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To the Last Syllable (Mr. M & Bathos)

His face remained impassive as he stared at her. But she could sense more than his face. There was a flash of anger, at her accusations of pity and especially when she said where she belonged, but more than that, there was more of the inward-directed stabbing sensation. It didn't take a genius to put together the idea that he was hurt by her sudden rejection. His words, however, were venomous when he finally spoke.

"Fine. Be careful when you investigate the back rooms; the pantry is storage, but one of the bedrooms is hydroponics, and some of the bean plants are in bloom. The other is partially contaminated by the toxic baseblock feed spill that made this block nominally uninhabitable, and if you go in there you're likely to get aggressive viral cancer and die before I get back." He grinned at her without mirth. "Choose your doors wisely."

As he strode angrily toward the front door, he commented over his shoulder, "And there's no fixing. There's nothing wrong with you; you're just more than you thought you were. If you want to be less, I can't make you change your mind, but I won't help you, either." With that, he was out.

Almost as soon as he was out in the damp and chilly night (the condensation got heavier as the air temperature dropped, and the dew point with it), he hit the walls, scrambling up the side of the building, fast as a squirrel. He was on the balcony catwalk and down the block to his lair before he could make his lips relax and stop baring his teeth. He went to his place and considered meditation, but rejected the idea; it was time for activity, not stillness. So he rooted around until he found his old hand-comp, then took it and his electronics tools and some large-scale cargo packs and left, climbing farther up this time. He felt like a big supply run, felt that working off some of this emotion usefully would make him feel better. Plus, he had to make some connections with old friends. He might as well kill two birds with one outing.
 
It wasn't until T.B. was gone that Lyla allowed herself to relax. Her delicate shoulders slumped and her angry expression crumpled into something like sorrow. She went to the chair he'd left in the corner for her, dropped down into it, and sighed.

"Damn it." It really was comfortable. Annoyingly so.

She didn't know why she'd taken such sudden and ferocious offense to the fact that T.B. hadn't invited her into his home. They hardly knew one another, after all. It wasn't like they were old friends and he'd been keeping this massive secret from her for years and years. On the contrary, he hadn't even been keeping a secret. He'd just failed to mention it and Lyla, always wrapped up in her own drama, had failed to notice. That wasn't T.B.'s fault.

But she knew he didn't really want her in his home, sensed it in the base of her skull, in exactly the same place she'd sensed his anger and hurt just before he'd stormed out, spewing threats about toxins and cancer.

Okay. She could admit it, if to herself only, at least for a moment. He hurt her feelings. Not intentionally, and perhaps not even logically, but her feelings had been hurt. She thought of him as her rescuer, her savior against all odds, and as her mentor. She thought he'd taken her in, that he had invested something in her, when really he'd only helped her so far as it was convenient for him.

She couldn't blame him for that, not in a world like the one that waited just outside the boarded windows. Not when he'd been through so much, himself. She didn't blame him at all. It'd simply come as a shock and Lyla? Well, Lyla didn't handle shock so gracefully. That much had become apparent.

She sat a long time in that chair, worrying with her mind at the dim connection she had to T.B., until he traveled far enough away that she couldn't sense him anymore. It was then that she finally felt alone.

---------

In her privacy, Lyla moved the mattress with her mind. It took a long time, a lot of sweat and teeth gritting and a fair amount of cursing, but she moved it. No more than an inch, but it moved, plain as day. It took her two hours, sitting in that chair, thinking about the harsh words she'd exchanged with T.B., until she felt that familiar stirring in her temples.

Manipulating that phantom limb took time and experimentation. It was fickle, strong and solid at times, and then faint and insubstantial at others. But once she familiarized herself with the feeling, she found that it was always there, not only when she was feeling upset, but even when she wasn't feeling anything at all.

After she moved the mattress a little, she tried pulling it back toward her. That took quite a lot more skill, pulling something in, and it wasn't until she'd used swear words from three different languages and some that weren't languages at all that the mattress came flying at her, and she actually had to jump out of the way before it crashed into the chair.

After that, Lyla decided she wasn't up to any more experimenting, and she tugged the mattress back to its original spot--by hand--and decided to put her progress from her mind for the time being.
 
Avondale.

T.B.! This is a surprise!

I know, I'm sorry. Turns out I hadn't even switched this thing on in about three years, much less connected to IMs.

You're lucky I still use this ID.

No kidding; I've been trying to find old friends for almost an hour now. The only old buddy I've kept up with is Frederick.

Oh, wow. He's still going? Tell him hi for me.

He's moving slower, but he's still digging. But I chanced upon someone new. Found a new girl, with very good ears. But she hasn't got any earplugs that work.

Oh! I'm no good with ears.

Yeah, I know, but I thought you might have kept up with some of the old gang, could maybe hook me up with someone who knows what's what about sensitive hearing like that.

I can call Tav.

Tav won't see me.

Yeah, but she's more hooked into the network. She'll be able to find someone. Contact me in a couple of days.

Will do. And Avondale: thanks.

You're an old friend, but I'm not doing this for you. It's for whatever girl has to put up with your disagreeable taste in music.

Philistine! I'll talk to you in a couple of days.

~~~~~

When stealing, it was best to hit a major chain store, but one on the lower levels. This presented a bit of a balance issue, as too cheap and they wouldn't have anything worth stealing, and too expensive and their security systems would be too involved for him to easily counter. As it happened, the loading door was too hot for him to get into, but he was able to crack the ventilation system, and the ducts were just big enough for him to worm through if he dragged his gear behind him. Some anti-vermin measures gave him a slight problem, but the little laser emitters were easy to crush, and before long he was easing himself to the floor in the Jiffy-Mart Megastore's stock room.

His hand computer had a barcode reader, so he was able to scan things quickly. Mostly they had big crates with smaller display packages inside; when he found something he needed, he opened the crate and got out a package. Toothbrushes and toothpaste went into his pack, along with an air treatment unit, new mask filters, a variety of snack foods, and rechargeable batteries. He loaded up a few first aid kits, and some blankets and back cushions -- anything to create a softer padding. Several boxes worth of purification drops, to guard against tainted water. And then he found himself in seasonal storage, and he couldn't help himself.

It was when he was leaving, burdened by a huge pack and looking like little so much as the Grinch on his way out of Whoville, that he ran into trouble. But that was to be expected. He had to trigger the alarm as he left the rear door, barely fitting out into the "alley" accessway, making it to the radial hallway, but then security guards ran out between him and the balcony edge, and he had to lower his head and just barrel through them by virtue of sheer inertia and momentum. Of course, this meant he had very little control as he stumbled and pitched toward the railing. He would have had less if the taser shots had actually hit him, so perhaps the giant backpack was an asset. Although he wasn't really thinking so as he caught the edge with his shins and went flipping out into empty space.

There was little traffic out this time of morning, which some might consider good, but he considered inconvenient. The broad mass of the pack helped with the air resistance, but the weight increased his terminal velocity, so he worried. Finally, though, several agonizing seconds into his fall, he spied an oncoming cab. He angled himself like a skydiver, and managed to slam into the hood without breaking anything. Well, anything of his, at least. The scruffy, disagreeable-looking driver with the bandaged cheek looked like he was about to have a heart attack when his windshield cracked, and his entire forward view was blocked by a Phoba with a gigantic backpack who had just head-butted his cab. He slammed on the retros, braking, and T.B.'s grip bent up the hood a little bit as he kept himself from being flung foward. He tossed the driver a jaunty salute, drew his feet up underneath him, and leapt to the side, catching the edge of a catwalk on the same building he'd just left, just many levels lower.

Once he was in contact with a solid building again, he swiftly made his way toward home, several blocks away. It had been a successful trip, he thought, and he grudgingly had to admit to himself that he was looking forward to seeing what Lyla thought of his surprise. He'd had time to think, and he recognized that she was still coping with a lot, still coming to grips with her new life. And here he was, some furry freak, coming off as some lecherous chicken-hawk. "Oh, I'll be happy to take you back to my room, heh-heh, heh-heh..." Given what he looked like, he couldn't blame her for her reactions. It's not like he wasn't used to rejection, anyway. And he could be her father several times over, so why was he even thinking about that sort of thing now? Because he was an idiot, that was the reason. He should probably just let her sleep, surely she was probably turned in by now, but he was going to go by the other storage place, and pick up a chair, he might as well go over and listen to see if she was still moving around in there...
 
Lyla was, in fact, still moving around in her new living quarters. No more than half an hour had passed since she'd set everything to rights--including dragging the mattress back to where it belonged--and now she was busying herself with the task of getting comfortable. Despite her harsh words to T.B., she figured her stay on the surface was not going to be a short one.

She hauled her duffel in from the bathroom where she'd left it that morning and started digging out all the belongings she'd stuffed in there. She sorted everything into piles. There was a pile for toiletries, and one for data files (which she doubted she'd be using for a long, long time), a pile for shirts, one for pants, and a stack of undergarments. She also had a small collection of lounge wear, consisting mostly of tiny shorts and camisoles and the like; things that were comfortable enough for sleep.

Nearly three hours passed, and it didn't look like T.B. was going to burst in demanding an apology--it looked like he was going to take her advice and leave her alone until he had a workable plan--so Lyla went ahead and prepared for sleep, changing out of the clothes she'd been wearing, in her opinion, for far too long, and into soft shorts and a sleeveless shell. She also decided, after a short internal debate, to go barefoot.

Lyla was a slim girl, although somewhat curvaceous where appropriate, and pale all over. Red hair was growing increasingly rare in the megacity, as was such a creamy complexion. Lyla didn't know anyone paler than herself; most of her acquaintances, given the opportunity, would turn instantly brown under the light of the sun, whereas Lyla would burn to a crisp and sprout freckles.

At a loss for what to do, and not exactly tired enough to shut her eyes and go right to sleep, Lyla grudgingly perused the stacks of books pushed up against the wall, searching for a title to jump out and grab her.
 
Her senses would be able to detect his approach, in a general way. His growing closer, then moving away, then coming closer, and hesitating, and finally coming up to the door. And there he dithered some more, his mind constantly deciding to go, then deciding to stay, conflicted, filled alternately with doubt and hope.

Outside, he stood by the front door, a chair and a table lamp in hand, his huge pack still on his back, and debated with himself whether or not he should knock. He could hear the occasional movement, his sensitive ears just barely able to hear the slide of something, something other than sleepy breathing.

He hesitated, and then finally he felt the bite of the shoulder straps on his body, and he just thought fuck, I have to deliver this. So he knocked, deliberately and loudly, and waited, listening.
 
Lyla sensed it when T.B. grew closer. First, there was just a tickle in her head, barely even noticeable, and she disregarded it as something fleeting. Steadily, it grew stronger, and she straightened up from where she was bent browsing the book titles. She stood frozen for a long time, as T.B.'s presence took hold, grew strong, and stayed that way ... for a time.

Then he would move away again, and toward her, and away, and for a long time, she had this hilarious image in her mind of him chasing hovercars in the street. She realized as soon as she had the thought that it was horrible, and she was probably going to be hit with some truly terrible karma for thinking it was funny, but she couldn't help herself.

When T.B. actually found it within him to knock, Lyla was surprised. He'd been close for so long without a peep she didn't think he actually had any intention of stopping by. She burst into a flurry of motion.

She scurried over to the mattress, where she'd laid out all her belongings and hastily shoved her undergarments back into her duffel. One black lacy thing did remain hanging out the top, but she didn't have time to mind it, because then she was rushing the books she'd selected--a few volumes she'd never heard of before, but liked the looks of--back to their stacks across the room. She'd been stacking possibilities next to the mattress with the intention of reading before bed.

When all was, for the most part, set to rights, she stopped, took a deep breath and let her heart slow down to a normal rate, smoothed out her hair, and went calmly to the door.

She opened it, looked T.B. up and down one time, taking in his impressive load, and moved out of the way.

"Uh, come in?" It felt odd, inviting him into his own space, but then he'd been the one who knocked in the first place.
 
He squeezed into the entry hall, without saying a word, somewhat embarrassed about how they'd left. He left her to lock up the door behind them, and moved into her living area. He put the new chair down next to the coffee table; it was comfortable, but hardly on the same scale as the overstuffed chair. The lamp he simply placed on the table. And then he began the involved process of taking off the pack.

"I, ah, I went... shopping," he said, awkwardly. "There are a few things you could use, here, I hope." He opened up the pack and began to remove items, sorting through what he'd taken.

"I was running low on tooth care, but now we both have spare supplies. And yeah, when you drink the water here, you're going to want to use the puri-drops, like you'd expect. There's the whole range of flavors here, from nothing to pina colada. Um... I picked up this air treater. Humidifier/dehumidifier; it fills or drains this reservoir right here... Set it how you like. Now, I've not got much need for first aid, for the most part, but you don't have my healing speed and immunity to infection, so... I got these for you. And I thought... I thought you could use some more padding and the like for your bed, so I got... well, I got all of these." He pulled all the blankets and foam pads out of the pack, their lightweight bulk comprising possibly a full half of the pack's size.

He pulled out a good portion of the prepackaged snacks, quick and easy (if unhealthy) food, at a touch of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. Batteries for the camp lantern were as ubiquitous as the snacks, and needed about as much explanation.

And then he had the last few boxes, and he paled underneath his concealing fur. "I... I didn't know what would help make this feel like home. But... they had these seasonal Spring Decorations, a bunch of different colored plastic flower bouquets. I thought you might be able to touch the place up when you want to," and here he pulled out two boxes of assorted fake-floral color bouquets.

"And I know it can sometimes be hard to light a place. So I pulled a few things from their winter collection. I think there are holiday lights, but I don't know if they're late autumn, like ghosts and witches, or dead of winter, like Santa and candy canes and menorahs. I know one of these boxes just holds an assortment of simple colored lights, so you can probably choose which of those colors you would prefer." He put the box of assorted colors and styles of Christmas lights down, and then rummaged through the pack some more.

"No, I think that does it." He stopped, and without something to do, he felt vulnerable and self-conscious.
 
Lyla listened to T.B.'s verbal inventory of the items he'd brought, and the many ways in which they would be beneficial to Lyla during her stay. In other words, he rambled nervously and she remained still and politely silent until he was finished.

When he finally fell quiet, she stood next to him, saying nothing and staring at all the things he'd brought for her. She felt odd, like her heart was possibly trying to work its way up into her throat, and she might have even cried, if she were inclined toward that kind of emotional display.

Nobody had ever brought Lyla flowers before, not even fake ones. She realized this wasn't exactly the spirit in which they were traditionally given, but at that particular moment she didn't really care.

And the lights. She hadn't even mentioned how she loved light, how the shadows had a way of turning ominous when she was alone for long stretches of time. And pillows and blankets? She was thankful to be sleeping at all, thankful to T.B., and now he was--

She sniffed. One time, and it wasn't like there were tears in her eyes or anything so pathetic, but the sound was loud in her own ears, and woke her from her stupor. She looked over at T.B., blue eyes huge and happy and sad and wondering all at the same time. Lyla blinked once, slowly, and then threw her arms around T.B.'s neck. She scarcely had to go on tiptoe to hook her chin over his shoulder and pull him close for a fierce hug.

"I'm sorry," she said into the empty space beyond T.B.'s back. And it was almost easy to get the words out, in the face of all that kindness and acceptance, with her eyes screwed tightly shut and already picturing festive lights and flowers brightening up her new home.

In a much softer voice, Lyla added, "You're not an ass."
 
He was surprised, was the understated way of saying it. All he'd really hoped to do was to make her feel more comfortable, make her feel less alienated, let her relax. He hadn't expected a hug, much less an apology. But he found his arms circling her as easily as if he'd been doing it forever, so innately human was the action. Her words made him smile against her neck.

"Oh, but I am an ass. I have that on great authority. I'm just... not without redeeming features." He squeezed her tightly once more, then took hold of her forearms and pushed her out so he could look at her face.

"Lyla, I'm stubborn, opinionated, sarcastic, and I have trouble admitting gracefully when I've made a mistake. All these are qualities we share, and that's one reason I like you." He nodded, as if all that as self-evident. "Your life has changed for reasons entirely beyond your control. I know how that is; I want to help you, because no one ought to face that alone." He tilted his head toward her, his tone turning conspiratorial. "Between you and me, I think our similarities are going to make it more difficult when I have to mold you into a mean, deadly, street-fighting goddess of destruction." He winked. "I'm actually only half-kidding about that. But that's something we can start with tomorrow."

"I don't have any ulterior motives, Lyla. I honestly just want you to survive and thrive. In part because of your mutation, because you're family like that, but... you're also turning out to be a very interesting person. And I want to get to know you." He dropped his hands, uncomfortable again with being so honest. It was the heartfelt hug that had done it; made him vulnerable, made him speak before he really thought about it. But he tried to cover for it with a shrug and a smile and a joke.

"Guess I'm getting soft in my old age; I don't usually talk so much about my feelings. Hell, I barely talk at all, for months at a time. I'm afraid I'm fresh out of herbal tea and tissues, so we'll have to put off the group hug and crying jag until later."
 
When T.B. unwound Lyla's arms from his neck and drew her away from him, her eyes opened and she looked squarely at him, head tilting just so as he rambled on about seemingly nothing. By the time he called her an 'interesting person,' which struck her as about the lamest, most dispassionate compliment ever handed over in the history of compliments, she'd looked away again, choosing instead to focus randomly on his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, I'm not really a hugger," she said stiffly, like perhaps she was just as embarrassed and vulnerable as T.B. "Personal space and all that," she went on to explain, going so far as to take a demonstrative step backward. "So, uh, let's just assume this isn't going to be happening again. Like ever."

She managed to stand there a moment longer, awkward but outwardly calm, before her excitement got the better of her and she made a mad grab for the foam pads. If she were a less self-conscious sort of girl, she may have even squealed with delight. As it stood, she gathered as much of the bedding as she could fit in her arms and went shuffling over to the mattress, her bare feet clapping softly against the floor.

She kicked everything off of her mattress--and she was, after her relatively short period of solitude, coming to think of it as hers--and set to the task of arranging everything in just the way she wanted.

As she worked, she asked with idle curiosity, "So what do you do, exactly? For money, I mean."
 
He watched her set about to setting up her sleeping place with a grin. Yeah, it was a little stiff and awkward, between them, but then again, they just barely knew each other. But he felt... good. It felt good saying those things to her. Even if she didn't seem to register them. Hell, it just felt good talking to someone again. He wasn't kidding when he said that months could go by without him barely saying anything, except to... Oh, she was asking about that.

"Well, I don't actually need a whole lot of money. I squat in places nobody wants, at least until the building decides to renovate. We got maybe... what, fifty years? Depending. I tap the utilities I need, I grow a fair amount of my own food, and I dig up or salvage most of the gear I need, and steal most of what else I require. Basically, I just supplement my diet with store-bought meats and perishables, and that only occasionally."

"But how do I make money? Usually I save effort, and make money on the same trips out that I spend it. Mostly I go wandering around in rough areas of town and wait for people to try and mug me. Then I take their money, after I teach them about manners and underestimating strangers. It's simple as that."

He felt a little uncomfortable just laying it out like that, for some reason. But she knew what he was capable of, when he had motive; she'd witnessed it. And it wasn't an easy world, not on any level; it's just the brutality and ruthlessness were more open and straightforward when it came to the street level, not cloaked behind masks of business necessity and other euphemisms.
 
Lyla paused in the middle of spreading one of the foam mats flat against the bed, hands splayed wide and still against the bed. She didn't turn around to look at T.B., but instead favored the bed with her wide-eyed look of surprise.

She absolutely was not going to make another scene, at least not so soon after the last. She'd had time, earlier, to think over T.B.'s living conditions, about why he disguised himself as a Phoba before he left the privacy of this place, about all the side-effects, both direct and indirect, of being an extreme social outcast. She'd come to the conclusion then that she held to now: T.B. was something of a marvel having survived at all, never mind the microscopic odds that he would thrive and retain his natural inclination toward kindness and compassion.

A moment later, she picked up exactly where she'd left off, smoothing down the pads and moving on to the blankets T.B. had brought. The only remark she had to offer on the subject was a prim little "I see."

She hated the idea that all these comforts T.B. offered were stolen from someone else, even if those people were thieves, themselves. She also didn't see how she had much choice, as long as she was relying on T.B. to provide for her, and so she made a silent oath to herself that she would change her ways as soon as she was strong enough to be on her own. That would have to be enough for now. Speaking of which,

"You said you would teach me when I was ready to learn," she said, and only then did she pause and finally turn to look at T.B. "When can we start?"
 
The next couple of weeks passed quickly enough: the whirlwind of activity T.B. brought into the little apartment made sure she was always doing something, and that made the time pass quickly. Looking back on it, little representative fragments stood out, and in all honesty, they would have gone over well in a film, all cut together and set to music.

*T.B. spent time teaching her how to throw a punch, correcting the way she held her fist, the way she swung her arm, demonstrating how the power had to come from the shoulder, before having her swing at his palms, over and over.

*He found some ping-pong balls from someplace, some of them half-crumpled, but it didn't matter as he laid them out and had her focus on smacking them around. It couldn't have been sheer chance, the number of them that ricocheted off T.B.'s head.

*The one safe back bedroom was brighter than a hospital, with all the gro-lights and tubs of dirt and green growing things. Lyla watered them with a battered plastic watering can while T.B. carted in gear and plants from the bathroom, making the tub usable as a tub again. Dropping off his load, he came over and pointed out the beans on the stalks Lyla was tending to, explaining how they were still developing, what to look for as they matured, and so forth, while Lyla tried diligently to stay interested.

*Lyla launched a series of punches and kicks at T.B., backing him from her living room into the kitchen storage area, now gently illuminated with strings of festive lights. He backed up, blocking easily with his hands and occasionally raising a leg to counter with a shin. When he backed up to the bathroom door, he nodded, and grinned, and began to punch back. He struck slowly, for him, almost playfully reaching out to tap at her, but she blocked and backed up, forced by his attacks to give ground, fall back.

*T.B. had found a ping-pong paddle, and was bouncing balls off the ground at Lyla, who sat in her chair, batting the little balls away, her brow furrowed in concentration. They would careen off in random directions, at random speeds, some just stopping and dropping, until he let the last one in his hand fly, and she didn't bat it away, she held it in front of her, spinning it gently. He grinned and slapped the paddle against his palm in triumph. She gazed at the ball, and then her eyes flicked to T.B., and almost immediately, so did the ball. Still smiling, he knocked it out of the air, but his grin dropped away when the next one pegged him right between the eyes.

*T.B. wrestled with a pipe, linking the bath fixtures to a larger pipe that now thrust out of the hole in the bathroom wall. He was smudged and dirty, as was Lyla. He muttered something, and Lyla reached over, nodding, and turned a valve. Immediately, the showerhead started spraying water, and T.B. yowled and rocketed out of the bathroom before a horrified Lyla could shut it off. Her shock and sorrow didn't last long, however, as she couldn't suppress a giggle.

*They dug up carrots and potatoes together, T.B. explaining all the while, and Lyla just kind of staring at possibly the first wholly organic, freshly-unearthed food she may have knowingly seen in her life. It made an excellent stew, however, with some cubes of vat-grown beef, and they ate together at the coffee table, beneath the multicolored lights strung across the ceiling.

*They sparred some more, trading blows more equally now, and after he blocked a particularly vicious Muay Thai-style elbow strike from Lyla, T.B. called the session to a halt, shaking the sting out of his hand. Lyla looked elated to have scored such a hit, and had every right to be.

*He tossed the ping-pong balls into the air, and grinned as they spun there, swirling around in a large midair vortex. It wasn't a particularly precise use of her power, but it was a fairly large-scale example, and it couldn't have been easy to latch onto and stir in all those balls. He was pleased, and his grin didn't even dim when he had to hold up a huge old coffee-table-style book to fend off the ping-pong ball rain on his head a few moments later; he was just too proud of her.
 
Lyla laughed so hard that moisture sprung to her eyes, not just because the hilarious image of T.B. scrambling beneath a book for cover--though that alone likely would have done it--but because she'd finally done it. She'd caught all the ping pong balls, and then controlled them individually while they were suspended in the air. She was getting really good at manipulating small objects, and though just a couple short weeks ago her only concern was getting rid of any trace of her abilities, she found she actually took pride in her increasing skill.

She could tell T.B. did, too, and though she wasn't likely to say so out loud, she found it encouraging.

When her laughter finally died down, Lyla put out her hand; she found pointing to objects helped her focus though, at T.B.'s insistence, she worked tirelessly to wean herself off her dependency upon physical gestures. One by one, she recalled the balls until they were floating in a cluster before her. With her hand tracing the path through the air, she guided them into the bowl sitting atop the coffee table, until they were all safely contained.

It was a shaky process, during which a couple balls bounced to the floor, and it took a long moment, but she did it, and smiled again when the task was done.

Lyla heaved a big, satisfied sigh. "I think I'm ready to go outside," she said, thoughtfully, like she'd been mulling the idea over for days. "Alone."
 
T.B. was solemn-faced, but his strange yellow cat-eyes were alert and glittery, a physical signal of what she could so easily see in the buzz of his mind: guarded excitement.

"Are you certain? I mean, I know you can hold your own in a fight, and I know you can bluff it or tough it through most situations at this point but... you haven't told me if you've felt other minds pass within your range, and how you reacted to them yet. Do you think you can handle the discomfort if you encounter people? That young telepath guy isn't coming until tomorrow."

He was grudgingly hopeful about the new person; he wanted Lyla to learn how to cope with all of her powers, and the telepathy was the one he couldn't really help with. He was careful not to get his hopes up too entirely high, but he really wanted her to learn the tools she needed as soon as she could. He wanted her to be able to stand alone... but he was also apprehensive about it. It had been an intensive two weeks, and he'd filled it with as much training as he possibly could, but even under those conditions, he was getting attached. One of his old songs said it well enough; he'd grown accustomed to her face.
 
"I'm sure," Lyla said, following a short silence. She hadn't experienced any new minds recently, but it'd been two weeks and though she still remembered the pain that overwhelmed her mind before T.B. found her, the memory was dulled around the edges, and she found that her fears faded the longer she dwelt in safety and comfort.

In short, her natural lack of good sense was returning.

"Anyway, you said I should be safe now, anyway, right?" She flashed T.B. a sly grin. "Word on the street now is I belong to you."

She'd said it to be funny, as an innocuously gamy little quip, but the moment the words were out of Lyla's mouth, she kind of wished she hadn't said them. The joke wasn't even particularly bawdy, but there was a sourceless feeling of self-consciousness rendering her temporarily awkward, regardless. She felt as if she had crossed a line that she never even knew existed.

"Uh, anyway, just a short trip, nothing ambitious. Like maybe to the nearest store and back. And if you feel strongly about it, you can secretly follow me from a distance and I'll pretend I can't sense you. Deal?"
 
He blinked and tried not to show his dismay at her prediction of his plans to safeguard her from a distance. Not that it was going to change his plans; he trusted her abilities, but he liked to be sure, if he could manage it.

"Well... I'm not fool enough to think you belong to anyone but yourself. But hopefully word has spread that you're under my protection. These fools have an incredibly high turnover rate and consequently short memories, but fear should help. And if not... well, a few well-placed knees and elbows ought to do the trick. Just watch out for knives, keep your peripheral vision up, if there's more than one, they will likely try to flank you..." He stopped before he warmed up into a full-on strategy recommendation monologue. "... neither a borrower nor a lender be, and to thine own self be true!" he finished with a quirky grin, paraphrasing Shakespeare for a self-deprecating close.

"Sorry. Little too much of the fight coach in me, there. Well... um... if you wanted, there's a convenience store up the street by the Stairs. I'm sure you remember." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small handful of the "nickels and dimes" of the credit-based economy, which is all he really had to work with. "Here, this will help you get whatever you want. Get something to celebrate with!" He pressed them into her hand, not taking no for an answer.

"So, um... when were you going to go?"
 
Lyla looked down at the chips in her hand, momentarily overcome with a gratitude she found she could not express. She blinked a few times, and then shook away the discomfort of such strong emotion. When she looked again at T.B., she was smiling, her delicate hand closing firmly around the credits and slipping them into her pocket.

He did love his lectures. Not long ago, that annoyed her about him. But as the days had raced by, she found she liked the predictability of it, and the sound of his voice, and the minor little nuances of emotion she could sense from him as his mind worked.

"Soon, I think. Before I lose my nerve. Why? Do you have plans or something?"
 
"No, nothing planned." He took a deep breath. "I think you should do it. I think your little practice with me will have helped you, but there's only one good way to tell. And then you'll have something to work with tomorrow when the guy comes."

He kind of fidgeted, standing there. He still had vague, unfocused misgivings, but he knew this was an important step for her. And he wanted her to take it. He just felt weird about it. He wondered if mother pigeons felt the same way when their fledglings went to take their first flappy explorations out of the nest.

"In fact," he said. "I think you ought to go right now. Before something convinces you otherwise. Pop down to the store, pick up something gloriously unhealthy for you, to counteract all these vegetables we've been eating, and come back here to celebrate. I'll even go dig out some fresh music we can listen to; I think you'll like it."

He gestured her toward the door, smiling. "I know you can do it." And I'll be on call as backup, just in case, he thought to himself.
 
Lyla's hesitation was brief, an expression of mild uncertainty flashing fleetingly across her face before it was replaced with an excited grin. Her smiles came more frequently of late, these broad infectious things that seemed to occur independently of her own will, and were always aimed at T.B. They tended to disappear just as quickly, behind a fit of blinking and head ducking and general fidgeting.

This was no exception, and so Lyla took the offered escape, mumbling about how she'd be back soon before she rushed out the door without so much as a wave. She knew T.B. would be there the whole time, anyway. Or at least she suspected he would.

All right, so she kind of hoped he would.

When she was standing outside, she paused long enough to take a deep, centering breath, palms pressed flat against the outer door through which she'd just come, head tipped back so she could look up the great canyon of the buildings, to the barrier of air pollution that blotted out the sun and the majority of the hover cars above.

You can do this, she silently encouraged herself, and her pulse fluttered in response because, no, she wasn't actually sure she could, but she was determined to give it a try before her new tutor arrived.

A few moments later, she finally had her feet moving, and despite all her trepidation, her pace was quick and her steps sure. That was, of course, until she made it to the edge of the block and she felt the first brush of something foreign against her mind, right in the back of her skull, where there was usually only T.B. He was still there, of course, distant but strong, and just having him close was a comfort and, it turned out, a tactical advantage. His presence steadied her, acted as a point of reference so she didn't become lost or confused in the tangle of impressions that were not her own.

She continued down the street, a little slower now, lower lip caught between her teeth in an expression of extreme concentration. She sensed boredom, more than anything else, and a little bit of loneliness, though she couldn't pinpoint its origin, and so concluded that she was reading someone inside the building rising above her.

That she was able to reason even this much, in her book, counted as a win.

The closer she drew to the public staircase, the more crowded Lyla's mind became, mostly with vague impressions of emotions, but sometimes there were clear thoughts, too, some confusing without any context, some mundane and non-threatening, and some downright scary.

She closed the final half-block to the store in a dead run, though she couldn't be certain why. She just felt, inexplicably, that she should, and so she did. During their many lessons together, T.B. had urged Lyla to get to know her own instincts, to trust them and follow them cautiously, and though these lectures typically left Lyla examining the ways in which her mentor was similar to a wild animal and trying, in equal parts, not to laugh or blush, she did actually hear what he was saying.

The shop wasn't much. At least not compared to what Lyla had experienced in the mid to upper levels, but it had food and a few useless baubles. She paced through the narrow aisles of the store, let her pulse and her breathing even out before she really started to look in earnest, and once she did, she found the perfect item after about fifteen minutes of browsing. She might have gone faster, if not for the shop keeper's suspicious eyes following her everywhere, the cold, borderline violent edge of his thoughts slicing through her mind.

She paid the man and he bagged her purchase for her. She clutched the bag tightly as she stepped outdoors once more, again hit with that niggling notion that she should make a run for it. However, there was no one in sight, so she settled on a hasty stride on her way back to her apartment.

A few minutes later, she found herself regretting this decision when history started to repeat itself. There were only two of them this time, prowling out of an access corridor; men in ratty clothes with bizarre hair and these slimy grins that spelled bad news. Lyla's head buzzed painfully, and she took a few steps backward as they came toward her.

"Whatcha got there?" one of them asked, a scrawny guy with hair that might have been blonde if it weren't so dirty.

"Nothing," Lyla said, because there was no way in Hell she was letting him get his hands on it. So for all intents and purposes, to him, it was nothing.

"Don't look like nothin'," said the other one, who wasn't so scrawny and secretly scared the breath right out of Lyla's chest. "Looks like a bottle." As he spoke, he advanced on her, and when he thought he was close enough, he said with a smile, "Give it here," and snatched at the bag.

Lyla, in a moment of miraculous competence that she very much doubted would ever repeat itself, pivoted to the right, rolling her shoulder as she did so that the big guy sailed past her. She pivoted forward again just in time to stick her foot out, tangle it with his legs, and send him careening to the ground. He landed with an 'umph' and a very colorful swear word.

She was just about to take her victory lap when she remembered the scrawny fellow--belatedly, as he was wrapping his arms around her at the bicep level. "Gotcha," he said, and lifted her clear off the ground, which wasn't actually any kind of feat considering her diminutive size.

For his troubles, Lyla caught him soundly in the knee with her heel.

"Bitch!" he hollered, and let her go to stumble back, clutching at his injured knee. Lyla turned and thumped him over the head with her bag, which she'd grasped in a white-knuckled grip throughout the entire tussle.

She turned then, prepared to deal with the big guy again, who should have recovered from his trip and been in quite the fury, but he was still face down on the ground, motionless. He was out cold. Lyla considered her next move carefully, weighing her options between hyperventilating and turning to deal with Scrawny. After some debate, she turned around, and only just caught sight of his form limping around a corner.

She made an awkward noise in the back of her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated disbelief, and headed on down the street.
 
He warmed inside at the brief flash of her smile, and grinned after her as she nearly scampered past him. He sighed as he ambled over to the coat rack, shrugged into his coat and got his mask and hat. She was going to be fine, he told himself. He'd trained her well, she could face off against any single thug they had down here, he hoped even under the distraction of their telepathic background noise.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to keep an eye on her.

When it sounded like she'd gone down the street, he undid the various locks and slipped silently out behind her. Instead of following, he went up, straight up to the overhead catwalk. There he paced her, keeping her in sight, a small figure about a hundred meters or so away; far enough to where she was largely on her own, close enough he could reach her before it got too bad, if she was even half-cautious.

When she crossed onto the next block, finally, on the way to the convenience store, he paused and let her pull ahead. Part of this was because the intersection catwalks were all out or decrepit enough he didn't want to risk it, but the larger part was because it was a significantly safer area. Which, admittedly, wasn't saying much, down here on the surface, but in terms of degree, she was a lot better off just having crossed the street, so he felt better about letting her do her solo thing the rest of the way to the store.

It was on her way back that she ran into danger.

He'd already started to fade back, wanting to give her at least as much clearance as before, and yet be relaxing in the place as if he'd never left by the time she got in. But seeing the two low-lifes approach her brought him back, drawing him closer. When they actually came within talking distance of her, he found himself up on the rusty handrail, ready to launch himself, a murderous snarl already forming on his lips. But through a supreme act of will, he paused, and let it play out a little bit more. This was what she'd been training for, this was why he'd bothered to try and teach her in the first place; he needed to let her do what she could do, and he'd step in only if he had to. His hackles were still up, his every muscle tensed and vibrating with the need for explosive action, but he restrained himself with not a small amount of difficulty.

He watched her duck past the first guy, a perfect, textbook evasion maneuver, and found himself grinning as the first one went down. But the second one was moving in, and her back was still turned... "Come on, Lyla!" he found himself muttering, and his feet left the railing when the guy actually grabbed her. However, by the time they touched the street, she'd already smashed his knee and sent him off with a smack of her shopping bag. He couldn't recall ever having felt so happy to be unnecessary in his life.

Coming down to street level wasn't useless, however. He could catch the scent of her, her healthy fear and adrenaline, but mixed with it was the scent of foreign sweat, drugs, alcohol... he memorized the mix. He didn't have total recollection of every thug he'd ever dealt with, but these two, if he ran across them again, he'd recognize them. And he had every intention of running across them again. He'd spread the word that she was under his protection, and those that trifled with her would have to deal with him; that should have been enough. But two weeks was a long time in the life of a youth gang and its members, so perhaps they needed a reminder that his warnings did not have a time limit. Nothing fatal, of course; he didn't plan to kill, ever, but wasn't sorry if it became necessary. Still, they needed the lesson driven home, because it clearly had not sunk in as yet.

He thought all this as he raced ahead, getting his "lead" back and sticking to the shadows where, at this distance, she wouldn't be able to see him. He made sure she was completely alone the last few dozen meters back to the apartment, then raced about, throwing his outerwear on the coat rack, finding a book he knew well and relaxing in the guest chair nonchalantly as he heard her starting to unlock the various locks. He had time to actually look at the book and hurriedly turn it right-side up before she actually came into view.

He glanced up, not feigning surprise but showing his genuine pleasure. He clapped the book shut and leaned forward in the chair, smiling at her. "So, home safe! Excellent! How did the venture go?"
 
The expression on Lyla's face when she at last made it through the door and had twisted every lock back into place, turning toward T.B., was dazed and lost. It was the same face she'd pulled directly after discovering she had actually taken down two thugs with nary a scratch on herself. It was difficult to swallow.

However, at T.B.'s question, Lyla seemed to come back to herself, wide blue eyes going thin with suspicion as she took in the pretty, domestic scene he made, all settled in with a book. She wasn't buying it.

"Horribly," she said, and glanced for the first time inside her back to make sure the bottle she carried hadn't actually busted over the thug's head. Satisfied, she looked at T.B. again. "Though I suspect you know that.

"Two guys," she went on as she moved to the coffee table. She pulled the bottle free and set it down heavily. It was a generic brand of synthesized tequila. "Barely put up a fight and I was still too shaken to work my mojo. I actually hit one of them over the head with my shopping bag. What, am I seventy and collecting recyclables?"

Lyla let out a great sigh, and some of the nervous energy seemed to ease out of her. She was safe now, she'd come through the exercise unscathed, and T.B. was in sight again, paired with the calm, comforting buzz of his presence.

"Anyway," she went on, rolling the remaining tension from her shoulders and then gesturing to the bottle on the table. "I got us a present. Join me for a drink or ten?"
 
At the "though I suspect you know that" he tilted his head and smiled. He wasn't going to deny it. He let her blow off her steam, getting to his feet while she shrugged her tension away. "Tequila! It's been decades since I've had a taste of that! I've got just the thing for it up in my lair, too. But first..."

He crossed over too her, and put his hands on her shoulders, looking in her eyes. "You're too hard on yourself. This was your very first field encounter, and you haven't even learned to shield your mind yet. But even with all that distraction, even with your nervousness... you did great. Look at you; you're untouched, and they're probably licking their wounds like the dogs they are." He squeezed her shoulders gently, smiling at her. "Trust me, you did great. My top student, head of the class. I'm very proud."

He let her go, then held up a finger as if he'd just had an idea. "But perhaps we ought to focus for a little while on dealing with multiple opponents, now that you've got the basic one-on-ones down." Another grin, and then he was heading for his outerwear. "I'm just going to run up and grab a couple of things, bring them right back, and then we'll have some drinks." He paused, with his coat on, his hat and mask in his hands. "Actually... want to come up? Bring the bottle, we can have the drinks up there, if you like. It'll only take me a couple of minutes, but it strikes me you've been very patient in not asking me about my place."

He felt almost shy, now, for some reason, offering to show her his secret spot. "I mean... if you want, that is." It took a titanic effort of will to refrain from looking down and scuffing his toe on the worn floor.
 
Lyla flushed pink and looked away from T.B. when he settled his hands onto her shoulders, offering her praise that she maybe actually did deserve, but was uncomfortable receiving, regardless. Or perhaps it was just that said praise was being offered in such close proximity, and outside of the times when T.B. was wiping the floor with her, he didn't exactly pour on the physical affection.

His hands were warm through the sleeves of her shirt, and his eyes, just before she had dragged her focus away, were no less unsettling than they had been upon their first encounter. When T.B. released her, Lyla found herself replacing his hand with one of her own, capping her shoulder absently.

She broke out of her spell quite suddenly at the words, 'Want to come up?'

She did, more than just about anything at that moment, dearly wish to see the place that T.B. called home. She tried and failed to conceal her excitement, eyes gone big and glittering once again. She wasted no time scooping the bottle up from the coffee table, clutching it in her fist and raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"Lead the way."
 
He offered his elbow like an old fashioned gentleman, and escorted her out into the dimness of the street. Street level was an odd, semi-timeless place: but for midday on the north-south streets, there was never any direct sun, and what there was got filtered through passing traffic and layers of atmospheric pollution before it hit the pavement. But the upper level's neon and arc lights filtered down much like the sun throughout the night, so the light levels were roughly the same no matter the time of day. Similarly, the waste heat from the buildings and traffic moderated cold temperatures, and the shadowed stone and metal cooled the air against hot weather, so the weather was uniformly mildly chilly and damp the year through. But not even the increased condensation drip from the overhanging walls was enough to dampen T.B.'s spirits as he walked her down the street, farther away from the stairs and toward the next block, which was even darker and less populated than this one.

As they walked, he pointed up at the set of row apartments next to hers. "Through that whole section is where the toxic leak happened." He pointed up past the two ground level stories to the two stories that used to be accessible by catwalk. The whole front of these buildings were noticeably discolored, a sickly bluish tone seeming to rise from within the structures like a bruise, from the local "ceiling" of a thick, solid balcony separating the bottom four floors of of the building from the rest, like a tourniquet. The lower levels of all the buildings were like this, until things got high enough to get some light, and the four-story rings became unnecessary. "They shut off the coolant, rerouted the baseblock feed, the upper story residents never realized there was any sort of interruption. And then they just condemned these buildings until the next cycle of renovation. That's supposed to be every twenty years, but considering the city average is to only hit about every fourth cycle, that's why I say we've got about 50 years before we have to worry about moving."

They kept walking past the contaminated buildings. "That coolant leak spread a bit into most of the whole block, which is why this is so unpopulated around here. Only the desperate would risk living here. Or," and he raised a finger, "only the clever would take the right steps to make it safe. In that case, the contamination becomes a defensive asset, rather than a flaw."

He paused, and pointed up toward the overhang, at one fourth-floor window with a slightly askew plastiboard cover. "See that loose cover? That's my front door." He disengaged their arms and clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. "So, first we climb the wall here to the catwalk, and then we regroup for the climb up to the window." He cocked his head in the mask at her, and she could perfectly imagine his eyebrow quirking up. "Do you see now why I couldn't easily bring you to my place when you were unconscious?"
 
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