TACO Run

Chapter 15

One hand clinging to the rough brown bricks of the oversized building he leaned against, Therion gritted his teeth. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and brow from the exhaustion and strain of the past hour, and he refused to give in, refused to—

"Huuargh!"

Trembling with fatigue, Therion sagged sideways against the wall, left hand clutching his stomach.

It wasn't the food; he knew that much. All of what he'd eaten had been good quality, well-cooked, or fresh. Not to mention that after living on the streets his whole life, he had the constitution of a goat; he had literally survived on half-spoiled meat and stale bread before. And he hadn't shared mugs with anyone, or gotten any closer to someone's breathing space than was needed for picking pockets.

Has to be the water. He'd thought the fountain would be safe. If the locals used it and seemed fine, it shouldn't have illness in it, right?

Apparently, that's not how it works.

Alfyn had mentioned it in passing once, that the further you went from where you grew up, the likelier it was that you'd run into a disease the locals were immune to, but your body didn't know how to fight yet. Cyrus had said something similar. Therion had been all over Orsterra and suffered no ill effects, but this was obviously a lot further from home.

Aeber, please just don't let it be the Dry Death. He'd seen some poor communities left barren by that disease. It was an ugly, disgusting, painful way to die, as your body expelled all of the fluids it had and your blood turned thick as syrup, until eventually all that was left was a dry husk of your old self, rotting in a puddle of your own vomit and excrement.

Therion took one staggering step, and then another, leaning on the wall for support. He needed to find someplace he could ride the illness out in peace. Somewhere with a source of water that wasn't contaminated, so he could keep from drying out.

Not that I could keep even water down right now. Three more steps and Therion lost the fight again, heaving a trickle of bile onto the pavement and barely missing his own shoes. He managed a few more steps before his legs gave out, and he felt the rough bricks scrape a layer of skin off his hand as he fell.

Damn. His vision was blurry from the strain, and even his hearing had gone vague and almost pulsating. His head ached almost as fiercely as his guts. It wasn't too far past midnight; the streets were almost abandoned, in comparison to daytime. The only people out and about would be guardsmen, drunkards, nighthawks, and criminals like himself—

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Therion lashed out with a dagger—or tried to. His hand reached the dagger's hilt, but didn't grip it tight enough to pull it from its sheath, instead swiping ineffectually at whoever was touching him without permission. Damn. Therion's vision swam. The person who'd grabbed him was thin and dark-haired, but that was all he could tell. Can't even fight back; this's gonna be a nasty beating.

But the grip wasn't followed by a blow to the face or body. Instead, a worried voice babbled a few questions in his direction, and the thin figure crouched down in front of him, other hand reaching forward to grip his other shoulder.

Go away, Therion thought tiredly, not even bothering to try answering the questions. It wasn't like he knew what he'd been asked, anyway.

The thin figure looked around rapidly, and then leaned closer to Therion, one hand going to his forehead as if to push back his forelock and get a good look at his face.

Therion gave a silent snarl and swiped ineffectually at them again, not even trying for his dagger this time. He felt weak as a newborn kitten.

Instead of a harsh grab at his hair, Therion felt cool skin press against his brow, as the thin figure tested his sweaty forehead with their inner wrist. Whatever result they got, it didn't change the tone of their worried questioning. Not that it mattered, because Therion wasn't sure he'd have understood the questions even if they'd been spoken in plain Orsterran.

Not… again…

Therion managed to turn his head aside just enough that his next heave didn't hit the thin figure directly in the face, but splattered over their left arm and the ground below it. It was mostly bile and acid at this point, and from the way the cramps were shifting lower, it wouldn't be long before things started coming out the other end, too.

The world swayed and shifted as the thin figure manhandled Therion, clumsily but quickly hauling his limp body up onto its back, so that his arms draped over its shoulders and his chin rested not far from its right ear.

I'll never stay on, Therion realized vaguely. He didn't have the strength to grip the figure's clothes with his hands, let alone cling with his legs. Once they stood up, he'd slide straight to the ground. Probably land in my own puke, too, knowing my luck.

But the figure didn't stand up. Instead, they crouched on all fours, Therion's weight shifting on their back—and then they moved.

Crawling? No, sliding. It was smooth, fluid, like a duck over a pond. Yet despite that smoothness Therion felt the speed pick up, felt how swiftly they moved, like a darting fish. Therion's eyes must have closed without him realizing it at some point, because the street-lamps and other lights of the city flashed by through the dim redness of his eyelids.

Then the fluid sliding slowed, slowed, stopped. Just in time for Therion to heave stomach acid over the figure's shoulder onto the ground, burning his throat in the process. Gods, I wish Alfyn was here. The apothecary might be a little too energetic and talkative for his liking, but he would have been able to help. If only to put Therion out of his misery with a sleeping drug.

The person carrying Therion shifted, rising to a hunched position and tucking one arm beneath Therion's backside to keep him from sliding off. They made reassuring noises, taking two steps forward before giving a short little hop—and then they were sliding again, straight up this time, and it was all Therion could do to keep down his bile at the sensation of the world falling away.

It only lasted a few seconds, thankfully, and then they landed hard on another flat surface—the roof of a building, maybe. Therion forced his eyes open and made out the vague outline of a small house. On… the roof of another…?

Therion's eyes blinked closed, and he rode out another wave of nausea, cramps twisting his guts as the person carrying him started moving again.

A door opened and cold air brushed over Therion, making him shiver. His eyes squeezed more tightly shut when light flashed, filling the cool room with too much brightness after the relative dark outside.

A clawing rumble in his guts said he needed a chamber pot right now, and Therion made a pained, impatient noise, one hand feebly brushing against the chest of the person carrying him, the closest he could get to an urgent slap.

Apparently it was enough though, because he got a frantic squawk in reply, and the next few seconds were a blur of hurried clumsiness. But clumsy or not, he was seated somewhere appropriate, with a bucket shoved into his hands just in time for his illness to make like a black-market merchant, and play both ends against the middle.

After that, Therion lost track of time entirely. He never lost consciousness, but there were long stretches of dubious lucidity interspersed with occasional flashes of clarity. The thin figure faded in and out of his awareness, one time pressing something blessedly cool against Therion's brow and the back of his neck, another time taking the bucket away briefly to give him a clay mug of something hot that tasted of lemons and honey, and soothed his acid-roughened throat almost as well as one of Alfyn's syrups.

Other changes happened without Therion's immediate realization. At some point, his scarf and cloak vanished, to be replaced with a heavy blanket over his shoulders. His knives disappeared, as did the majority of his gear. The cool compresses were replaced at least twice, and a hot waterskin was laid against the middle of his back, beneath the blanket. The lemon-honey mug was replaced with some kind of savory herbal broth, and then another mug of hot honey-lemon water.

Therion didn't know how long it took for the illness to run its course, but the sun was well up by the time he came back to full awareness. His belly still ached, but it was the ache of strained muscles, not nausea, and he managed to slowly, carefully sit upright.

I feel old, Therion thought, as disgusted as he was exhausted. Heathcote probably doesn't feel this old. His throat was raw, despite the soothing drinks he'd been given. He'd thrown them right back up for the most part anyway. His skin was still clammy, he reeked of sweat and sickness even to his own nose—not to mention the other smells—and despite the blanket and hot waterskin he still shivered occasionally.

Forcing himself to take a long, slow breath, Therion took stock.

He was sitting on what apparently passed for a chamber-pot or privy in these parts, a quilted coverlet wrapped around his shoulders and his trousers about his ankles. His scarf, cloak, and gear were gone, but he'd been left with his shirt, trousers, and wrist- and leg-wraps, so the person who'd brought him here at least hadn't found all of the coin he'd nicked.

His feet were bare.

They took my shoes. Therion's stomach twisted, and it wasn't the illness returning. They took my shoes. He could replace his knives and gear, if it came to that. Money wasn't even a question. But no shoes got you turned away from inns and shops, got the local guard watching you with suspicious eyes, because no shoes meant you were poor, meant you were desperate, meant you couldn't afford to pay for what you needed, so you probably took it. No shoes left your feet exposed to rocks and nails and bits of broken glass or brick, and even calluses didn't protect you from the diseases that lived in dirt and dung when you walked through them with open cuts.

Therion could steal clothes, if he had to. Finding shoes that fit, that wouldn't clunk when he walked or half-cripple him by crushing his toes… that was a much taller order.

Gripping a nearby counter, Therion tried to stand. He made it halfway up, legs trembling with effort, before he collapsed back onto his seat. Damn. He gritted his teeth, and tried again. He made it up this time, swayed in place… and then sat back down when his legs gave out.

Calm down, idiot, he told himself, leaning back and covering his face with both hands to block out the sunlight gleaming through the high, narrow window. The blanket slid from his shoulders to bunch at the back of his seat. So they took your shoes, your knives, your gear. They could've done that on the street, and left you broken in a puddle of your own leavings, if they wanted to hurt you.

Maybe whoever had carried him here hadn't tended him as well as a proper apothecary would, but they'd made an effort. They'd helped, when they could have all too easily left him to his misery.

So Therion breathed, and lowered his hands to look around him.

The room he was in was small, just big enough for the privy, the counter he'd held onto before, and a tub for bathing tucked beneath the narrow window. Across from the counter, a rod had been fastened to the wall, with an obviously old but clean towel hung over it. The tub had been filled, and a small stool sat next to it, with what looked like folded clothes on top.

…they drew a bath.

Therion still didn't know who the person was who'd brought him here. He didn't even really know if they were a man or a woman, though he was leaning towards man, based off of the vague impressions he'd gotten. But the door to his right had an interior lock, and while Therion's gear, shoes, and weapons were missing, he hadn't been harmed at all and the way he'd been tended had been helpful without being intrusive.

And there was a bath drawn.

Therion reached over to the door's odd, round handle and twisted the lock until he heard it click. He needed to clean up, and there wasn't going to be a better opportunity.

Koichi rubbed the side of his head, yawning expansively as he looked over the spread of stuff he'd taken off of the guy puking his guts out in the bathroom.

He'd been just finishing up patrol for the night when he'd heard someone throwing up across the street and gone to investigate. He'd thought maybe it was a drunk or something, and he could've called him a cab or gotten him a bottled water, but then it turned out to be that guy from the pedestrian stampede caused by the Villain attack earlier that afternoon. He'd looked absolutely awful, and not drunk-awful, either. Koichi'd had to deal with that once, so he knew what it looked like. No, he'd been sweating and shaking and clutching his stomach, like he had food poisoning or something, and he hadn't been able to walk hardly at all.

Koichi'd been really worried, and jogged right over to see if he could help—the guy was sick, and he'd helped Koichi out before, getting that little girl to safety—but when he'd put a hand on the guy's shoulder he'd almost gotten a sock to the jaw for his efforts.

The guy'd whiffed him, though, probably thanks to his weakness and the training Koichi'd been through with Master. Not that Koichi really managed to dodge punches all that often, usually, so it'd probably been because the guy was sick, honestly.

He sure had some dangerous stuff on him. Two long knives in sheathes, well past the six-centimeter legal limit; they were only a few centimeters shorter than Koichi's forearm if you counted their handles, and wickedly sharp. Koichi knew, because he'd taken one of the old hairs from his comb and pulled it across one of the knives' edges, and it'd just kind of fallen in two pieces. That's about as sharp as a razor would be. Man, what if he'd tried to hit me with one of those? I'd be dead meat for sure!

Koichi gave a weak little laugh at that, sweating slightly. Glad he just tried to punch me. The white-haired little guy hadn't managed more than a token protest after that, even when Koichi'd checked his temperature. Koichi felt kind of bad about pushing his bangs out of the way in the process; the guy had obviously not wanted him to, and the jagged old scar over his eye and cheekbone probably had a personal story behind it. At least the eye still seemed to work just fine, though.

A gusty sigh, and Koichi slumped a little, gripping his crossed ankles. The knives weren't the only thing he'd taken off of the guy. The scarf and weird purple shawl-poncho thing had gotten pretty dirty from him puking, so Koichi'd put them in the laundry on a knit cycle, just to be safe, along with his All Might hoodie since it'd taken a hit too. There'd also been a grappling hook attached to a long, thin length of rope, a leather bag with some weird coins in it, another small bag with some kind of silk and sheer fabric crammed inside, and the beat-up old leather shoes he'd been wearing. The shoes had been really dirty, so Koichi'd cleaned them as best he could and stuck them outside to dry. There'd been some other odds and ends Koichi couldn't identify, too, stuck in little pockets sewn into the lining of the shawl-poncho thing. Plus an unopened box of pocky.

I wonder why he's got a grappling hook. Master had used one to get around town while on patrol, but the sick guy wasn't a vigilante. Pop Step would've said something if there was a new vigilante in town; she was really on top of the social media sites. She's been pretty busy, though, what with all the training for the Captain's going away party. She hadn't even gone on patrol with him for the past month.

Ah, it's fine, it's fine~ Koichi told himself with a weak smile. If she was here, she'd probably have told me I should've taken that guy to the hospital, instead of home.

Wait, shouldn't he have done that? If he was really sick, the hospital would be a lot better for him, wouldn't it? "Maybe," Koichi mumbled to himself, propping his chin on one hand, "but the hospital's a lot further away, so I don't think he'd have made it all the way there without a bathroom." He'd barely gotten him to the toilet as it was. He'd done what he could for the guy—cooling pads for his fever, a hot water bottle and a blanket to keep him warm, kombu dashi and honey-lemon tea to keep him hydrated… Koichi ticked off details on his fingers, trying to remember what all his mom had done the last time he'd had a stomach bug.

Let's see, blanket, toilet, bucket, fluids, temperature control, a bath, clean clothes…

Good thing Koichi had just bought some new underwear. It'd be weird to lend the guy used stuff. Hope my clothes fit him. He's not that big, so…

Well, he wasn't big, but he was heavier than he looked. Under that shawl-poncho thing he'd been all lean, flat muscle. He could probably hang from his fingertips pretty easily when he wasn't sick. Maybe he does a lot of free-climbing?

Koichi rested his chin on the backs of his arms, making sure not to knock over any of the stuff he'd confiscated.

He had a lot of scars too. Thin ones mostly, peeking out from under those weird wraps around his forearms and lower legs. But there was one really long, scary-looking one that stretched from his right collarbone down across his chest to the left side of his ribs—Koichi'd seen it through the open front of the guy's shirt when he'd been taking his poncho-thing off. 'S the kinda thing that Stendhal guy would've left, if he hadn't killed all of his victims.

Another yawn almost split Koichi's face in two. Good thing it's Sunday. No school today. The sun was up already, but he hadn't slept yet, and he hadn't heard any puking in a while, so it should be alright if he took a short nap, right?

…yeah…

A/N: Therion follows Aeber, the Prince of Thieves in the Orsterran pantheon. Aeber is the god of burglars, pickpockets, and charlatans. The 'Dry Death' that Therion refers to is cholera, which kills its victims by inducing diarrhea and vomiting so severe that they become dehydrated within hours, and often die within days. Kombu dashi is a seaweed-based broth used in the majority of Japanese cooking. Heathcote is an elderly thief-turned-butler from Therion's story line. Captain Celebrity is an American Hero who's been working in Japan following several lawsuits that ruined his career in the States. Following the settlement of the lawsuits and the birth of his child, he's preparing to make a comeback in the U.S., and is having a going-away event, representing the cooperation between American and Japanese Heroes. Pop Step is a high schooler, amateur idol, and sometime vigilante who is good friends with Koichi. Yes, the star is actually part of her idol name. Stendhal was a vigilante who stopped 'evildoers' by murdering the heck out of them, at least until Koichi's 'Master', the vigilante Knuckleduster, put a stop to it by punching him so hard in the face it broke his impact-glass mask and the nose behind it.