your beautiful flowers and the earth that was only lent to you. You ascend into the Light. Safe journey, my friend."

Teomitl tensed up, turning towards the door. “I heard something—“

Yaotl barked. It probably saved both their lives.

A thing darker than shadows, sharper than knives, barreled through the entryway. It knocked Teomitl aside in its rush; Acatl, turning, dropped his phone but managed to keep hold of his knife. And then it was flattening him  under its weight and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t think. His world narrowed down to a crushing weight on his torso, a foul stench in his nose, snapping teeth and ripping claws entirely too close to his face. He heaved desperately—if he could just get some leverage to actually stab the thing—

“Acatl!” A dog’s snarl.

It roared, dripping saliva, and turned its head away. As it shifted its weight, he finally shoved it off of him and scrambled, ungainly, to his feet and away from its claws. The throb in his chest suggested he’d cracked a rib, but that was a pain he’d deal with later. If he survived. His night vision was slow to arrive, his eyes watering painfully, but finally he could pick out three darker shapes in the night. The beast had turned to attack Yaotl, who was doing his best to hamstring it while Teomitl, knife in hand, was trying to land a blow. Acatl knew they were in trouble; Teomitl was clearly skilled, but the awkward way he moved in search of an opening suggested he’d been injured in the initial rush, and Yaotl’s jaws were already burned from its blood.

Think. If I can get it outside—the sky’s never truly dark, it’ll be weaker— It wasn’t focused on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he moved to the doorway and drew his other knife. He would only get one shot at this.

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out. In the empty, static darkness of Mictlan, the beast’s outline was a knot of frantic hatred and hunger.

He threw the knife. As the beast howled in pain, he dropped to the ground. Its leap soared right over him, and then they were in the street together; he could finally see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Not that he had much time to take in more than a strong impression of burning eyes, claws like a bear, and too many teeth in a too-long jaw before it was lunging for him again. He threw himself to one side, quick enough to avoid a swipe to his chest but not enough to dodge the blow entirely. Agony seared up his shoulder as claws ripped into his arm instead, so cold that they burned. He felt his hand open of its own volition, felt the knife fall from useless fingers and skitter across the ground, felt himself scream in pain, and thought No.

When the beast launched itself at him again, his legs crumpled under it. Instinctively he raised his injured arm to protect his face; fangs raked his flesh, but before the beast could close its jaws Yaotl was leaping on it, snapping savagely at its head.

Teomitl’s footsteps. “Acatl!”

The world felt like it was made of tar, everything slower than it should be. The beast was still pinning him down while Yaotl’s teeth flashed in the night, Teomitl was moving towards him but it was too late, there was only the white-hot agony of his arm, the lances of pain through his ribs, through his head where he’d hit the ground. He couldn’t think. His knife had fallen inches from his bloody hand.

His hand.

The knife.

His fingers closed around it and he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mictlan’s emptiness coiled within the blade, pushing away the pain—not far, but enough for him to move. Enough for him to strike. He brought the knife up, at an angle that made every tendon in his arm howl, and buried it in the beast’s ribs. It convulsed; he had a moment to see his impending death before Teomitl’s own blade slammed into the back of its neck.

He thought he blacked out; by the time he opened his eyes, Teomitl was dragging the bulk of the beast off of him. He croaked something he thought were words and made an aborted attempt at sitting up. He had to see it sent on properly. That was his duty.

Teomitl dropped to his knees, pressing him back down. His free hand held his phone, and the flashlight app was bright enough that Acatl hissed, tried to turn his head away, and immediately regretted it. He thought he might be sick. “Don’t move, Acatl! You’re—you’re losing a lot of blood.”

Oh. That explained why he felt so weak, then. The beast���s claws must have struck deep. “I have to—” He swallowed painfully. “Have to send it on. Or else it...doesn’t know it’s dead. They’re...just as hungry when they’re ghosts.”

Teomitl’s expression suggested he thought Acatl had gone crazy. “I’ll do it, then! You just stay there and—hang on, I have a first-aid-kit—“

“No,” he whispered. “Take my knife. Draw a quincunx...on its skull.” The light was just good enough to see Teomitl’s hand shake as he followed his instructions, stabbing deeply enough to strike bone. His chest hurt, but he could force out this rite if he were dead. “In darkness they dwell. They feast, they consume their prey. In darkness they dwell. They eat, they consume their prey. All save one...and that one returns. Mine is the...the knife that stole this life. Mine is the hand—“ He coughed, once, and nearly passed out from the pain. He’d definitely broken a rib. “—that sends this one home.”

The bulk of the beast’s corpse sagged; as wisps of black smoke bled off it, Teomitl dropped the knife in disgust and yanked a first-aid kit from his pocket. “Now can I stop you from bleeding to death?!”

He turned his head to see Teomitl’s shin crooked and covered in blood and managed, somehow, to whisper, “You’re hurt.” You shouldn’t be hurt. You’re such a good fighter, much better than Payaxin, and I was supposed to look after you...Ceyaxochitl will be so angry…

“Don’t worry about me!” Teomitl snapped. The gauze pad he pressed to Acatl’s shoulder was soaked almost immediately, and he muttered a curse and tossed it aside for another one. “Come on—gods, no, Yaotl, do not put that in your mouth—Acatl, stay with me!”

He let himself be lifted so Teomitl could wrap bandages, noted with dispassionate interest how the hand he set at the back of his head was dark and wet. The antiseptic poured on him with shaking hands stung, but everything seemed very far away. “You did well.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it was coming through water. “Thank you.”

Teomitl’s voice was a snarl. “Thank me when we’re safe! After we get Yaotl to a vet and you to a hospital and I get a chance to kick your ass for throwing a fucking knife at me, really? A knife? Was that necessary?”

He should be annoyed, he thought. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time, I’ll be better prepared.” He pressed more gauze down on Acatl’s forearm and cast a glance at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glittered wetly. “You are not allowed to die until then, okay? I will drag you back from Heaven myself.”

“Mictlan,” he whispered. “I am—a priest, for the modern era. A priest of...Lord Death. I’ll go to Mictlan.” Not forever on earth, but for a little while...

“No.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged with an emotion Acatl couldn’t place. Grief, he thought. Or rage.

He felt a smile curve his lips. “It’s not so bad. The Last Priest will guide me as he guides us all.”

“Well, I won’t let him.” It was a growl that softened as he leaned closer, reaching down to—oh, he was moving Acatl’s hair away from his face. That was nice. “You hear me? We’re close enough to the walls to get a signal. I’m going to call the paramedics and you’ll be fine. But you have to stay awake, okay?”

He was going to. Really. But his eyes slid shut, and the next thing he knew was Teomitl grabbing his arm as Yaotl’s cold nose met the side of his head. “Hm?”

“Wake up!” There was an edge of real fear in his voice. “Talk to me. Ask me anything you want to know. Or tell me something—tell me I’m being rude again.”

If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt as much. Talk to me. He thought he could manage that. “You...saved my life.” Another breath. “You can be as rude as you want. But...you won’t impress Mihm like that.”

Teomitl snorted. “Nothing I do would impress Mihmatini.”

“Shame.” Hmm. Interesting. Words seemed to be coming out of his mouth that had bypassed his brain entirely. “But...you look kind of like the mayor, anyway. She wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like him.”

There was another snort, and when he wedged open one eye he saw him shaking his head. “Nobody likes Tizoc. Not even me, and we share a father. She’s not alone.”

“Your brother?” Thinking hurt about as much as breathing—which was to say, much worse when he tried to put any effort into it. So he didn’t. “Huh. You’re much better looking than he is. Very pretty.”

So that was what it sounded like when someone choked on their own spit. “I—Acatl!” It was followed up by a muttered, “Now I know you hit your head too hard.”

As Teomitl hit the number for the paramedics, his free hand settled over Acatl’s and stayed there.

&

The First Patecatl Hospital had grown, like many other public buildings in Mexico City, out of a temple to the gods. In the hospital’s case, the very small attempt at a pyramid was still in the central courtyard, and Acatl had a fine view of it from his window. It would have been peaceful to the point of boredom if he hadn’t been so tired. The doctors had treated his wounds (severe lacerations, two broken ribs, minor acid burns and dehydration, and a nasty concussion) but when he’d suggested that maybe he could have Neutemoc drive him home he had been very firmly moved to a private room for continued observation. His brother and sister had come and gone, Mihmatini with concern and Neutemoc with...well, now that he thought about it, also concern, even though it had been masked with far too much I-told-you-this-would-happen grumbling for an army sergeant. I must have looked terrible. Even Ichtaca had spent a whole fifteen minutes frowning at him while filling him in on work.

Total casualties of his work day: his uniform (unsalvageable), his phone (cracked by the beast, to Mihm’s undisguised glee; Acatl supposed now he really had no excuse but to get a new one), and one regulation obsidian knife. At least he’d been reassured that Yaotl would be fine, and Mihm had promised to check on Little Skull. And they’d brought him clothes.

He hadn’t mentioned Teomitl to her, he realized. In his defense, the painkillers he’d been given were strong. At least they made breathing easier. But as the pain started to ease back in, it brought clarity with it. He closed his eyes, remembering how Teomitl had bandaged his wounds and begged him to keep talking. I have to speak to him. I have to see his face.

He had no idea where Teomitl had been taken and certainly wasn’t going to be able to wander around looking for him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to call the nurse.

In no time at all, he was being bundled into a wheelchair and steered a few rooms down the hall, where a trio of very large men in suits hovered. They eyed him with thinly veiled hostility, and he recalled those videos of the mayor. He thought he remembered Teomitl saying something about Tizoc.

Unlike him, the nurse was entirely unruffled. “Chief Acatl of the Mictlan Division here to see the patient. You three can stop blocking the hallway now.”

They edged away to lean against the opposite wall, enabling him to finally see into the room and spy Teomitl. His first thought was relief—while Teomitl’s leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, the air full of the grassy scent of Patecatl’s magic to speed healing, his other injuries looked much shallower. He was listening to something on his phone; the way his face transformed from concentration to delight when he slipped his earbud out and turned to see Acatl in the doorway was entirely too heartwarming. “Acatl!”

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Teomitl’s joy was infectious. “How are you feeling?”

“I should be asking you that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cracked tibia, I’ll live. I’m going to have words with someone here, I swear—I wanted to come see you but nobody would let me.” That was pure, huffy impatience, and Acatl shouldn’t have found it charming.

Nor should I wanted to come see you have set his heart fluttering against his ribcage. “I was having stitches done; I was very heavily medicated.” Honestly, he still was; everything was fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, but his limbs were not precisely cooperative. “And my family was here.” Looking around the room, he saw no signs of any similar visitations for Teomitl. The fluttering in his chest clenched into a fist.

“...I figured they would be.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he looked him up and down “Nice shirt.”

Acatl groaned internally. Of course his siblings, when asked to bring him something to wear, would subject him to the old college T-shirt he usually only wore on laundry day. Loose and comfortable it might be, but nobody wanted to be reminded of their taste in bands from ten years ago. “Mihmatini picked it.”

“Mihmatini has good taste.” And since this was objectively true except in matters likely to mildly embarrass her older brothers, Acatl had to nod.

The nurse’s pager buzzed, and she sighed at it. “Sorry, I have to run—will you be alright in here for ten minutes?”

“He’ll be fine.” Teomitl aimed a dazzling smile at her. Acatl, clipped by its edge, could only gulp and feel his face grow hot. “I’ll take care of him.”

It felt easier to talk when she left. True, the door was still half open behind her, but he could pretend for a moment that there weren’t a trio of burly bodyguards eyeing him. He took the chance to simply gaze at Teomitl, noting the shadows under his eyes and the bandaged scrape along his arm.  “You’ve already done so much.”

“So have you.” The warm regard in Teomitl’s face was too much; Acatl had to drop his gaze. “...I wouldn’t have been able to kill that thing by myself, or—what did you say? Let it know it’s dead? You did that. I owe you one.” He shifted on the bed. When a hand came to rest on his good arm, Acatl jolted.

He knew he had to be red. Responses fired through his mind—you don’t owe me anything, I got you into this, I’m so sorry—but his eyes fell on Teomitl’s phone before he could voice any of them. He’d been watching the news, he realized. Tizoc was giving a speech. Side by side, there really was no denying their family resemblance. So that’s why Ceyaxochitl assigned him to me. She always said we needed more political support. “...Convince your brother to let me keep my job, and we’re even. When were you going to tell me about him?”

Teomitl flinched, eyes narrowing poisonously at his phone before he flipped it screen-side down. “I don’t want to ride on his coattails all my life. I want to prove myself on my own merits and do things the right way. And…” He cast a sidelong glance at Acatl, catching his lip between his teeth. “I think we make a good team, and I know from Mihm how you feel about him.”

Tizoc thought the tenuous balance between worlds should be maintained with guns, that there was no need for the one-time clergy of the Mexica to continue ministering to their peoples’ spiritual well-being. He was not popular among anyone who had anything to do with magic. Or, for that matter, common sense. That even his own brother didn’t like him spoke well of Teomitl’s judgement. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you. Just...warn me next time.” There would be a next time. He was sure of it. He was also suddenly very aware that Teomitl hadn’t removed his hand.

A smile attempted to cross Teomitl’s face, but fell flat at the starting point. “If I warned you about all my horrible relatives, you’d fall asleep again before I got halfway through. I’ve been getting calls all morning; they weren’t happy about any of this.”

Oh, thank the Duality. Work. I can always talk about work. He nodded. “We still don’t know how the beast slipped in, but Ichtaca told me they’re trying to track down the relatives of the people who were killed to reassure them that it was slain. I’ll have a lot of paperwork to fill out next week; you’ll likely have to sign some as well.” His head throbbed rebelliously at the mere thought.

“…Ah.” Teomitl didn’t look happy about that, but then he looked up and his expression turned distinctly hopeful. “You’re taking the week off?”

“Patecatl can only do so much.” Also, Ichtaca had told him in no uncertain terms to take a vacation.

Teomitl fell silent at that, gaze shifting thoughtfully away. His hand slid down Acatl’s forearm and over his wrist, and all of Acatl’s higher brain functions immediately shifted to processing the sensation. There were calluses on those fingers, and scars as well. And they were so warm.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Acatl when he spoke. “You know,” he began, “I never did get your number.”

“You…” It was slow to compute. Sounds floated on the air without resolving into words, until finally in a shocking rush they arranged themselves into something Acatl could process. Things like this did not happen to him. “You want my number?!”

“You called me pretty.” Now Teomitl was looking at him. Worse, that radiant smile was out in full force, scouring away any defense Acatl could muster. The hand on his wrist was gentle and unmistakable. “I’d like to think that wasn’t the concussion talking.”

Fuck. It was the first clear thought he’d had in what felt like an eternity. He had said that. And Teomitl had heard it and...seemed interested in hearing more. “Mgh.” He should use words. Teomitl deserved words. “...No. It wasn’t.” You’re beautiful.

Teomitl’s hand slid over his, lacing their fingers together. Acatl had seen heated gazes before, but having one directed at him was an experience that defied description. “So...”

He had to look away. It was that or combust. “So.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. Much better.” Teomitl squeezed his hand once, lightly, and pulled away. Acatl mourned the separation immediately. “Can I?”

He swallowed hard. Duality, yes. Yes, please. It was probably a bad idea. No, it was probably a terrible idea given all that Teomitl was, all the differences between them. He was absolutely going to regret this when the painkillers wore off and he was operating at full mental capacity again. But he’d seen moths fluttering around candle flames, and now he thought he knew how they felt before they burned. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in and...you can text me in a day or two when I’ve got a new one.” His head wouldn’t be happy with staring at a screen, but it was better than whatever hearing Teomitl’s voice in his ear would do to his heart.

Teomitl had to hold the phone up so he could type. It took three tries, not least because Teomitl took advantage of their proximity to murmur, “I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to doing lots of things with you when you’re feeling better.”

The nurse returned just in time to hear the strangled noise he made.

&

> ACATL.

> how are you feeling?? how’s the new phone?

>> Much better, thank you. I’m home now. I have no complaints about the phone.

> good! I’m glad to hear that

> i was worried about you

> wanna get dinner sometime? my treat

>> I’d rather cook. It’s more economical, and the doctors assure me light exercise will benefit my arm.

> are you inviting me over to your place?

(…)

>> I suppose.

> that sounds great!! i’d love to come over and meet your cat!! is friday ok?? at 8?

>> That’s fine.

> :thumbsup: it’s a date! see u then!

(…)

(…)

>> I look forward to it.

&

ahuizotl2: mihm help

dear_prudence: what did you do

ahuizotl2: I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I just. uh. your brother

dear_prudence: t e o

ahuizotl2: I asked him to dinner

dear_prudence: and?????????

dear_prudence: oh no did he turn you down?

ahuizotl2: NO

ahuizotl2: he invited me over to his place instead

dear_prudence: he

dear_prudence: he what

ahuizotl2: and I said it’s a date and he saID HE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT

dear_prudence: MY brother??? ACATL???????

dear_prudence: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

dear_prudence: MIRACLES DO HAPPEN too bad he has terrible taste

ahuizotl2: yes yes I’m sure this is hilarious for you but more importantly I don’t know what to wear. my date wardrobe is all armani!!! do you know ANYTHING abt what your brother likes?????

dear_prudence: son, you’re on your own

ahuizotl2: wow rude

&

[The Gods Squad Groupchat]

Cursed Snake Facts: so what’s this I hear about someone having a hot date????

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: wHAT

Cursed Snake Facts: I mean mihm’s big brother, of course :) what did you think I meant?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: fuck you neza

Cursed Snake Facts: is that an invitation?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: I would literally rather stick my dick in a cactus

Queen Of All She Surveys: yes, a miracle finally occurred

Queen Of All She Surveys: the gods have blessed us

Queen Of All She Surveys: acatl has a date

Queen Of All She Surveys: and NO, I am NOT telling you who with. That is his business. We’re all very happy for him and his private life, neza

Cursed Snake Facts: godsdammit

Queen Of All She Surveys: :)

&

ahuizotl2: I take it back

ahuizotl2: I love you. name it and its yours

dear_prudence: take me shopping bitch

ahuizotl2: done! :D

ahuizotl2: ...also how the fuck did HE find out??

dear_prudence: it’s nez

ahuizotl2: point taken

Further AU notes:

- little skull is mostly white with black ears and a patch on her back that lends her her name. acatl talks to her like a person. sometimes her eyes reflect light that isn't there. - everyone is bi because I say so. - acatl's parents really wanted him to go into law or medicine but no, he had to major in religious studies, minor in history, and go off to be a glorified coroner. - neutemoc and huei's divorce was a nightmare but they are both happier now. - modern acatl can summon the wind of knives. the wind of knives thinks OG acatl was better. - yaotl: shadow beasts? no problem. an 8-lb cat? VERY SCARY MUCH SHARP.

[londonspirit]

One Last Time...

... for this year, that is! (Hopefully they sort their Brexit shit out soon, otherwise I have no clue when I can be back!) 

Anyhow, this trip was wonderful, mad and all around fantastic! (the usual then! *grins*) 

Flew over with my friend S., and naturally we had a one hour delay to start our vacation (we do have a bad travel karma, me thinks, not the first time). And sadly that was the reason I (again) didn’t managed to meet up with my L, cause she only had about an hour between engagements, and that was exactly the hour our flight was late. (Here’s hope we’ll manage another meet-up soon’ish before she goes back to the States, it’s been too long and I really miss her!) 

Upon arrival it was raining! Boo! But after dropping off our luggage and finding us dinner, we didn’t want to go to bed (afternoon flight there, evening arrival) so we decided to have a quick wander around. It had stopped raining which was perfect for a nightly walk.  Wow, even wet London is beautiful, and even more so at night. Streets were mostly empty (not empty enough to be scary tho) and we took much longer than expected.  Stumbled across filming by the side of the river - there were a few people in safety vests and we were already wondering when one approached us. He told us they were filming in a side alley, and not to worry, we could just walk past but shouldn’t stop. Of course we walked very slowly but we didn’t see much or anyone we knew. It was pretty dark, and all we say was a huge projection into the air. *shrugs* Still curious as to what was filmed there (we went there on the last day but no signs at all).  We were in bed way past midnight... (my usual London bed time!) 

Monday was HAMILTON DAY! But in the evening - we had the whole morning and early afternoon to explore some more!  So we went to Greenwich - by BOAT!! That was soo cool. I’ve taken one of the boats two years ago with Sis but only for a few stops, this time we went all the way. And even thought it’s not cheap (Oyster card does make it a bit cheaper tho), it’s totally worth it - the view from the water is amazing! And since the weather was still not very tourist friendly, we had the entire back to ourselves.  I can def recommend it - you see so much from that side. Plus, it’s quick, we were in Greenwich within 15 minutes!  Found coffee and walked up that hill to the observatory! The view was foggy but still amazing. And since the coffee didn’t want to go back to the city with us, we wandered inside to find a loo.  Did you know that you can go inside and check out a few of the rooms without having to pay? Cause I did NOT! And boy, is it cool inside. Loads to see, and touch, and just perfect for a grey and misty day. We spent 3 hours or so in there, bought souvenirs, checked out the old telescope inside, climbed small stairs, looked at all the time measure methods humanity had invented over the centuries, and had a great time!  After that we returned to the hostel to get ready for the evening. 

The smile on my face when I saw the Victoria Palace Theatre again was HUGE! I fucking LOVE this place soo much!!! Especially when it’s all lit in the dark!  Getting inside was just as smooth as ever! (And this time we even saw the dog, didn’t meet it tho as we arrived and were inside like 2 minutes later, despite a pretty long queue!)  Inside we walked around, looked at the Pretty all around and then we went to our seats. 

DUDE!!! I had booked a box back in January, but I had no idea that we would’ve had one all to ourselves. It’s just for TWO seats (not four as I expected), and it’s the coolest thing ever!  We got us drinks to pass the time (you can only take so many pics of that beautiful stage!), and once again the staff showed why they deserved all the praise! I got us two bottles of cider but since bottles aren’t allowed inside, two of the ushers made sure to fill it all into plastic cups! And when it all didn’t fit into two cups, they held the doors for me to bring it to the box and when I returned for the rest, they were already waiting for me! Those people are the real heroes! And everything with a smile and the loveliest attitude!!! 

And when it finally was time, I might have made noises. Being this close (with nobody in front of you, or behind you for that matter), being able to lean forward and chairdance, is the best thing ever!!! 

I was a bit sad that we didn’t get Obi or Jason, but Gabriel and Waylon did so well, it didn’t last long.  And boy, Mondays are an amazing day to go and see it! Every single soul on that stage was on FIRE!!! (Not sure whether that’s because they have the Sunday to recharge, or because some will have their last performances in the next weeks, but it was WORTH going  on a Monday!) 

I had booked that because I wanted to see Ash, as people kept raving about him (and I had seen Jam twice now). He did NOT disappoint.  His performance differs so much from Jam’s; not in a bad way, no. But he’s so into it, so ... THERE?! More intense?! Can’t really describe it. He’s fantastic. And being this close, seeing all those expressions, the cheek, the sass, the sadness, made this time so much better than the last two times.  Ash is incredible and sooo worth seeing! (although I missed the height difference between Jam and Rachelle, Ash is her height.) 

I was very happy that we got Giles, cause I’ve fallen fast and hard for his Burr!!! He’s put such a different twist on him, and once you got used to him, he IS Burr. What I love is that you can see all those little physical actions, he’s doing a lot with his body, and also with his face. Small things you miss when you’re further away. A raised eyebrow, a bitten lip, a suppressed grin. GOD, I will miss him soo much!!! There are times when I wanted to hug him and then there were times when I wanted to slap him. He’s such a great actor, and I will fight anyone who says differently!!!!! 

As for the rest of the cast, they were brilliant as usual; even though I really had the feeling everyone was giving even more than the 500% they already do!! SO DAMN AMAZING!!!  There was a big cheer for “Alexander Hamilton” in the beginning (as it should be), but weirdly NOTHING at the “Immigrants” line!!! O_O That shocked me a bit! I’ve been three times now, and I’ve had a different reactions every damn time! So weird!  Yorktown got an in between applause which I never seen/heard! Was very nice.  The King got all the laughs, naturally.  What else?  Oh, so Tarinn and Cleve are basically themselves in costumes on stage: they kept goofing around and grinning like idiots at themselves, which was adorable.  And I now know why people are shipping Laurens and Ham - the gazing loving at each other was INSANE!! *lol*  Rachel is madly talented but that you already know. That woman’s voice, her acting - GEEZ!! HOW?? So soo good!!!  Christine... god, that voice! Melted chocolate, poured over warm coals, making one feel all warm and fuzzy (and very sinful)  inside. GUH!!  Also: the ensemble blew me away, the perfection they put on that stage (night after night) is MAD!! I found myself watching them more and more, wondering how the human body is capable of the things they do and make it look easy as breathing!! WOW!!! 

It was over way too soon, and I even cried in the end. I have no idea where that came from but Rachelle really made me tear up during the last song. Never had that before. (And she’s the only one I’m still not fully convinced with; she’s good but this is NOT the perfect role for her)  So yeah, I did my final applause in tears!!! 

We stuck around towards the very end, and for the very first time, they let down the safety curtain!!! O_O (They did in the interval as well for a moment). 

And then it was stage door time. It’s all well organized and sorted, and we queued up and waited. It wasn’t cold so that wasn’t too bad. Didn’t take long for the first to come out. I didn’t want anything signed, only asked for pics which seemed fine with them all. Although they were all well prepared with sharpies! Kelly is TINY, and so very sweet, and sadly the only one of the girls who came out :-(  Waylon was a bit shy, but also very nice. Gabriel was dressed for artic temps which made me giggle.  Tarinn and Cleve are... well, Tarinn and Cleve! They’re always goofing around, being super sweet to everyone and really taking their time. Cleve enjoyed being the birthday boy, and wishing him a great one, got me a tight hug! Tarinn smells really good, by the way! *hehe*  At some point the security made an announcement. I think he said they were all gone, or nobody wouldn’t come out anymore; we could stay but at our own risk, or something like that. We were at the end of the queue and didn’t catch everything.  Since we didn’t have anywhere to go, we stayed. Which was the right thing to do!  First Giles came out, and that’s when I got a bit nervous! He’s so good, and I never managed to get a pic with him. He took his time, chatted to everyone and was all around the sweetest. Once he came to us, I told him how incredible he was and how much I loved the Muse Of Fire documentary he did ages ago. I think he blushed a bit ;-p When I asked for a pic, he pulled me real close and thanked ME afterwards!! O_O  Hach, he’s amazing!!  And then Ash came out as well (lots had left already so we were only a few people). And the silly man did NOT have a pen!  The ladies behind us asked if we had one. When I pulled out my assortment of sharpies (three: black, silver and bronze!) I ALWAYS have on me, they laughed so hard.  Hey, you can never be prepared enough - as that night taught us!!! Once again, we only asked for pics, and praised him, told him how fab he was, and that we booked a Monday just for him,, which made him laugh. “Heard of me, did ya?” he said, cheeky bugger. But yeah, we did. So we got another really tight pic - that cast is so touchy feely, I swear! I love them all to pieces!!! SO SWEET!  He chatted a bit before moving along.  We waited a bit longer but that was it so we reluctantly left towards ‘home’. (Once again, it was LATE!) 

The next morning we got up early to have one last walk around, and London was gracious and got out the sun and basically summer weather!  We didn’t want to leave but sadly we had to.  So long, my beautiful! See you next year - in February, for sure. After that... well, that depends on how you get your shit sorted!  Once more, a fantastic time was had, with the best company I could’ve wished for! Thank you, S, I know why I love traveling with you - here’s to our next time!!! 

[lindoig]

Days 13 to 15

The Tuesday and Thursday were both a bit of lay-days for us, catching up on washing, cleaning, cooking, Facebook postings – a housewife’s work is never done…..  But I went off to do some shopping and explore the town a bit more on the Thursday and spent a couple of hours at the Low Level Nature Reserve photographing birds – mainly black kites and rainbow bee eaters.  Hot and dusty with a sharp eye out for crocodiles.

The Wednesday was more interesting with a trip out to Edith Falls (poor Edith, hope she was not hurt).  It is just an hour or so from Katherine and is a green oasis with quite an impressive cascade falling into a crocodile-infested lake (not that we saw any crocs on the day).  We walked around the Park and spotted quite a lot of birds and spread ourselves out for a picnic in the shade, on a vivid green lawn a few metres from the lake – but with a barrier of trees to discourage any inquisitive Big Bities. Interestingly, there were two young boys ignoring the warning signs, clambering down the bank to the nearby creek and hanging off a bridge to cool their hands in the stream.  We yelled at them and warned them away, only to see their father doing exactly the same thing a few minutes later.  It absolutely mystifies me how the crocs don’t gorge themselves to obesity eating all the human idiots who invade their domain imagining that it will never happen to them.  We enquired about the aboriginal kids swimming when we were up at the Cape a couple of years ago and they told us that crocs only like ‘white-fella meat’ – not true, of course, because we have heard that quite a few black folk are on the standard crocodile menu up here.  (But then, we eat crocodile too – so it is a bit of tit for tat.)

I have been thinking a bit about why we love travelling in the outback so much.

Like many things in life, travel is about variety: new things to see and experience, different from being at home.  But at present, travelling in the caravan is ‘being at home’ for us and the variety we enjoy along the track is just as enjoyable as if it were on a holiday.

We chose to live in Southbank because it was in the centre of the city with a plethora of things around us to do as and when we wanted.  No matter that we rarely participate in all that many, but they were there and we could do them whenever we wanted to.  There is always plenty of people and noise and movement, things happening and people and places to see.  Some people have criticised us for having a large car when we have public transport at our doorstep - but there is another side to life that we enjoy just as much as the bustle and hurly-burly of inner city living: the Out-there!

We both grew up with a love of the outdoors as an important part of our nature; and flat landscapes, limitless horizons and big skies are part of who we are.  So when we are tired of the pace of life surrounded by buildings, noisy cars and social restraints, the silence, space and freedom of the big Out-there Outback is like a tonic that restores the part of us that went missing for all too long.

Travel, like sex, is more about the journey than the destination.  Most people seem to jump on a plane or a train and rush to the place at which they want to relax for a holiday.  Even those that take to the road often risk all in their mad drive to reach their objective a few minutes earlier than they might have done - but what did they miss?  We love the desert: that endless flat thing to be traversed as quickly as possible because there is nothing to see there.  Actually, nothing could be further from the truth in my view.  

We once spent hours with car and van parked just off the road in the Gibber, in the middle of Nowhere (actually Nowhere At All).  Once you get even a couple of metres off the road, you see literally millions of small stones of every shape and colour imaginable.  The ground is mainly hard-packed grey crusted sand, strewn with stones, most simply sitting atop the soil as if a giant hand had scattered them willy-nilly like dice.  Not often clustered, but perhaps 20 or 30 per square metre with a few larger ones randomly thrown in to break up the pattern. Most are roughly egg-sized or smaller.  How did they get there? Without providing the official explanation, it remains utterly puzzling to me, even after reading about their origins.  We have spent hours on more than one occasion wandering through this alien landscape, turning over stones, marvelling at their variety as much as their uniformity, collecting colours and textures that the travellers in almost every passing car (VERY FEW) will never experience or even imagine.

And I recall other times when we have simply pulled to the side of the road, usually in an attempt to get a better view of a bird, and then decided to chase it into the scrub for the view we missed while getting the rig off the centre of the road.  Whether I actually see the bird or not, there is a world in microcosm under my feet.  Even in the harshest landscape, there seems to be a dozen species of plants almost literally within arms’ reach.  The plants support their own ecologies with ants, skinks, butterflies, buzzing, biting insects and the ever-present flies.  (Always wear the flynet - and gaiters to avoid an hour at night picking prickles out of your shoes and socks!  Amazingly, I can use my binoculars almost as well with the flynet on as off – eating and drinking are possible, but not as easy – you have to remember to lift the net or put your sanger inside it before chomping down on it.)  There are always larger predators around, but they never bother us.  But whole colonies of small mammals, insects, reptiles are bustling around down there, industriously scratching out their livelihoods, fighting their mini-wars, reproducing and even dying and being eaten as we watch.  There are, of course, bigger things happening too.  An eagle might swoop on a rabbit or other small animal, a herd of kangaroos may be heading for greener (less-grey) pastures, corellas might be squabbling over which bit of the perch is theirs tonight, there may even be some domestic stock around, but most tourists usually see those things by accident, if at all, as they speed to their destination.  It just seems sad that so many people, particularly kids, miss out on the wonderment of all we see when we pass the same places at a more leisurely pace and take the time to explore a little.