TACO Run

Chapter 27

It was nearly noon, and the sun painfully bright, when Therion slipped out of his new temporary base to seek out food for the day. He squinted up at the sky in annoyance for a second, before grumbling to himself and going on his way. He wasn't going back to that tavern again, but there should be a market somewhere nearby that they got supplies from, so he could pick something up from there.

As he drifted through the streets, occasionally relieving passersby of spare coin or small valuables, Therion's mind drifted too. He had a place to stay and food to eat, but no clue where the other guys were. Or if they'd been as lucky as him.

He wasn't concerned about their physical safety, for the most part. Alfyn could take care of himself just fine, provided he didn't get caught in the middle of a gang-war or something. And he'd be more concerned for anyone stupid enough to take Olberic on than he would be for the warrior. Cyrus, though…

Well, the scholar wasn't as oblivious as he'd been when they first met, and as long as he was paying attention he could roast anyone who tried anything, but if he got caught off-guard… Well. He was a pretty, posh, too-curious scholar who didn't know how to so much as buy a wheel of cheese without drawing the attention of every young woman in the vicinity, several of the older ones, and no shortage of opportunistic types like Therion himself.

It was all too easy to imagine the handsome scholar getting clubbed over the head for his valuables and left in a ditch somewhere.

Still, Therion wasn't really worried about violence directed at his friends. They were all generally capable of taking care of themselves as far as that was concerned. No, what niggled at him in the rare moments he could afford to let his mind wander was the thought that if he of all people was living on the edge at the moment, how were the rest of them managing to feed themselves? Alfyn knew plants, sure, but this wasn't exactly a lush Riverlands meadow or Woodlands glade. This was a city, and about as opposite the country bumpkin's preferred foraging-grounds as it could be. Cyrus was posh, but he didn't have local coin, and he couldn't talk to the locals either to ask for help. And Olberic…

Well. A body that big took a lot of feeding, and the warrior was too honest and straightforward and—ugh—honorable to ever turn to a life of banditry. They'd talked about that once, and he'd admitted that he couldn't ever live the way Therion did, just as Therion couldn't ever be the kind of man he was, either.

And that wasn't even taking into account that if Therion of all people had gotten sick from drinking local water, then the other guys probably had, too. And sure, Alfyn was a damn apothecary, so he could probably take care of himself, but…

Therion would deny being worried to his dying breath. He had his own concerns to deal with; he couldn't afford to be worried about other people, especially when there was nothing he could do about it.

So Therion wasn't worried. It was just… irritating, not knowing how they were doing. It niggled at him, like a loose tooth, or like not knowing the guard rotation at a manse. None of them had any idea of how to be subtle; shouldn't he have seen some sign of them by now?

He knew that was a stupid thing to think. After all, finding someone in a city the size of Atlasdam or Noblecourt, or even Grandport, would take a lot of time. Hours, if not days, depending on who it was. A place like this? Packed with people like salted herring in a barrel, and big enough to fit a dozen castle-towns at least? When he couldn't understand a damn word anyone was saying? Fuck 'needle in a haystack', it was 'counterfeit in a kingdom's treasury'. And he didn't even know the purity of the local silver.

Therion kept a curse behind his teeth, though, and bit into a pasty he'd nicked from a stall as he dodged a gaggle of young women and turned down a smaller side-street. The weird fish-shaped bun… cake… thing was filled with some kind of red jam or paste he didn't recognize the taste of, but it was warm and reasonably filling, if a bit sweet for breakfast.

A faint squeaking sound that wasn't a mouse or Ratkin made Therion pause for a second.

The side-street was much quieter than the main road; not quite abandoned, but lacking anything resembling crowds. It was still louder than he liked, but he could listen through the noise to pinpoint the squeaking sound, and follow it to its source.

It was coming from one of the heavy metal grates spaced evenly along the edge of the road. Therion had seen rainwater running down into them the previous day, so they were probably part of the sewer system, which would suggest that whatever was making that sound was vermin of some kind, but…

It didn't sound right. Therion had dealt with enough Ratkin and other rodents in his life to know their squeaks, and this was different.

The slots in the grate were pretty close together. He could get a hand through, and maybe his forearm, but it'd get caught on his elbow if he tried it. And he wasn't anywhere stupid enough to try shoving his arm through a grate into a sewer after he-didn't-know-what. Especially since he'd have to stand in the road to do it, and even if this side-street didn't have many passing vehicles, he wasn't about to risk getting hit by one.

So after making sure that none of those growling metal deathtraps were coming, he crouched and leaned just far enough over the curb to get a halfway decent look through the dirty metal bars. At first he didn't spot anything, other than the occasional glint of a lost coin or reflective trash. But then something down there moved, and the next squeak was almost a mewl, and Therion blinked.

It was… it was a kitten. Stuck in a shallow bowl-like depression beneath the grate, dirty fur plastered to its body as it shivered and wobbled and squeaked in distress.

Therion leaned back away from the street, looking around to make sure the coast was clear. There weren't any vehicles coming, and none of the few pedestrians were giving him looks he'd deem as 'dangerous'. Just the usual 'oh, ew, what is that filthy street-rat doing?', which was fine by him.

Flexing his fingers, Therion checked the edges of the grate for fasteners and found none. He hooked his fingers through the gaps, braced himself, and carefully lifted the grate just high enough to get it out of its spot and shove it aside.

Gods damn, it's heavy! Cast iron, for sure, and it probably weighed more than he did, and it took all he had to get one edge up onto the road proper. Then he had to sit and breathe for a bit before he could try again, and scoot it far enough aside to be worth the effort. Two more heaves, and he stopped to get a better look.

The kitten was sitting on the very lip of a wide ledge, apparently made to catch trash and stuff that fell through. If it wobbled too far, it'd fall down into the sewer proper below that, and there was no way Therion'd be able to get to it down there.

Another brief pause to check his surroundings—he was starting to draw a little attention, but nothing dangerous yet—and Therion reached down to scoop the kitten out of the gutter and tuck it into one of his mantle's hidden inner pockets. He fished a few wallets, coins, and sets of keys out too, and one very unfortunate person's spectacles—which were filthy, but miraculously undamaged—and then debated for a second over whether he should bother replacing the grate, considering how much of a pain it was to move.

The kitten shivering and mewling weakly in his pocket made his mind up for him, and Therion left without replacing the grate. Maybe if some dumbass tripped over it, they'd realize that the bars were too wide to be useful in preventing small animals from falling in and drowning.

He'd made it all the way back to his temporary hideout when the realization of what had just happened hit him directly in the face.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with a kitten?

Therion stared at his new, tiny, helpless companion in something close to bafflement. "What the hells am I supposed to do with you?" he asked, voice cracking from disuse. Gods, when was the last time he'd actually talked?

The kitten was tiny, filthy, and shivering on the metal side-board of the washbasin in Therion's temporary base. Blue eyes blinked up at him in confusion and fear, and it made another piteous mewling noise that tugged at the heartstrings Therion desperately wished he didn't have.

Fuck.

He couldn't just abandon it, not after he'd gone through all of the trouble to get it out. But he didn't know shit about kittens. Was it even old enough to eat solid food? Its eyes were open, and it could stand up, but its stubby tail was doing that 'stick straight up' thing that kitten-tails did, and he wasn't sure if that meant it was weaned yet or if it still needed milk. Not that he had any to give it.

Shit. Shit, I'm so gods-damned stupid. He wasn't fucking Alfyn or Ophilia, to take something helpless and nurse it back to health. He could take care of himself just fine, but that was it. And he wasn't H'aanit, who knew animals like Olberic knew swords. Shit, he wasn't even Tressa, who'd apparently raised a pet squirrel or something at one point!

Why the hells had he gone after the kitten in the first place?

It blinked big blue eyes at him, squeak-mewling pathetically, and Therion knew why.

Godsdammit all.

Therion scooped the kitten back up again, tucking it into the pocket of his mantle closest to his chest. That'd help keep it warm, right? Little fucker better not claw me…

An hour's searching and five nimble fingers later, Therion returned to his hideout after a trip to a grocer's he'd spotted earlier in the day. He'd lifted two bars of soap, some eggs, a small loaf of bread, and a bundle of some kind of finger-sized, oily-looking fish.

Cats liked fish, right?

He'd also stolen a handful of small cloths to clean things with, because ick. He'd gotten plenty of dirty looks for his appearance, mostly the mud and bits of detritus stuck to his clothes. That kind of attention was better avoided.

The last thing he'd picked up was several pieces of wooden or papery trash on his way back, to use for fuel. Sure, he knew fire magic, but it wasn't sustainable. Better to just use it to light a fire on some actual wood, and use that to cook with.

Once he was back to base, Therion set about giving himself, his belongings, his clothes, and the kitten a thorough bath.

The kitten was not happy about it, but didn't do more than mew piteously as he used soap and warm water to clean the filth off of its fur and out of its ears and tiny toes. Once he was done, he scrubbed it dry as gently as he could—he wasn't a gentle person—and bundled it up in a few of the dry cloths to keep warm while he went about cleaning everything else, himself included.

That took a little while, and his clothes would have to drip-dry for a few hours before he could put them back on, so Therion slipped into his backup outfit and was grateful he'd thought to barricade the doors before starting all of this, just in case.

Once everything was clean, Therion started a fire in the metal washbasin and filled his kettle with water, carefully settling three of the half-dozen eggs he'd stolen inside so they'd boil along with the water he was purifying.

Then he took another look at the kitten.

It was dry by now, and a frizzy puff of mottled grey fur with a splotch of white on its chin. It still squeaked and mewled pathetically every now and then, but it didn't fight when he picked it up to check under its tail.

No balls, which Therion was pretty sure meant it was female, though maybe it was just too young for them to be showing yet. He thought that was maybe a thing that happened with kittens. Maybe.

Fuck, he wished H'aanit was here. Or even Cyrus. The scholar probably hadn't ever taken care of a pet in his life, but he was an endless fountain of useless information, so he might know something.

Luckily, the kitten seemed capable of eating the fish he'd gotten for it, though Therion had had to break it up into smaller pieces with his fingers first, which had been unpleasant. And it could drink the water he gave it, too, once he'd boiled it and let it cool to room temperature.

Once it had eaten and drunk its fill—and Therion discovered that kittens apparently liked cooked egg as much as humans did—the kitten curled up in the little pile of dry cloths Therion had stuck it in before, and fell asleep.

Shit, Therion sighed, scowling down at the tiny, fuzzy bundle. What the hells am I supposed to do with you?

He couldn't just keep it. He was a homeless vagabond at the moment, and in no position to be adopting pets. Not to mention, he'd found a collar while cleaning the little fluff, which meant that someone else owned it. Not that that was an issue for him, really, but it was a reminder that even people who wanted pets didn't always care for them right, so he definitely shouldn't be responsible for one. And he couldn't read the engraving on the tag to find out who the owner was.

What would Alfyn do? Well, that was obvious. The soft touch would coo over the kitten, caring for it like a ridiculous mother hen and showing it off to everyone he met as he tried to find its owner, with the casual ease of someone who still didn't realize how ugly the world was to those who let themselves be vulnerable. Ophilia would do the same, or maybe adopt the kitten as her very own unless someone came up to claim it.

H'aanit would definitely adopt the kitten, and train it to be a mini-Linde or something, ready to leap out and claw people's eyes from their sockets.

Cyrus would probably spend ten hours researching how to properly care for a kitten, get scratched to ribbons trying to wash it, tie a silk bow around its neck, and then scrutinize everything about it and where it'd been found to figure out its owner's identity.

Tressa would coo over it, and clean it up, and wrestle with herself over if she should keep it or try to find its owner. And then cry like a baby over it once she'd returned it, because she'd let herself get attached.

Primrose would probably keep it, once it was clean and fed. If its previous owners had let it fall down a grate, they obviously couldn't be trusted to care for it properly, after all. Worldly she might be, but the dancer had a soft spot for helpless things.

Trying to figure out what Olberic would do made Therion snort with laughter, though, because for some reason he was sure that once he'd gotten the kitten cleaned up and fed—and he didn't know why, but he was sure the warrior would know how to go about that—Olberic would set the kitten on one of his broad shoulders for safety, and then forget it was there and go about his day with a tiny fuzz-ball clinging to his quilted surcoat.

But funny image or not, none of that helped Therion at all. He didn't have the others with him to foist the kitten off on, and he didn't have any way to figure out who the cat belonged to in the first place.

Fuck. Sighing silently through his nose, Therion shoved an oddly-square slice of bread into his mouth and scowled down at the sleeping kitten. What am I going to do with you?

It was almost suppertime when Therion left his current hideout again. His clothes were clean and dry, and he'd stashed the majority of his food and daily spoils in more secure places around the abandoned tavern to leave his hands free and his pockets light while he went prowling for dinner.

The kitten went with him, tucked into his most secure hidden pocket to prevent it falling out or causing trouble. It didn't seem to mind being stowed away like that, and other than the occasional squirm, seemed content to stay still and quiet in there.

He'd fed it bits of oily fish twice more before they'd left, and made sure it got water when it wanted some, and cleaned up its piss and shit when it proved incapable of doing it itself. Which was stupid, because wasn't that the whole point of cats? That they cleaned up after themselves? Or at least learned to shit in a specific place, instead of wherever they happened to be?

You'd better not shit in my pocket, you little fuzzball, Therion thought warningly in the kitten's direction as he turned another corner. Going back to the grocer's would probably raise a brow or two, so he'd gone in the opposite direction, and found a small marketplace that was nowhere near as good as the one he'd been to before, but at least had booths he could access easily enough.

He snitched one of those spicy-meat-sauce buns and continued on his way. He still didn't like the tingle-burn, but it was portable and filling, so he'd deal with it.

He also kept an eye out just in case he ran into that murder-porpoise… person… thing again. That wasn't an encounter he planned on repeating.

He didn't have an actual plan for dealing with the kitten situation, anymore than he had a real plan for finding the others. 'Wander around until you find trouble' was the exact opposite of a plan, in his book. His 'plan' with the kitten was little better. Wander around until he found someone who looked like they liked cats, and dump the kitten on them. And not a little kid, because he'd seen too many parents who would lose their shit over their kid bringing home a stray animal, and he wouldn't risk inflicting that on anyone.

He'd almost finished the spicy-meat-sauce bun when he heard someone's voice rise in that particular gooey tone that said they'd spotted a cute animal to fawn over. A subtle glance in that direction showed an old granny and her grandkid walking a very fluffy dog, though they'd paused to let another person pet it.

Therion drifted that direction. Not aiming directly at them, but past them towards one of those public fountains he'd been using to refill his waterskin before he boiled the water in his kettle.

The guy cooing over the dog was a stubby middle-aged man not much taller than Therion, in a tan long-coat that stank of bitter smoke and had big, deep pockets.

Perfect.

Therion brushed past them, depositing the kitten in the guy's left coat-pocket at just the right time that the added weight would go unnoticed for a second. He continued on unhurriedly, ducking some kind of flying disc that some kids were flinging back and forth, and going on to the fountain to refill his waterskin.

He was just capping the waterskin again when he heard a startled sound from the guy he'd foisted the cat off on, followed by something in a tone that sounded vaguely confused-but-not-upset.

Good. The damn fuzzball was somebody else's problem now.

A/N: Yes, the 'stubby guy' is Detective Tanuma, one of Naomasa's coworkers. No, he didn't see Therion. He will use the collar's tag to find its owner and return it to them.