The cat was gone the next morning. Adrian noticed because he looked. He told himself it had only been a glance toward the low stone wall while passing it. There was no reason to check whether an insulting grey cat had returned to the exact same spot.
The wall was empty.
Good.
He continued toward the center of Bellwick. Nessa had looked at his ankle after breakfast and declared it improved.
Not healed.
Improved.
There had been several additional words after that involving rest, sensible activity and avoiding unnecessary strain. Adrian had listened to all of them. Then he'd gone outside. This time, however, he had money.
Technically.
The CSA had provided him with a small temporary allowance after yesterday's supermarket incident had revealed a problem everyone except Adrian had apparently assumed someone else had already solved. The result was forty credits loaded onto a generic payment card.
No name.
No photograph.
Just another number.
Adrian now owned two pieces of plastic.
Progress.
The smell from the bakery caught him halfway down the road. His stomach reacted immediately.
Adrian stopped.
“You already had breakfast.”
His stomach remained unconvinced. He looked through the bakery window.
Then down at himself.
That was becoming a pattern. Before all of this, breakfast had frequently been coffee and whatever he could find on the way to work. On weekends, perhaps something larger if he could be bothered. He certainly hadn't eaten a proper breakfast and then found himself seriously considering another one less than two hours later. Apparently this body had opinions about meal frequency.
Adrian went inside.
He emerged with a warm cheese roll and something sweet he hadn't intended to buy.
He ate both.
That was slightly concerning.
Also excellent.
Bellwick moved around him while he stood near the bakery. A municipal vehicle rolled slowly down the road. Someone across the street argued with a delivery driver over where he'd parked. Two cyclists passed, talking loudly enough that Adrian heard half their conversation long after they'd gone by.
Normal.
Adrian liked normal.
He was beginning to suspect he'd underestimated it for most of his life. After eating, he walked without any particular destination. Partly because Nessa had said movement was good for the ankle in moderation. Mostly because he could.
His gait was already marginally better than yesterday.
Not natural.
Not yet.
But he'd discovered that looking ahead rather than at his feet helped. So did letting his arms move normally. And, as irritating as it was to admit, so did leaving the tail alone. It knew what it was doing.
Apparently one of them did.
He passed the supermarket. The grey cat still wasn't there. Adrian absolutely did not look twice. A little farther on, Bellwick opened into something that might generously have been called a square.
A few shops surrounded it. Benches. Trees. A public notice display. One of the settlement's security pylons stood farther down the road, partly hidden behind the roofs. Several people were working near a building opposite.
Maintenance, perhaps.
A flatbed truck stood beside it, along with a compact lifting rig. Long composite panels had been stacked on the truck and were being raised toward the upper floor.
Adrian slowed.
Not because anything seemed wrong. Because he could hear the machine. The low electric hum of its motor. The faint ticking from somewhere inside the arm.
The scrape of a cable moving through a guide. He hadn't noticed sounds like that before. Or perhaps he had simply never been capable of hearing them. One of the workers stood apart from the others.
Human.
Tall.
At least a head taller than Adrian was now. Broad through the shoulders and heavy in the way that came from years of lifting things because somebody paid you to rather than because you enjoyed it. His work trousers were stained. One knee had been repaired more than once. A faded jacket hung open over a grey shirt. His face looked older than the rest of him.
There was a pale scar running from beneath one ear toward his jaw, and his nose had probably been broken at least once. He was speaking to another worker.
Loudly.
Not quite arguing.
Close.
Adrian smelled the alcohol when he passed them.
He glanced over.
The man caught him looking.
Adrian looked away.
None of his business.
He kept walking.
The sound came several seconds later. Metal scraping against metal. Adrian's ears turned before his head did. Something changed in the rhythm of the lifting rig.
A higher note.
Strained.
Wrong.
Adrian stopped.
A retaining strap around the raised panels had shifted.
Not much.
A few centimeters.
Then another.
The load tilted.
One of the workers saw it.
“Hey!”
People looked up.
A man standing beneath the edge of the building didn't. He had his back to the rig and both hands occupied with a tool case.
The strap slipped.
Adrian heard it.
The worker didn't.
The panels moved.
Adrian moved first.
There was no decision. One moment he was standing beside the road. His foot struck the pavement.
Then the other.
The square blurred.
Air tore through his hair. The worker began to turn.
Too late.
Adrian reached him.
He had intended to shove him.
That was all.
Get him out of the way. His hands hit the man's side. His legs drove forward. The worker left the ground.
So did Adrian.
For one strange instant, Adrian had the distinct impression that he'd made the situation worse. Then the first panel struck the pavement behind them. The sound cracked through the square.
Adrian twisted.
The worker hit the ground first. Adrian landed beside him, one knee and one hand striking hard enough to send pain up his arm. His tail snapped sideways. His balance corrected.
Mostly.
He still rolled once and ended up on his back. Another panel crashed down.
Then another.
Silence followed.
Not actual silence.
Adrian could hear far too much for that now. But the kind of silence that happened when everyone nearby stopped speaking at once. Adrian stared at the sky.
His heart hammered.
His ankle hurt.
His palm hurt.
Something heavy was lying partly across his leg.
The worker.
Adrian turned his head. The man stared back at him. For several seconds neither spoke. Then the worker looked toward the panels.
They lay across the pavement where he'd been standing. He looked back at Adrian.
“What the hell was that?”
Adrian breathed out.
“I was hoping you knew.”
The worker pushed himself upright.
Adrian did the same.
People were already running toward them.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don't think so.”
The man checked himself. Then looked at Adrian.
“You fucking tackled me.”
“Apparently.”
“You came from over there.”
Adrian followed his gaze. The distance looked wrong. Farther than it had felt.
“I was walking.”
“I saw you.”
Another worker arrived.
“Joren?”
“I'm fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Joren looked back at Adrian.
“No idea how.”
Adrian stood.
His ankle immediately objected. He shifted his weight. His tail moved behind him, compensating. One of the workers was staring at him.
“How fast are you?”
Adrian looked at him.
“I don't know.”
That answer was beginning to become irritatingly versatile. Someone was inspecting the failed strap. Someone else had started calling what Adrian assumed was site safety or local authorities.
Voices overlapped.
Questions came from three directions.
Adrian stepped away.
The sudden attention pressed against him harder than he'd expected. He could hear too much of it.
“—never seen anyone move like—”
“—strap was checked this morning—”
“—did she jump?”
“—call the supervisor—”
“—could've killed him—”
Adrian's ears flattened. He needed a little distance.
That was all.
Just enough to think.
He backed away from the workers.
Turned.
And walked directly into someone. The impact barely moved Adrian. The other person didn't move at all. A bottle slipped from a hand.
It struck the ground, bounced once and rolled beneath a bench, spilling most of its contents across the pavement.
Adrian looked up.
The tall worker from earlier. The one with the scar. Up close, he was even larger. Somewhere around one ninety. Broad chest. Thick arms. Heavy boots.
Adrian had once been close enough to that height that it wouldn't have mattered.
Now it did.
The man looked down at the wet front of his trousers.
Then at Adrian.
“What the fuck?”
Adrian glanced at the bottle.
“Sorry.”
The smell of alcohol was stronger now. Not falling-down drunk.
Not even close.
But enough.
Enough to soften the edges of his focus and sharpen everything else.
“I didn't see you.”
“No shit.”
Adrian took a step back. The man retrieved the bottle. Very little remained inside.
He looked at it.
Then at Adrian.
“Great.”
“I said I'm sorry.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“And that fixes it?”
Adrian looked at the bottle. Then at the man's trousers.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they had been the wrong ones. The man's jaw tightened. Behind Adrian, someone called something. Neither of them paid attention.
The man stepped closer. Adrian's body shifted automatically.
One foot back.
Weight light.
Hands slightly raised.
The man noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You want something?”
“No.”
“Looks like you do.”
Adrian almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because apparently every stupid confrontation in human history had been legally required to follow the same script.
“I want you to leave me alone.”
The man shoved him.
Or tried to.
Adrian saw the movement.
Shoulder.
Elbow.
Hand.
Weight shifting forward. There was so much time.
He stepped aside.
The hand passed through empty air. The man stumbled half a step.
Adrian stared.
So did he.
That had been easy.
The man's expression hardened. He came forward again. This time the swing was unmistakable.
Wide.
Angry.
Bad.
Adrian ducked.
The fist passed above his head. He felt the air move through his hair.
His body turned.
One step carried him well outside the man's reach.
Too far, actually.
His tail corrected the movement before he could.
The man turned.
Adrian's heart beat faster.
The man swung again.
Adrian moved.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
It was almost absurd.
He could see everything. The shoulder moving first.
The change in stance.
The tension in the arm. By the time the fist arrived, Adrian was no longer there.
He should leave.
The thought came clearly. The CSA building wasn't far. The man couldn't catch him. That much was obvious now.
He should leave.
The man spat onto the pavement.
“Fucking animal.”
Adrian stopped.
It wasn't even particularly original. Maybe that was why it worked.
He turned.
The last two weeks sat somewhere beneath his ribs.
The restraints.
The laboratory.
The mirror.
Being afraid of a forest worker who had done nothing except help him. Being afraid when Bruno moved too quickly.
Being looked at.
Being asked questions he couldn't answer. Being called she by strangers who had no reason to call him anything else. Adrian Voss existing on a missing-person screen while he stood three feet away and lied about knowing him.
And now this asshole.
Fine.
The man stepped toward him.
Adrian moved first.
Fast.
Very fast.
He planted one foot, turned and drove his fist into the man's ribs. Pain shot through Adrian's knuckles.
The man grunted.
Rocked back perhaps half a step.
That was all.
Adrian stared.
The man looked down at where he'd been hit.
Then back at Adrian.
Adrian looked at his fist.
Oh.
That had been significantly less impressive than expected. The man's fist caught him across the side of the face. There was no elegant moment of realization. One instant the man was in front of him.
The next Adrian was on the ground. His shoulder struck first.
Then his hip.
His head almost followed before one arm caught him badly. Pain exploded through his cheek. For several seconds the square became noise.
Someone shouted.
Adrian blinked.
Pavement.
Still there.
Good.
His mouth tasted faintly metallic.
He'd been hit before.
Not often.
Enough to know what being punched felt like. This had felt considerably worse than he remembered. Or perhaps he simply had considerably less of himself available to absorb it now.
His cheek throbbed.
His shoulder hurt.
His ankle had resumed its complaints with renewed enthusiasm.
One punch.
One normal punch.
Okay.
That was worth remembering. The man stepped toward him. Adrian pushed himself backward. The movement was fast.
The man reached down.
Adrian moved again.
A hand caught the front of his jacket. Something inside him tightened.
Held.
No.
His right hand came up. His fingers closed around the man's forearm.
The man pulled.
Adrian pulled back.
Then the man screamed. He released Adrian immediately. Adrian stumbled backward, caught himself with one hand and stayed there for a moment, half sitting on the pavement. The man had retreated several steps.
One hand clamped around his forearm. Blood slipped between his fingers.
Not much.
Enough.
Adrian looked at him.
Then at his own hand. Five narrow claws extended from his fingertips. Three of them were red. He'd seen them before.
After the nightmare. In the torn sheet. Brief flashes of them when fear or instinct had pushed his body somewhere his conscious mind hadn't followed. Apparently they weren't merely sharp enough to ruin bedding. Adrian looked back at the man's arm. The fabric of his sleeve had opened in four clean lines.
So had the skin beneath it.
Okay.
That was worth knowing too.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Adrian looked up.
The man was staring at him with a mixture of pain and drunken outrage.
“You grabbed me.”
“You fucking cut me!”
“Yes.”
Adrian looked at the blood again. That was difficult to argue with. Someone stepped between them. A broad antlered Aniel Adrian vaguely recognized from the day before.
“Enough.”
The man tried to move around him.
“She fucking cut me!”
“I saw.”
“She—”
“I said enough.”
Another person caught the man by the shoulder and pulled him farther back. Adrian stayed where he was. Not because he was particularly shaken. Standing simply seemed unnecessarily ambitious at the moment.
His face hurt.
His shoulder hurt.
His hand hurt.
Most importantly, his pride had suffered a fairly serious injury. Fast enough to cross the square before anyone else had moved. Fast enough to dodge the man repeatedly. Then he'd punched him, accomplished almost nothing, stared at his own hand like an idiot and immediately been knocked onto the pavement.
There were probably lessons in there.
Several.
A familiar sound came from beneath one of the benches.
“Mrrrow.”
Adrian turned his head. The grey cat sat in the shadow beneath it.
Of course it did.
The cat looked at him. Then at the bleeding man.
Then back at Adrian.
Stupid.
Adrian stared.
“Fuck you.”
The cat lifted one paw and began washing it. Nobody else appeared to find this exchange unusual. That somehow made it worse. Adrian looked down at his hand.
The claws were still extended. Getting them out apparently wasn't the problem. He relaxed his fingers.
Nothing.
He tried again.
One claw slid back.
Adrian paused.
Then another.
The rest followed.
“Oh.”
Useful.
The man was still swearing several meters away while someone pressed a cloth against his forearm. The cuts looked painful. They did not look catastrophic.
Good.
Adrian wasn't particularly interested in discovering he'd accidentally severed something important during his first fistfight in a body he didn't understand.
First fistfight.
Hopefully last.
Considering how it had gone, that seemed sensible. Joren, the worker Adrian had pulled from beneath the falling panels, stood nearby now. He looked from Adrian to the bleeding man.
Then back.
“You all right?”
Adrian touched his cheek.
Pain answered.
“Apparently not very durable.”
Joren stared at him.
Adrian lowered his hand.
“I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.”
“Yes. I'm beginning to notice a theme.”
A local patrol vehicle arrived less than three minutes later. By then someone had given Adrian a chair outside the bakery. The worker sat considerably farther away with his forearm wrapped in a clean cloth. Without the immediate anger, he looked different.
Older.
Tired.
His shoulders had slumped. The hand holding the cloth shook slightly. Adrian couldn't tell whether that was adrenaline, alcohol or something that had been there long before either. The man caught him looking.
Neither of them said anything. Two officers got out of the patrol vehicle.
One human.
The other an Aniel Adrian couldn't immediately place, with short dark fur along the jaw and pointed ears. They separated the witnesses. Looked at the fallen panels.
Spoke to the workers.
Spoke to Joren.
Spoke to the man Adrian had cut. Someone checked his arm properly. Then the human officer came over to Adrian. He didn't stand directly over him.
Adrian noticed that.
“Are you injured?”
Adrian considered the question.
“Yes.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
Probably.
“No.”
The officer looked at his face.
“That wasn't particularly convincing.”
Adrian said nothing.
“We can have someone look at you.”
“I'm staying at the CSA office.”
Recognition flickered across the officer's face.
“Here in Bellwick?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
He entered something on his tablet.
“I'll still need to document the injuries.”
Adrian nodded.
The officer asked him what had happened.
Adrian told him.
Not everything.
There was no need to explain the last thirteen days of his life to describe getting punched outside a bakery. He had bumped into the man.
Apologized.
They had argued.
The man had tried to shove him. Then tried to hit him. Adrian had avoided him. Adrian had hit him back.
The man had hit Adrian. The man had grabbed him. The claws had come out. The officer wrote it down.
“You extended them deliberately?”
“No.”
The officer looked up.
“No?”
“They just…”
Adrian looked at his fingers.
“Came out.”
“Reflex?”
“I suppose.”
The officer added something.
“Have you had difficulty controlling them before?”
Adrian thought of the torn sheet.
“Yes.”
Another note.
That was probably going to look excellent on a report. The officer continued.
“Did you believe he was going to hurt you when you scratched him?”
“He was holding me.”
“That isn't quite what I asked.”
Adrian looked at him.
Then toward the man.
“Yes.”
The officer nodded.
No judgment.
Just another entry.
After a few more questions, he changed screens.
“I'm going to need your details.”
Of course.
“Name?”
Adrian looked at him.
The officer waited.
Adrian looked down at his hands.
“My name?”
“Yes.”
There was a ridiculous urge to laugh.
It didn't come.
“I don't have one.”
The officer stopped typing. Across from him, the other officer looked over.
“You don't have a name.”
“Not one I can give you.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Adrian knew he'd made it worse. The officer's expression changed.
Not hostile.
More attentive.
“Can you explain what that means?”
“No.”
That didn't help either.
“Do you have identification?”
Adrian reached into his pocket.
Grey plastic.
He handed over the CSA access card. The officer examined it.
“This isn't identification.”
“I know.”
“It's a guest access card.”
“I know.”
The officer looked at him.
Adrian looked back.
The officer exhaled quietly through his nose.
“You said you're staying with the CSA?”
“Yes.”
“Who is handling your case?”
Adrian hesitated.
He knew exactly one name.
“Bruno.”
“Bruno what?”
Adrian stared at him.
He had no idea.
The officer waited.
Adrian rubbed his uninjured hand over his face and immediately regretted touching his cheek.
“I don't know.”
The officer lowered the tablet. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then the other officer asked,
“Do you know your date of birth?”
Technically.
“No.”
“Address?”
“No.”
“Place of birth?”
“No.”
“Citizenship?”
“No.”
The officers exchanged a glance. Adrian leaned back in the chair.
“This is going extremely well.”
The human officer looked at the CSA card again.
“We'll call them.”
“Please do.”
The other officer walked toward the patrol vehicle. Adrian watched him go. His gaze drifted back toward the damaged lifting rig. Then to the distance between it and where he'd landed with Joren.
It looked even farther now. He remembered the ground disappearing beneath him. The man's fists moving almost slowly. His own punch doing very little.
Then one hit putting him on the ground. Adrian flexed his fingers.
No claws.
Good.
He had learned several things today.
He was fast.
Very fast.
Possibly absurdly fast. He could jump farther than anyone had a reasonable need to jump. He was not particularly strong. He did not take a punch well.
And apparently, if frightened badly enough, his claws could open a man's arm through a work jacket. Adrian rested his head carefully against the wall behind the chair. Yesterday, he'd been worried about walking correctly. That suddenly seemed like a much simpler problem.
The officer returned from the patrol vehicle.
“They know who you are.”
Adrian looked up sharply. For one stupid second, his heart stopped. The officer continued.
“Or rather, they know who we're talking about.”
Right.
Of course.
Adrian breathed again.
“They're sending someone over.”
“Who?”
The officer checked the screen.
“Bruno.”
Adrian closed his eyes.