Half cast strays

There is a small dance that ash does as it rises. It swirls and jumps as it glides through the air. Warm snow falls upwards against a smoggy backdrop. When you have lived amongst the factories long enough, you don't notice the black. Just the ash and its dance.

My body drifts through clouds of ash as I march through the industrial district.

A voice from behind calls out to me in a singsong tone, "You're going to ruin that pretty new cloak there, boss." Micky is the kind of guy who cannot enjoy a moment of silence or a walk among the ash. He is everything I am not, mirth and caring.

"Not your boss, Mickey, a glorified babysitter." I'm taking you out for your walkies, and don't let Dorian catch you calling anyone "boss."

I can hear the smirk in his mouth; no doubt I am about to regret indulging him.

If satisfaction had a sound, it would be the almost-laughing tone with which Mikky always framed his words." He was new to this life, but I chose him as my shadow for a reason tonight."

"That's alpha to you, whelp".

"You called him by his name." "Hm,

I seem to recall saying that's alpha to YOU whelp. And since this cloak happens to be made of the best leather I was able to get my mitts on, I would argue it is more than capable of sustaining a bit of ash."

I can hear the intake of breath, but before he can spurt whatever response he thinks will validate his words, he gags, sneezes, coughs, spits, and covers his face with his hands. Unfortunately, not in that order. The kid did it by hand first. He better not expect a handshake after this.

"WHA-what, ugh, what is that smell?" It sounds eerie to hear words come from Mickey's mouth without a smile.

I pull a small tin case from my new jacket's pocket. With a flick of my wrist and a small click, it opens. "Do you smoke Micky?" I already know he does. I had brought the smokies for him. In fact, I had rolled them all personally. A proper mission when you've only got one decent hand. Luckily for me, I can do more with the fingers of my left hand than most men can with their whole body. He reaches for one of the freshly rolled cigarettes gratefully, already pulling a match from his sleeve to light it.

I inhale deeply, my nose, mouth, and lungs filling with the putrid scent. "That would be week-old horse piss, rotting flesh and curdled milk." They probably fermented it, maybe pickled it if they were feeling artisanal. I try and sound nonchalant, but still take the time to wipe a tear from my left eye and adjust the patch that covers my right.

"What does artisanal mean?" The plumes of smoke and the fog of another cold, wet night follow Mike's stuttering, "What does artisanal mean?"

"Traditional, like momma used to make." I respond with a smirk of my own, offering the case to Micky. "You're going to need these more than I, whelp, and I recommend you keep chugging 'em as we get close to the source of that particular blend of nasty."

"Someone made that?" He coughed as he seized the small case, already clicking it open and withdrawing two cigarettes: one he put into his mouth, the other he tucked behind his ear. "Thank you, half." He returned the case, but before I could shake my head no, he'd pocketed it in his slacks. I wasn't sure when he'd have time to light the second cigarette, but that's what I liked about Micky.

He was quick.

We started to walk again, closer towards the stench, no matter how much it choked us. When one is walking along the cobbled streets and dilapidated dock town, you could think shades of grey had long since drank all the colours of the world. But just as seasons change, the scenery becomes something which dazzles the senses, almost in complete contrast to the overwhelming stench. Hundreds of people were singing, dancing, and gallivanting around as if they didn't care about anything. And for the most part, they didn't. Ships just came in, shore leave with pay, sailors with wallets flush with cash, and many a lass looking to help him spend it. Spice and coffee and all manner of amazement... but those were the thoughts of the indoctrinated.

I could see the hidden truths even though I only had one eye. The sailors were no doubt paid a pittance compared to the profits the harbour master made. Half these women had been forced into this life and that it was just as likely they would be taken before a sailor touched their palm. That spice and coffee were outshone by the unsaid promise of new flesh for the brothels and opium to poison and placate the masses. My business was with the proprietors of the last two.

As we were closing in on our destination, I spared a glance towards Micky, who was smiling broadly with a trio of cigarettes clenched firmly within his teeth and burning bright, his eyes glittering in the shade of every bright coloured silk or lantern, which lit up the night in a warm glow more welcoming than the morning's sun. I could feel his excitement, his unkept energy, the smell forgotten as we wound our way through the crowds, me avoiding every pelvis or torso that seemed to try and embrace me, and Micky meeting each with equal enthusiasm.

As we made it out of the square and continued walking towards the smell, Micky spoke up, "So I have to ask what awaits us at the other end of this shit?" I heard the sentence end with the small burst of a match catching flame. He had lit another three cigarettes and was humming softly to himself, pushing his light brown hair back, which brought his amber eyes more into view. Like the rest of him, they radiated energy and joy.

so young?

"That is a good question." The short answer is that we are attending a meeting with another group of oddfellows to discuss some recent transgressions or accusations or something that for some reason offended someone else."

"This awful artisanal shit has offended me plenty," quipped Micky.

"Take it as a compliment, Mickey. There is only one reason one would make such an awful aroma and that is to protect against us. " Yep, old-fashioned wolf repellent. To others, this is unpleasing. To you and I, however, it is a whole lot worse. so bad it can repress our abilities. It makes one reluctant to shift because it would be overpowering and painful to our highly enhanced sense of smell. No one around us can even smell it, but I bet ever since you took that first whiff, your wolf has shrunk inside you. That's why I need you to smoke. Clog your sniffer a bit, because if shit hits the fan, I will need you to be able to shift.

He swells with pride as he hears this. To shadow someone is to be their back-up, but with him being so green, he thought he was there to learn. Now that he knows he is here to protect me, he puffs his chest and struts to look more intimidating.

So so young.