TACO Run

Chapter 16

Therion dragged fingers through his still-damp hair, flattening the bumps and unknotting the tangles that came from toweling it dry. There was a comb on the counter, next to the inset basin he hadn't been able to see properly when seated, but he didn't bother with it. As long as his hair was mostly clean, and generally fell the way he wanted it, he wasn't going to fuss about with fancy combs or hair oil.

The borrowed clothes fit well enough, though they were a little long in the arms and legs. The trousers were loose on the leg and cuffed at the ankles, and made from a heavy, warm material. A soft material, with plenty of stretch to it, that wouldn't bind or hinder even when pulled tight. They were almost too comfortable.

The shirt was soft as well. Not linen or wool or hemp or silk, the short-sleeved top was lighter than the bottoms, and let air through easily, but was still strong enough that he didn't fear it tearing. Wonder what it's made from. He picked at the hem tiredly, and then tucked it into the trousers' stretchy waistband. Tressa'd make a fortune selling this stuff.

The underthings were… interesting. He wasn't sure what to make of them. More comfortable than muslin, that was for sure, and better than going without. But definitely not what he was used to.

Therion glanced in the mirror—attached to the wall, with a shallow cabinet hidden behind it—and eyed his reflection critically. I need to shave. It'd been two days, and fair-haired or not, eventually the scruff would start to show. Shabby clothes could be passed off as 'fallen on hard times' or 'road-worn' in a con, and let him blend in with the common-folk more easily, but only drunks, bumpkins like Alfyn, or youths desperate to prove they were men would dare be scruffy and unshaven. And even Alfyn kept his face clean-shaven, for the most part.

Besides, he was no Cyrus, but Therion knew he was not the kind of handsome that could handle a beard.

…maybe when I'm Heathcote's age.

He felt much, much better after a bath. Still tired and aching, but mostly human again. His clothes and wraps were in a pile next to the tub, because he wasn't quite sure if he should scrub them in the same water he'd bathed in after being so sick, and he certainly wasn't going to wear them until they were clean again, not unless he had no other choice.

Therion moved over to lean the side of his head against the doorframe, where it wouldn't cause the door to shift and creak on its hinges. Holding his breath, he listened.

Quiet. He didn't hear anyone moving around outside the bathing chamber. It wasn't dead silent, not with the distant sounds of the city still audible, but it was the quietest he'd heard since arriving here.

Silently, Therion twisted the lock open, and then turned the round knob that served as a handle. The door opened with only a faint creak, and Therion slipped through. He didn't shut the door behind him; doing so would cause it to creak again.

The main room of the house was open and relatively spacious; enough for a small family or a young bachelor of decent means. There was an open kitchen off to the left, with a floor covered in grey tiles. The floor of the main room wasn't earth or wood or stone, but covered in rectangular mats of tight-woven straw or rushes. Interesting. It would soften footfalls, which he appreciated, but he wasn't sure how difficult it would be to clean.

The room was brightly lit, and not just from the sunlight coming in through the wide glass windows. There was a white ring attached to the ceiling, which glowed with a steady, bright luminescence. Beneath the bigger window was the bed of whoever lived here, which had been hastily stripped of its blanket, its sheets pulled half-off in the process. Probably to keep him warm while he'd been ill. In the middle of the room was a low table; too low for chairs, it was the kind of thing you'd have to sit on the floor to use.

And sitting at the table, head pillowed on their arms, was the thin figure who'd brought Therion here.

Definitely a guy, Therion concluded, ghosting closer and crouching unsteadily across the table from him. Same guy who saved that girl yesterday, I think. Which might explain why he'd picked up Therion. If he had the same instincts Alfyn did, to help out anyone who needed it regardless of how reckless it might be, then hauling a sick stranger home made more sense.

He was a young guy; younger than Therion had thought at first. Barely of age, with short dark hair and faintly tanned skin that showed the underlying pallor of someone who regularly failed to get enough sleep. He was thin, too. From the look of the arms his head was pillowed on, whatever job he had wasn't hard manual labor. Maybe a message-runner. Sliding over walls and surfaces like that would make avoiding foot traffic easy. Therion wasn't sure why, but a lot of the locals seemed to have weird abilities of one kind or another. Of course, it'd also make avoiding guards easy…

Not that he thought the kid was a criminal like him. Smugglers and burglars didn't keep their skin intact by hauling random people back to their hideouts. Plus, he'd left Therion's gear scattered over the table he was lying on, when even a fresh young tea leaf would've stashed it away for safekeeping.

I'll take that back, thank you… Therion went for his knives and grappling hook first, and then his coin pouch and other things. Without his cloak he didn't have enough pockets for all of his gear and oddments, so he just tucked what he could down the front of his borrowed shirt for the moment. The knives were inspected and then slipped back into their sheathes, one of which he strapped to his left leg while the other went in the back of his borrowed trousers' waistband.

Then he made a more thorough exploration of his temporary benefactor's house, pausing every now and then to lean against a nearby wall or piece of furniture to rest.

A large board made from cork-oak bark had several small pictures on it, with strings of various colors separating them into sections. Some of the pictures showed the guy who'd picked Therion up—usually in various states of beat-to-crap—but most of them showed other people. A poofy-haired girl not quite old enough for womanhood, a green-eyed woman around Tressa's age with long dark hair and a mole near her chin, a group of young people in weird outfits that made Therion think of a travelling performance troupe…

A small cloth pouch hung from the center of the board's upper edge, and closer inspection revealed that it held a set of steel weapons—the kind of nasty metal knuckle-guards used by gang enforcers and underground pugilists to beat their victims bloody. No way does that kid wear these. The way they were hung up there, though, almost reverently… maybe a parent or guardian or teacher had worn them, and passed on recently.

Therion put them back.

There was a small section of the main room that had been curtained off, but when Therion peeked inside, there was nothing particularly valuable or scandalous behind it, as far as he could tell. Probably it was used for privacy when changing clothes. The kitchen was stocked with a bunch of stuff Therion didn't recognize, as well as a beat-up old tea kettle with some lukewarm water sitting in the bottom; probably left over from when the guy had made him that honey-lemon drink.

There was also a hip-high cabinet of some kind in the kitchen area. Therion cautiously opened it, to find it both lit and cool as an autumn predawn in the Cliftlands. Cylindrical metal containers sat on the middle shelf, full of some kind of liquid from the feel of them, and other containers of various shapes filled the other shelves. Prodding one of the smaller ones revealed that it was full of some kind of thick, cream-based pudding.

Huh.

Therion closed the cool-cabinet, and padded over to the front door. A key hung on a small hook next to the door, and another, heavier hook held what appeared to be light armor. Cloth-backed leather with some kind of light plate at the critical points. A brief brush of fingertips confirmed that whatever those plates were, they weren't metal or wood or even ceramic. Probably wouldn't hold up to serious weapons, but it'd turn a glancing blow from a knife, and keep you from spreading your skin all over the pavement in a tumble. Come to think of it, all of the armored portions were places most likely to take injury in a fall—the chest, shoulders, forearms, and elbows.

So it's not really meant for serious combat; more for preventing accidental injury. Considering the guy had an ability that let him slide up walls like a cave-slug with a serious speed boost, that was probably a necessity.

Turning away from the armor, Therion reached for the front door's knob-shaped handle and tested it carefully. Unlocked. How much of a careless fool could this kid be?

Therion ignored the fact that the kid had spent the past several hours taking care of him. He must have had at least a moment during all of that to lock the door, since he'd taken the time to appropriate and examine Therion's gear.

Letting out a silent breath through his nose, Therion opened the door as quietly as he could and slipped outside.

…I don't believe it. This really is on a roof. Who built smaller houses on top of other buildings? Besides the Sunlanders, anyway, but this wasn't the Sunlands, and this little house didn't even look planned; more like it had been lazily tacked on at the last minute. Possibly illegally. And the building it was on top of had the worn, cracked look of one that probably shouldn't be inhabited at all.

But the amount of private space it gives him…

Compared to the streets below, it was quiet. Almost peaceful, without the crowds and noise and traffic. A waist-high metal railing would prevent him from falling to his death if he had one drink too many, and there was plenty of room to practice using his sliding ability or any other skills he might want to develop.

If I ever made myself a retreat… not a hideout, but just somewhere to be alone and unbothered… this kind of thing would work just fine.

Therion turned away from the railing, leaning back on his elbows against it. He was still weak, and even the little bit of exploring he'd done had left him fatigued. But the morning breeze felt good, if faintly smoke-tainted, so he took a moment to breathe it in.

Appetite's not back yet. And I don't have the strength to climb down on my own. There were stairs, but he didn't trust the rickety-looking iron things. Especially since the guy who'd brought him here had avoided using them to get up. I need to get my clothes and shoes back, too. Even if the roof here was mostly clean, and not too rough against his bare feet, he didn't want to risk the streets below like this.

Pushing himself away from the railing reluctantly, Therion waited a moment to make sure his balance was good, before moving back towards the small house. There was an empty clothesline set up several paces to the right, and a wooden crate with more of those metal cylinders lined up on it, as if for target practice.

Target practice? With what? Other than his daggers and those knuckle-guards, he hadn't found any weapons in the house.

He found his shoes—thoroughly if inexpertly cleaned—just to one side of the front door, where opening it had blocked Therion's view of them on his way out.

He brought them inside with him. No way was he leaving them unattended, no matter how naïve the kid who lived here was. He locked the door behind him like a sensible human being with a pinch of self-preservation, and made his way back over to the kitchen. Maybe his appetite wasn't back, but he could boil some water for more of that honey-lemon drink. Unless it had actual filth or poison in it, Alfyn had assured him that boiled water was safe regardless of where it came from.

Therion wasn't sure what to do with the weird stove. There wasn't any wood to build a fire under it. So instead, he leaned against the counter, hands hovering on either side of the kettle, and called forth the seed of wild fire he carried inside.

It took most of the little magic he possessed, and left Therion almost dizzy with exhaustion afterwards, but he got the kettle to a boil, flinching at the way it started to shriek near the end. Luckily it quieted down almost immediately once he dismissed the fire magic, and the kid had somehow managed to sleep through the brief, piercing whistle.

Pouring himself a mugful of still-simmering and steaming water, Therion found the mostly-empty jar of honey and stirred in a generous two spoonfuls, before searching the kitchen for any remaining lemons. He didn't find any, but the cool-cabinet had a small yellow bottle in it that smelled of citrus juice when he sniffed it, so he shook a couple spoons' worth of that into his mug too, and stirred it all together.

Setting the mug aside to cool for a minute, Therion retrieved the thick blanket from the bathing chamber and dragged it over to the kid still passed out at the low table. It might smell a little funny just from being in the room with him before, but he hadn't gotten any sickness on it as far as he could tell, so he draped it over the kid's shoulders and left him to sleep a little longer.

Then Therion collected his mug and moved to sit on the edge of the kid's bed, sipping the drink and wondering what he should do next. The honey-lemon taste was much stronger than he remembered, almost wince-inducing strong, but Therion wasn't exactly a good cook so he hadn't expected perfection.

I need to rest, but this is one of the least secure locations I can think of… It was only marginally better now that he'd locked the front door. The bed was directly beneath the window, after all, meaning anyone breaking in would scatter glass shards directly on its occupant. On the other hand, sleeping beneath the window means that if the kid does wake up and decide he doesn't want to play nice anymore, I've got an easy way out. And he had his knives again, while the kid was unarmed as far as he could tell.

Therion finished his drink and set the mug on top of a nearby shelf, mind made up. Making his way wearily over to grab his shoes, he tugged them on despite not having proper foot-wraps to keep the leather from chafing, and then slipped beneath the bedsheets. If he had to make a run for it, he wasn't doing it barefoot or empty-handed.

Pulling the dagger from the back of his waistband, sheath and all, he gripped it loosely in his left hand, tucked his right beneath his head, and uneasily let sleep claim him.

Koichi woke with a yawn and a stretch, scrubbing the sleep-sand from his eyes. Ow. Falling asleep at the table's no good. His back was stiff from slumping in the awkward position for so long, and when he tried to get up, he fell over backwards, yelping quietly at the pins and needles stabbing through his legs.

Ow! Ow, ow, ow… Wincing, Koichi glanced up at the clock, wondering how long he'd been asleep. Almost one-thirty? Gah, good thing I didn't have work today. Pushing himself back up into a sitting position, legs outstretched as he waited for the painful tingles to go away, Koichi sighed. And then frowned, feeling the thick softness of his blanket under one hand. Huh? When did this get out here? I thought I left it with the sick guy in the bathroom— "Oh! That guy!" Koichi scrambled to his feet, looking around frantically. If the blanket was out here, then that guy must be feeling better, right?

Koichi almost overlooked the silent figure curled up on his bed, white hair barely poking out from beneath the white sheets. I guess he was pretty worn out, if he fell asleep in my bed right away, Koichi decided, rubbing at the side of his head worriedly. I hope he at least took a bath first… A quick look through the bathroom showed that he had, and that the clothes Koichi'd set out for him were missing, while the dirty clothes the guy'd been wearing had been left in a pile by the tub.

Koichi pulled the plug on the tub and dumped the contents of the bucket in the toilet before flushing it, trying not to gag at the smell. Wow, he must've really been tired, if he forgot to even flush!

Gathering up the guy's discarded clothes, Koichi threw them and the blanket into the washing machine, after pulling out the wet stuff to hang on the clothesline outside. Once that was done, he went back inside and started scrubbing the bathroom. He tried to be quiet so the guy could sleep okay, but it looked like he was exhausted enough that it didn't really matter. Koichi finished cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom, including the puke-bucket that had originally been meant for mop water, and then put everything away, and the guy still hadn't stirred as far as he could tell.

Hey wait, where'd all of his stuff go? The stuff Koichi had confiscated was missing from the living-room table, including those wicked knives of his. There were a couple things left, odds and ends mostly, but the bag of money and the bag of purple silk were missing, as was the grappling hook. Pocky's still here, though.

Cautiously checking on the guy again revealed that he'd taken all of that stuff to bed with him. The grappling hook dangled from his left hip, he had one of the knives clutched loosely before his chest and the other strapped to his leg, and from the odd bumps and bulges in the tee shirt Koichi'd lent him, he'd shoved most of the rest of the stuff inside it. For safekeeping, I guess. That can't be comfortable, though.

On the other hand, Koichi'd had a stomach bug like that before. When you'd been that sick, little things like how comfortable you were before you passed out from exhaustion didn't matter too much.

It'd been hard to tell, considering the white hair and how bad off he'd been last night, but Koichi was pretty sure that the guy was only in his mid-twenties, maybe a year younger than Eraserhead or miss Midnight. And he couldn't be sure, what with Quirks and all changing how people looked, but he was pretty sure the guy wasn't Japanese. He hadn't said any actual words, but the few word-like sounds he'd made had seemed kind of foreign.

…maybe he's an immigrant, Koichi realized, blinking with surprise at the thought. Or, well… He didn't like thinking about it, but human trafficking was still a thing. It didn't get brought up much on the news, 'cause of how awful it was, but every now and then you'd see a report of a sex- or labor- or Quirk-trafficking ring getting busted. Koichi didn't know what the guy's Quirk was, but he wasn't bad-looking at all, and obviously strong for his size.

Koichi hugged his knees, feeling queasy. I don't want to think about it… but it'd explain a lot. Like the knives, and how hostile he'd been when Koichi'd touched him before, and how dirty and beat up his clothes were, and how he didn't have any actual socks.

And the layered webwork of scar tissue over the backs and outer edges of his forearms.

'Defensive wounds', Koichi had seen them called in mystery novels sometimes. From holding your arms up between yourself and someone trying their hardest to hurt or kill you. The white-haired little guy looked like someone had put his forearms through a paper shredder; there weren't all that many places between outer wrist and elbow where clean, healthy skin showed through. And while most of the scars were old and faded, they seemed to trace through and over each other, like he'd been getting hurt that way for years and years before he put a stop to it.

No wonder he uses those wraps to cover them up. Everyone would be staring and asking questions, otherwise.

Which was really, really rude, so Koichi wasn't going to do that. Um. Anymore. No staring anymore. Because he had done some staring already. "Sorry about that, mister." He smiled a weak apology, scrubbing the back of his head as he ducked a bow towards the sleeping form. "Um, I'll just go finish up the laundry…"

Turning away on his knees, Koichi crept awkwardly away. The washing machine had dinged, so it was time to hang stuff up on the clothesline outside anyway.

It was Therion's stomach that woke him, hours later. A quiet snarl, it was sign enough that his illness had truly passed, and he was on his way to a full recovery. Letting his right eye open just a crack, Therion looked and listened around himself without moving at first.

Kid's not at the table anymore. Can't see him from where I am. Sheet's been shifted over me. Which meant that at some point, the kid had come to check on him while he slept, and he hadn't woken up. Considering there were maybe six people in the world that Therion trusted enough to sleep through them moving around him, that said a lot about how exhausted he'd been. I hate being sick.

Therion didn't hear the kid puttering around his house either, but he did hear some noises coming from outside. A kind of brief shout, and then a metallic 'pop', almost a bang, like something small bursting from being struck hard. I'll take a closer look in a minute. For now, at least, it seemed he was alone, and he was going to make the most of the opportunity.

Sitting up, Therion took stock again. The kid might've checked on him, but he hadn't tried to take away Therion's knives, gear, or shoes this time. The rest of the things he hadn't managed to stuff down his borrowed shirtfront were still on the low table, but a covered ceramic bowl had joined them, and the blanket he'd dragged over the kid's shoulders was gone.

Inspecting the bowl revealed that it was full of some kind of porridge that smelled like the savory broth from the night before. A careful prod showed that it was mostly cool, though some faint traces of warmth still lingered, thanks to the lid.

It's been here long enough to get mostly cool, and the kid hasn't touched it. Which meant the kid probably didn't intend to eat it himself. And if it smelled of the broth from before, it was probably safe enough.

Picking up the funny spoon next to the bowl, Therion took a cautious bite, and waited for his stomach to confirm that it was happy about it before he risked another. By the time he'd finished off the bowl of porridge, he felt ready to face the world again.

The kid was still nowhere to be seen, so Therion took a few minutes to just stretch, flexing every muscle and joint from neck to toes and fingertips, shaking off the lingering stiffness and exhaustion from the previous night's trial, making sure all of his bits and pieces were working properly again. A trip to the bathing room revealed that it had been cleaned while he slept, with his discarded clothes long vanished and the tub drained of its filthy water. Therion used the weird privy/chamber-pot thing, and then went back to the kitchen to see if there was any water left in the kettle.

He'd need to steal one of those from a merchant's shop, after he left the kid's house. He wasn't going to go back to roaming the streets without a way to boil water before he drank it.

Sipping from another mug of honey-lemon—not as strongly flavored this time—Therion made his way back over to the bed and cautiously peeked out the window, trying to find the source of that banging noise.

Apparently it was coming from just outside his visual range, around the corner of the house close to where the target practice setup had been. But Therion could see the clothesline from where he was, and all of his old clothes were hanging from it, as was the blanket.

Good. It was early evening now, from the angle of the sun, so they might actually be dry enough to wear. Undoing the latch of the window, Therion slipped through and hid in the shadow of the house's wall for a moment, sidling along it until he could peek around the corner and get a look at the source of the noises.

Huh. Didn't see that coming. It was the kid, dressed in similar clothes to what Therion was wearing, with the addition of some colorful cloth-and-leather shoes. He held his right hand out, gripping his wrist with his left hand for support. A faint ring of energy shimmered into existence before his palm, intensified… and then with a shout, shot forward like an arrow from a bow, to strike one of the empty metal cylinders set up as a target.

Glancing blow, Therion criticized automatically, as the cylinder popped up into the air half-crumpled. Fast, but I could dodge it. The kid seemed pretty into his practice, so Therion left him to it for the moment. Ghosting over to the clothesline, he gathered all of his stuff—the kid even washed his wraps?—and slipped back in through the window to change. The knives got moved again, hidden up under the back of his cloak once more, with his grappling hook moved to his right hip and his coin pouch to his left. Then it was just a matter of properly refilling his cloak's pockets with the odds, ends, and stolen cash he'd collected over the past two days.

He left the box of stick-sweets on the table though. The kid would probably appreciate them more than him anyway.

A moment's more hesitation, and Therion reached into one of his hidden pockets. A handful of the smaller coins he'd appropriated made a small pile on the table next to the little box. Not a lot of money, from what he'd seen, but enough for a few of those vegetable and meat skewers he'd had the day before. Kids his age are always hungry. I know I was.

Besides, Therion could practically feel the weight of imagined stares from Ophilia, Alfyn, and Tressa, at the thought of not repaying a benefactor for their kindness. Sure, Alfyn would've left medicine instead of money, but he would've left something.

Blowing out a silent, longsuffering breath, Therion sketched a rough bow in the direction of the kid through the wall. I appreciate it, he thought in the kid's direction, solemn and sincere despite how much he disliked being either. Really.

Then he slipped back out the window, and was gone.

A/N: Eraserhead and Midnight are two Pro Heroes Koichi is acquainted with. Eraserhead's Quirk is 'Erasure: nullify the activated Quirks of anyone he looks at directly', and Midnight's is 'Somnambulist: emit a sleep-inducing pheromone from her skin'. As of this story, both of them are around twenty-seven. Also, Therion has an absolutely awful personal history, as he was an orphan living as a thief on the streets long before the age of twelve, admits that he was regularly beaten by people trying to 'break him', and was mentally and emotionally manipulated by the one person he trusted for years, before the guy pushed him off a cliff to his (supposed) death. For personal gain. And no matter what he's wearing, Therion always keeps his forearms covered. As for 'people Therion trusts to be moving around him while he sleeps'… Therion does trust all seven of the other main characters from the game. But he and Tressa have a kind of sibling-esque relationship which involves a lot of teasing and Therion stealing her candy. So he doesn't expect her to try to hurt him, but to pull a prank while he's asleep? Yeah, he believes she'd do that. And while he trusts Cordelia and Heathcote on a personal level, he hasn't spent enough time in their company to be comfortable sleeping near them.