from a cat’s eye view
The sun sets behind the towers, blinding light turning to a dull pink, to a dusky purple, to a muted blue. A tram screeches to a stop, cars drive by; folks are commuting home, or going out for the night. The pulse of the city has slowed, but it never truly stops.
In the newborn shadows of a deserted dingy alley, a cat yawns awake. It blinks slowly, its pupils contracting and dilating; it stretches, front paws extended, then shifts its weight forward, back legs straight as sticks. It sits, looks around calmly. The people passing quickly on the sidewalk in front of it pays it no mind.
The cat picks itself up and steps behind the dumpster blocking half the width of the small alley. Its head rolls over its shoulders in a strange, human-like way, and it puts its front paws up on the green, scratched-up metal of the container.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the cat yowls, a scream that it quickly muffles, not quite managing to quiet it entirely. Its claws shoot out, catching on the rusted surface, then perforating it as they seem to grow way farther than a cat's claws should be able to. The fur on its legs falls into dust, and its tail, lashing out at the air, rapidly shortens into a nub. Its ears round up, sliding to the sides of its face; its eyes, wide and wet, become smaller - or rather, the face around it grows until they take human proportions.
Labored breaths rattle in the small street as the transformation pauses. The creature - not a person yet, but not quite recognizable as a cat anymore either - blinks tears away from their eyes. They wipe their sweaty forehead with the back of their hand. Their jaw sets into a tense line, and they release a shaky breath through their flattened nose.
They audibly sob when the shifting starts again; their bared teeth widen and blunt, their claws retract into the tip of their fingers. A few more moments, and the man collapses against the dumpster, groaning pitifully. He takes a minute to gather himself, using his dirty sleeve to clean his face up.
Finally - he gets up on wobbly legs, shaking himself like a wet dog. He adjusts the ratty coat on his shoulders, and steps confidently towards the end of the alleyway. He breathes deeply the thick air of the city, and inserts himself in the flow of people.
The night is young, and he's still alive.
Charlie strolls casually through the night market, stopping here and there to survey the goods presented and to mourn his empty pockets. His stomach growls before he even catches the smell of fried fish drifting from one of the stalls further ahead; he briefly considers morphing back into a smaller creature to swipe some food from the vendor, but he doesn't need that kind of attention on him - and besides, he's almost to his destination.
The bar is a small place stuck between a twenty-four hour convenience store and the back end of a hotel; he's never been there, but Lucy has assured him it was a safe place.
It is also mostly empty. There's a large figure behind the bar, chatting quietly with a stern-looking woman; they both glance at Charlie as he enters, their gaze sharp and none-too-friendly. He raises his hands up to his chest in the universal “I come in peace” gesture, and after a quick appraisal, the looming bartender shrugs and returns to their previous conversation. The woman leans towards them but her eyes remain trained on Charlie. No funny business, the hard line of her shoulders seems to say.
There's movement in the corner of Charlie's vision, and he looks towards the corner of the little taproom. Lucy is waving him over excitedly, and he slinks towards her, giving the woman and her massive companion a wide berth.
“En-gee-el, was wondering if you'd show up,” Lucy chirps as he slides in the booth next to her. “You were always the skittish one.”
“Skittish?” Charlie scoffs. “Call that having a self-preservation instinct.”
They stare at each other. Lucy breaks first, a wide grin appearing on her face as she gives him a one-armed hug.
“I've missed you. I haven't seen one of us in - too long, frankly.”
“Missed you too, Lu.” Charlie returns her awkward embrace. “How did you even find me?”
“Ah,” Lucy gives him a conspiratorial look. “A little bird told me.”
And, Charlie guesses, that's not entirely impossible. After all, it was a pigeon that had brought him Lucy's letter.
“Drinks?”
Charlie looks up toward the bartender who's somehow managed to materialize in front of their table without him noticing. Honey-colored eyes hold his own inquisitive one, unimpressed.
“Bring me the fruitiest, most sugary cocktail you offer, please,” Lucy says.
“Just water for me,” Charlie murmurs. Lucy playfully shoves his shoulder with her own.
“C'mon, Charles. You used to tell me how much you missed beer. If it's money you're worried about, don't be. I'm loaded.”
Charlie lifts an eyebrow. “Loaded?”
“Well,” his friend amends. “I am - doing ok.”
Charlie considers her a moment, then looks up again at their towering mountain of a waiter. “Alright. Whatever you have on tap that's cheap, then.”
The barkeeper hums, and then they're gone, feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor.
“That place is weird,” Charlie comments in a low voice once the bartender is out of earshot. “Why did you pick it specifically? Are they… you know.”
“Are they what?” Lucy asks with a barely concealed grin that betrays her. Charlie sighs. He'd forgotten how annoying she could be.
“You know.” He leans in towards her. “Like us.”
For a second, she looks like she's about to make him beg for it, then she looks away. “No, I don't think they are. But don't you feel safe here? Don't you feel like you belong?”
“I belong everywhere,” Charlie answers automatically. “And nowhere at all.”
Lucy rolls her eyes. “Okay, drama queen. Whatever you say.”
The golden-eyed bartender comes back and wordlessly puts their glasses down in front of them. Instead of leaving immediately like Charlie was expecting them to, they lean in, looking between the two of them as if to make sure they're paying attention (it would be hard not to. They're bigger than Lucy and Charlie combined.)
“You should be careful with where you speak of those subjects. Never assume no one can hear you.”
Charlie feels his ears twitch, and he fights the urge to hiss. The bartender must feel it anyways, because they shrug and straighten back up. “Just some friendly advice.”
Lucy beams at them. “Thanks! We'll keep it in mind.”
“Yeah,” Charlie says, unnerved. “Thanks, friend.”
They sniff dismissively, then turn around and leave. Charlie mouths what the fuck? at Lucy; meanwhile, his friend looks like her birthday came early.
“Told you,” she tells him, not bothering to speak low. “Just like home.”
And while he doesn't like it, he must recognize she's right.
They sip their drinks for a bit, Lucy emitting a pleased hum when she first tastes her neon green beverage. Charlie's beer is - alright. Nothing to write home about, but the bitterness is nice all the same. Lucy is right, it has been too long.
“Why did you want to see me?” Charlie finally asks, and for the first time Lucy looks a bit uncomfortable.
“I needed to see a friend,” she confesses. “There's, hum-” she grimaces. “Promise you won't be mad.”
Charlie sighs wearily. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” she protests. “Promise.”
“Right, okay.” Charlie runs a hand down his face. “Shoot.”
Lucy shoots a glance at the bartender, but they seem to pay them no mind, deep into a quiet conversation with the severe woman.
“Alice is gone,” she mumbles.
“Oh.” Charlie shuffles awkwardly in his seat. “I'm sorry, I didn't even know you guys were together -”
“We're not!” Lucy says sharply. “We weren't. She's - she was taken. By Epistemos.”
Immediately Charlie tenses up. “Epi- Lucy, they're not following you, are they?”
“Of course not!” she protests. “Don't you trust me?”
“I do.” Charlie's eyes shoot towards the exit. “I trust you.” I trust you wouldn't willingly put me in danger to be captured again, he doesn't say, but I know exactly how much time you've spent in a bird's mind.
As if she read his mind, Lucy insists: “I made sure! I'm not dumb!”
“Alright,” Charlie says. “What do you need me for? You know I can't rescue her.”
“Why not? You're the smartest shifter I know!” She leans closer and whispers: “You got us out the first time around!”
A shiver runs up Charlie’s spine as he thinks back on their escape, almost a year before. He remembers the cold of the facility’s concrete flooring under his bare feet, the weight of the shock collar around his throat - he remembers an icy electric gaze, considering him like a slab of meat.
They had unshackled him for a test - wanted to see how fast he could shift now, an exercise he’d never been skilled at. He’d focused on his hands, fighting against the agony of the transformation and the sheer disgust he felt looking at his mangled fingers stretching into claws, stopped shifting in this state and pretended to pass out. One of the guards had approached to check on him, and he’d swiftly ripped his throat out before leaping at the second mercenary. Even now, he marveled at the fact that none of the bullets had even grazed him; it had been luck only that had allowed him to free himself and some of his friends.
He tells Lucy as much.
“I was lucky.”
The disappointment in her big round eyes is almost as painful as shifting, and Charlie’s heart twists with it. He looks away.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do it. Not again.”
A silence falls and congeals, only troubled by a radio playing softly behind the bar and the muted sounds of the city outside. They both morosely sip their drinks.
Lucy speaks up.
“Do you ever think about what you’d be if you hadn’t joined Epistemos?”
Charlie considers the question, looking deeply into his half-empty glass. Then he shrugs. “Dead, maybe. Probably. I wasn’t -” he sighs. “I was already in a desperate situation. Epistemos was a way to get off the streets. And, honestly… At least, when I sleep outside now, I have the finest furs to protect me.” Lucy giggles, and Charlie feels his shoulders relax. He risks a glance in her direction. “How about you? Do you regret it?”
Lucy leans back in her seat, humming thoughtfully as her long nails tap against the foot of her glass.
“No,” she answers eventually. “Like, don’t get me wrong - it sucked. But,” and she lets out a dreamy sigh, “I wouldn’t trade being able to fly for anything.”
They exchange a smile, one only two people tied by misery can share - something a bit sad, a bit hopeful. One that says: we remain. Despite everything, we are alive.
Before he can even realize what he’s doing, Charlie freezes, not even breathing; something feels deeply, deeply wrong.
He doesn’t need to speak for Lucy to understand. She follows his gaze toward the exit, sliding a hand in her pocket and recovering a butterfly knife she unfolds smoothly. The bartender has vanished; so has their companion. The radio has stopped. It feels like even Charlie’s heart has stopped beating.
At the end of the corridor that leads to the taproom, the door of the bar creaks open. Someone comes in - several someones. Measured steps come closer, accompanied by the shuffle of combat boots.
“You should go,” Charlie murmurs, not taking his eyes off the entrance. Lucy is a fast shifter, and her animal shape is small enough that she could hide until the danger has passed.
But she simply huffs a nervous laugh, and stays put.
A familiar silhouette appears in the mouth of the hallway; a shaved head, a leather coat, the mobile splint supporting one of the legs - those eyes, steel cold, piercing like a bullet, catching Charlie’s own.
“Finally,” the newcomer says with a smile that reveals sharp teeth. “My stray kitten, at long last.”
Charlie doesn’t answer. He breathes in, breathes out; the thin hair dusting his back, shoulders and neck are standing on end, and his jaw is painful with the way he’s clenching it. He fights the urge to bare his own teeth - to hiss, to lunge, to attack first.
“Well? Nothing to say for yourself?” the sharp-toothed man walks into the room, boots ringing final and smug on the hardwood floor.
“I’m not going back, Cormac” Charlie spits. “Fuck you. I’d rather die.”
The smile stretches, then falls. The cold eyes narrow. “That can be arranged.”
Cormac motions with his right hand, a finger weaving into the air almost lazily; a couple of seconds later he’s framed with a half-dozen mercenaries in dark gear pointing their weapons right at Charlie’s head.
Charlie lets out a shaky wheeze; despite his bravado, he’s not prepared to die here and now. His life is ruined, his only friends are monsters he bonded with over their shared pain; he’s got nothing to survive for, no “better” to look forward to, and yet - he does not want to die.
His heart beats loud in his ears again, as if begging to be allowed to keep going; he feels Lucy’s eyes on him, can see a glimpse of the knife she’s gripping under the table in his peripheral vision, but his attention is focused on Cormac. The man has crossed his arms, looking a bit bored.
“So, what is it going to be? Your brain, splattered on the floor of that sad excuse for a bar? Or a single trip back to your little cage? Hurry up - or I’ll decide for you.”
Before Charlie can muster an answer, Lucy leaps over the table with a growl; the knife in her hand shines under the mismatched lights of the pub. There’s a crack that makes Charlie instinctively close his eyes, and something warm splatters on his cheek. A yelp - pained, angry - and the crash of a body slamming back onto the table.
When Charlie opens his eyes again, Lucy is lying on the table, writhing in pain (alive, alive) as she holds her left shoulder.
“Shit! Fuck!” she groans. “Oh, bitch-”
“Now, now,” Cormac tuts. “You should be grateful you’re not a stain on the floor, Lucy. Shush now, I’m talking to your brother.” He looks back at Charlie. “Alright, here’s the deal, kitten: you come with us, and I don’t let Birdie over here bleed out in front of you.”
Charlie opens his mouth - closes it again, several times, like a fish out of water.
“I - I -”
I can’t, he wants to say. He can’t go back to the probes buried in his flesh as he’s forced to shift, again and again, can’t see more of his friends - his siblings - made to endure the same horrors. He can’t let Lucy die, either.
“C’mon, time’s a-ticking,” Cormac huffs, fingers drumming impatiently on the sleeve of his coat.
“I -” Charlie’s mouth is dry. He wants to curl up into a ball. He wants to disappear - not as a bloodstain on the ground of a nameless dive, but on his own terms. He’s not a man of faith, but he finds himself praying to anything that’ll listen to him.
Anything, it turns out, is the massive bartender.
Charlie wouldn’t have seen them creeping in the corridor if his eyes hadn’t been wildly shifting between human and feline visions. They barely fit in the hallway, tall enough that they have to bend slightly not to hit the ceiling; they catch Charlie’s gaze immediately and raise a finger to their lips. There’s a strange silver contraption strapped to their fist.
“Okay,” Charlie murmurs, nodding to the shadow.
“Mhh?” Cormac says. He’s ostensibly inspecting his nails - hasn’t noticed Charlie’s drifting gaze.
Charlie shakes himself, biting onto hope with renewed vigor. “Okay,” he says, voice wavering. “I’m coming with you. Just, please -” He glances at Lucy; she’s paler than ever, mouth tight with pain. “Help her.”
“Hm.” Cormac steps closer, looking disdainfully down at the young woman. “Be nice, and I’ll consider it. Come here. Slowly.”
Several things happen in very short succession. Charlie starts getting up; at the same time the barkeep draws their fist back, and drives it straight through the first soldier’s ribcage. The man falls with a grunt, and everyone in the room apart from Charlie (already facing the right direction) and Lucy (flat on the table, quickly losing consciousness) turns around to look at the intruder. Someone shoots at the golden-haired giant, who dips to the side with an unexpected amount of grace. Cormac unhosters one of his two handguns, firing steadily at the fluid shape of the bartender as they slice through three of the remaining five mercenaries, ill-equipped for close combat as they are.
“Stop!” Cormac booms. “Stop, or he’s dead!”
Charlie finds himself staring at the barrel of a gun once again; the bartender freezes, their metal claws still stuck in the second-to-last merc.
“Who the fuck are you?” Cormac fumes. “You interrupted a very important talk!”
Charlie’s large and unexpected ally casually rips their claws out of their latest victim before answering:
“Leo. I own this bar.” They look around at the bloody mess at their feet with distaste, as if they’ve only just now noticed it. “I don’t like what you’ve done with it.”
“Are you kidding me,” Cormac snarls. He gestures with his chin at the remaining soldier. “Kill this clown.”
A gunshot; Charlie winces, expecting to see his potential savior fall.
The mercenary falls instead, a bullet lodged clean into her skull. Cormac swears, his free hand flying to his bloodied cheek.
“You missed,” Leo says.
“Tried to get both in one shot,” his friend answers laconically, dropping smoothly from the complicated weaving of cables and metal bars that constitute the ceiling. “Not this time.” She points the muzzle of her rifle at Cormac, who’s considering her with obvious loathing.
“I knew some of the Empire’s disgusting experiments had gotten out,” he bites out. “I wasn’t expecting them to try and pretend to be people.”
Leo chuckles without humor. “Funny, coming from you. Anyway, you can fuck off now.”
The woman, who’s slowly stepped in between Charlie and Cormac, tenses. “Are you sure?”
A shrug answers her. “If we don’t let Epistemos get their golden boy back, they won’t leave us alone.”
Cormac sneers. “Bold of you to assume we’ll let you keep our property anyways.”
Leo stares down at him from their formidable height, unimpressed. “We can also kill you now.”
Cormac seems to consider it for a second, then goes to hoster his weapon.
Leo’s friend clicks her tongue. “No. Drop it.”
Cormac looks at her, venom warming up his glacial eyes, and obeys. Leo steps away from the exit and gestures with their head.
“Off you go.”
“You’ll regret not having killed me today,” Cormac promises - then he’s out as fast as his splintered leg will allow him. His steps fade away in the corridor, and the front door slams behind him.
Charlie collapses like a puppet whose strings would have been cut. He lifts trembling hands up to his mouth, hyperventilating as the tension slowly leaves his body. Lucy’s blood is still on his face, barely starting to dry, and he can’t even begin to imagine what he might look like, rocking back and forth in a self-soothing motion as he tries to reconcile with the fact he’s still alive - and free.
“Hey.” The woman has sat next to him, looking unenthused. “You alright?”
“He was right,” is the first thing Charlie can say. “You should have killed him.”
“Maybe,” Leo says, fiddling with the straps of the weapons tied to their hands. “That’s a problem for tomorrow. Today, we live.”
Leo locks the bar for the rest of the day. He - or she, not they, as Charlie soon learns - starts cleaning up, joined by the woman - named Moody - and a couple of other folks that stream in one by one from the first floor, where some bedrooms are located. A man who introduces himself as Yaïch offers to look at Lucy’s shoulder, and he simply bandages her up so the bleeding stops when Charlie assures him she’ll be right as rain once she feels well enough to shift. Turning into an animal, then back into a human is usually sufficient to fix most harm.
Yaïch carries Lucy’s sleeping body upstairs, promising to find a room with multiple beds so Charlie can sleep nearby. Charlie wishes he could go directly crash as well, but Leo catches his eyes before he can follow his unconscious friend.
“You probably have questions,” Leo says, wiping his hands on a rag as she comes to sit next to him.
“Yes, I - What are you?” Charlie says bluntly, before cringing. “I mean, you’re not a chimera. Are you like… us? Epistemos told us we were the firsts, but…”
“Sorry, we’re not,” Leo answers apologetically. “We’re similar, but not the same. We’re older. The Atlante made us. They called us hybrids.”
“Similar…” Charlie’s too tired to think. “Like what?”
“Lab-made,” Leo says as if it explains everything. It doesn’t. Charlie stares at him blankly. “Genetically engineered,” Leo develops. “Though if I’m correct, you guys have been human at some point.”
“Right, yes,” Charlie nods. “We’re like… artificial chimerae. Hold on, are you saying you’ve been made from scratch by the Empire?”
Leo watches him carefully, her golden eyes (eyes of a lion - now it makes sense) wide and attentive. “Yes. Does it bother you?”
Charlie thinks about it, and decides quickly he doesn’t care. “Why would I? We’re all monsters.”
Leo smiles, and if Charlie was more aware of his surroundings he’d notice the hint of sadness in the curve of his mouth.
“Monsters, huh?” Her tone is carefully neutral.
Charlie shrugs. “Half animal, half human. An unnatural in-between.”
“Well,” Leo says, getting back up, and Charlie finally understands he’s said something wrong. “I hope I can change your mind, with time. For now, you should go get some sleep.”
He puts a huge comforting hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Her body heat seeps through his flimsy coat, and he suddenly realizes he’s freezing. Nothing seems more appealing than a warm bed with a roof over it.
“I, ah - I will. I’m - gonna.” He gets up on trembling legs, stumbles out of the room - Leo’s eyes on his retreating back, Leo’s words in his ears. With time… Is he expecting to keep them around, despite Epistemos? Despite Cormac?
Upstairs, Yaïch ushers him into a darkened room. Lucy is snoring in one of the two beds; the second one is made, ready to welcome him. Charlie turns to thank the other man, but he’s already gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Charlie drops his dirty coat at the end of the bed, divests himself of his layers until he’s only wearing a tank top and boxers. He slides under the covers; the blanket is a bit scratchy, the smell of the detergent on the sheets slightly too much for his senses.
In spite of it, he quickly drifts off to sleep.