“If you’re half as fun as I think you are, sugar, we’re in for the night of our lives,” the gorgeous young human drawled as he took her hand.

Sharaka let herself hope as the half-naked man all but dragged her in by the hand... then she noticed the faint despair under the overpowering cheap perfume of the hall and stopped dead in her tracks, making the young man stumble. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a bit for that.”

“We can think about money later, sugar,” said the man, confirming her suspicions. He pushed himself flush against her, free hand brushing against her jawline. “Later, when we've got some... weight off our backs. How does it sound?”

Sharaka closed her eyes and took a deep breath - just making things worse. Spirits he smelled good. “There’d be little to think about, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “I've just arrived with barely the clothes on my back.” Which was a lie, though not by much.

“Oh.” All the flirt and desire was gone from him – even from his smell, which was impressive – but he recovered quickly. “I’m sure you’re gonna hit it big in Verkell, sugar, you’ve got that air on you.” He gently but expertly maneuvered her back in the street. “And when you do, don’t forget about little ol’ me, you hear?”

Sharaka let out a good-natured huff. Well, it had a bit of sadness in it, but not much. “I won’t, stunner,” she said, more to herself than to the young man that quickly waved her goodbye and went on displaying his… goods.

Another “civilized” plane, huh, she thought as she fell into place in the flow of people looking to drink, gamble and screw themselves stupid or stumbling homewards, goal well reached. Verkell – or whatever the name for the whole plane was – had a very nice sun and a decent number of viashino, but the first only seemed to made her nostalgic and the second’s bright colors made her stand out more than she was comfortable with. And sadly, sex with strangers seemed to be more traded than shared.

She considered leaving immediately. Viashino seemed part of the human society here, rather than a faction that could be concretely helped. And yet, something about how people treated her, a viashino that was clearly new to the place, told her there was a place where viashino “came from.” The idiot that had threatened her with the local tiny cannon that morning – Gan? Gonne? What was the name again? - even called her “wilder,” which suggested it was a less “civilized” place, which was fine by her.

Two worryingly familiar smells yanked her out of her thoughts.

Human fear. Viashino manic glee. Sharaka’s snout immediately pointed to an alley, her pace slowing despite herself. What do you care, she asked herself. You know nothing of this place. You could get wounded, or worse. You have no idea what’s happening there. Maybe a human getting what he deserves, maybe a viashino preying on innocents. Maybe something bigger than yourself. What do you care.

Just walk away.

The scrawny man freed a knife from the human’s belly. He hungrily rummaged in the human’s jacket as his prey shakily clung to him. He noticed Sharaka just before her hand grabbed him by the throat and slammed against the wall behind him. Her kick cracked bones and sent him rolling down the alley.

Sharaka tried not to think about how easy it had been to harm a viashino to protect a human. She knelt at the human’s side, a stout man with grey streaks in hair and beard, slumped against the wall as the blood pooled in the dirt. Judging from the heavy bleeding and his glassy stare, maybe avenging him was more accurate. He kept trying to get up onto his trembling arms. Focus on “trying”.

“Don’t bother, old man,” Sharaka muttered, not unkindly, and picked up the knife. The other viashino was still failing to figure out which way was up. She gave him half a hour before he could do anything but crawl. She laid the point of the knife under the human’s jaw. “Close your eyes and relax, I’ll make it quick.”

The man rose his chin and stared at her with unfocused eyes full of tears. “No,” he croaked, “J-Janey… waiting… my…” Another attempt at standing up. “M’child...”

A broken lullaby echoed in Sharaka’s mind, and icy lightning coursed her nerves. She eyed the knife in her hand, the bleeding wounds, the despair in the man’s stare. Sharaka’s tail pressed his chest against the wall as she ripped his shirt open, baring half a dozen wide, deep wounds. She closed her eyes.

She took her concern, the frustration of “living” as a wandering stranger, the panic gripping her stomach, balled them all up and set them ablaze in anger. The world was askew, and she knew the way to bash it straighter. She just had to keep the anger’s fire pure and well-aimed. Remember the training.

She breathed on the knife, which soon started to glow a dull red. She felt the sharpening fear of the human. She had to take care of that as well. Breathe it in, bathe it in anger, breathe it back. The man’s face screwed in a grimace. Breathe in, whet, breathe out.

“Cling to the anger,” Sharaka said, meeting the man’s feverish eyes for a split second. “Hate me if it helps.” She brought the red-hot blade close to the biggest wound. “You’re not dying here.”

The sizzle of blood and flesh almost covered the man’s grunts. When Sharaka took the knife away, the wound had stopped bleeding. The man’s shoulders slumped, his eyes quickly losing focus. Sharaka took another moment to stoke her anger in a true bonfire and breathed as much as she could into him. “Fight,” she hissed, and blew more flame on the knife. “Screw that stabby dick. Screw the scaly bitch that’s roasting you like you’re baloth steak.” She met his eyes and held his glassy stare. “Screw the unfairness. Screw the stupidity of it all. Fight to live another day. Fight for Janey. Fight, you unlucky bastard,” she snarled. “You. Ain’t. Dying. Here.”

Sharaka finally saw a spark of understanding in the man’s eyes, and pressed the knife against the second wound.