THIRTEEN #3
The courtyard below is a landscaping mess of weeds, concrete, and wandering Rots.
Smoke continues to stain the sky beyond the rooftops, so I scan the opposite building, the balconies, and the roofline.
There’s nothing… for about three seconds.
Then I see it. A shift of a curtain on the fifth floor across the way. A small movement. Very careful.
“There you are,” I whisper to myself, low enough to go unnoticed by the others.
I don’t point like I want to. Not yet. Instead, I step back from the window and remove the cap from my jacket.
It’s actually older than I realized, faded to almost gray in some places.
The seams have been worn soft and the brim is bent from years of use.
There’s dirt ground into the fabric and a darker stain along the one side that might be old blood or mud.
I dunno, it’s kind of hard to tell. The back strap has been fixed with black thread, small uneven stitches done by someone who refused to throw it away.
Oh yeah. This isn't just a hat. I mean, obviously.
That thought makes my throat feel a little tight in a way I don’t particularly appreciate.
I toss jokes at most things because if I don’t, they start growing claws and teeth.
Fear. Grief. Silence. Dead bodies in hallways.
Living bodies becoming dead ones on floors.
But this stupid old hat is grasped in my hand, damp and battered to within an inch of its life, and I can practically feel the shape of someone else’s grief in it.
And that isn’t sitting right with me.
“Ewan,” Fletcher calls, and I look over at him. His gaze drops to the hat and then he says, “Window.”
I know what he means without the words necessary. Put it where they can see it. Make them come closer. Bait. You know, that thing we’re pretending not to call it.
Xeon’s head lifts suddenly from the pilot. “No.”
Fletcher looks at him blankly. “We need answers.”
“We don’t need to become another thing they have to survive,” X counters softly, shaking his head.
“They’re already following us,” Fletcher reminds him.
“For that.” Xeon nods at the hat. “Not for us. If they hadn’t lost that and if Ewan hadn’t picked it up, they would have been nothing more than a whisper in the wind by now.”
I stare down at the hat, only to be interrupted by the pilot groaning right before dragging a breath through his teeth.
His lips move, but no words come out. Fletcher’s patience visibly thins, and he grumbles, “Unknown Omega, unknown Alpha, unknown shooter, unknown aircraft. That’s too many unknowns for my liking. ”
“Oh, good,” I say. “For a second there I thought we were running low on unknowns. Phew.”
Fletcher ignores me, which is becoming a pattern I’m starting to take personally. He looks at Xeon and explains, “If they know something, we need to hear it.”
“If we scare them, they’ll vanish,” Xeon counters, his voice level and calm.
“Already vanished once,” Fletch points out.
“And followed us back,” Xeon volleys.
I lift the hat slightly. “Well, if we want to be all technical about it, they followed their kidnapped hat back.”
Fletcher gives me a look.
“Rescued,” I correct quickly. “Temporarily fostered hat. Emotionally significant hat that is currently under my care.”
“Ewan,” he rumbles lowly.
I sigh. “Fine.”
Then I move toward the window slowly. I don’t go to the front one facing the courtyard, because that would be way too easy.
Too obvious. Too bait-shaped. Instead, I choose the side window near the kitchen, half-hidden by a torn curtain.
From the opposite building, someone watching carefully would see it. Someone desperate enough would.
I set the cap on the table under the window. Not on the sill, because displaying it like a trophy would be stupid as shit. On the table, it’s just visible enough. A compromise of sorts. Those are awful.
“Not bait,” I say, and Fletcher’s mouth flattens.
Xeon watches me quietly, and I look away first, because Xeon’s quiet understanding is worse than Fletcher’s orders most days. Fletcher will kick a door open and tell you to move. Xeon will look at you like he knows exactly what part of you is hurting.
“Not quite bait,” I amend.
“There it is,” Fletcher drawls.
“Oh, don’t sound so pleased with yourself. It’s not a shade that suits you,” I sigh, shaking my head with disappointment.
Just then, a faint scrape comes from the building across the courtyard. I go still. Hell, everyone goes still. Even the pilot seems to pause his dying out of politeness.
Right there. A shadow behind a broken balcony rail. Small. Hood up now, because they’re hatless. Pale hair tucked away poorly under their hood, a few strands catching the gray light before disappearing again. Bandana still covering their lower face and knife in hand.
Our tiny scavenger.
My stomach twists weirdly at that.
Because no, they’re not tiny. Xeon’s correction from earlier sits heavily in my head. They’re not small, they’re scared. I finally understand what he meant now.
The figure crouches behind the balcony rail across from us, still as stone, gaze locked on the window where the hat rests. Fletcher spots them, too. His hand lifts slightly. Not aiming, but more ready than anything.
Xeon stands, slow enough not to startle anyone who might be watching from across the courtyard. Then he softly says, “Do not chase.”
Fletcher cuts him a hard look that would make a weaker man’s balls shrivel up inside his body.
Xeon’s voice remains soft when he continues. “Don’t make them run.”
For once, Fletcher doesn’t respond straightaway, and outside, the figure shifts.
Gone. Wait, no, not fully. Just moved back, swallowed by the shadows in the apartment.
I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding, right before I murmur, “Well, that went absolutely beautifully. Very warm. Very welcoming. No notes from me. Would do it again.”
Fletcher’s gaze remains on the opposite building. “They’ll try for it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I agree with an easy nod, even though my voice sounds a whole lot less joking than I meant for it to.
Because, whoever they are, I saw the way they looked at that hat like I was holding a part of their skeleton hostage.
And if someone had something that mattered to me that much, I don’t think anything could have kept me away.
I would have come for it, too, no matter how stupid or dangerous.
No matter how many Alphas waited in the room.
I touch one hand to my headphones, grounding myself with the familiar pressure around my neck.
The world outside is still too loud, with Rots below, smoke above, a pilot bleeding on the floor, Fletcher planning, Xeon worrying quietly.
A small terrified Omega or Beta or both or neither, stalking us from across the courtyard because I picked up the one thing they couldn’t leave behind.
I wanted to save it, I really did. I mean, I did save it, but Fletcher is right.
The hat is bait now, whether I meant it that way or not.
Looking at the hat resting under the window, I take in the old fabric darkened with rain, brim bent toward the room like an accusation.
“Sorry, Booger,” I mutter under my breath.
Xeon looks over at me again. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrow before he pushes the question. “Who’s Booger?”
I sigh deeply. “A cat. Probably dead, but a cat with very inspiring survival potential. It’s a long story. You had to be there. Well, you were there, but you weren’t paying attention. That’s not on me, mate.”
Fletcher closes his eyes for half a second and there, in the middle of blood, smoke, bad decisions, and the word game of hat-based hostage negotiation the apocalypse has ever seen, I almost smile.
Almost.
Because then something moves across the courtyard again.
Something small.
Something silent.
Something coming closer.