Trotting home from work in her oldest and, so far, easiest non-natural form-- the "simple" dragon form, for which she had managed to bank most of her fire, get rid of her wings, put some actual flesh on her forearms, and tone down the shine, so that she actually looked a lot like a faintly-glowing Atuan mutt-- Natron wasn't really expecting to run into any kind of trouble. It was Netahiln's day to keep an eye on the Balespawn and his little collection of monsters, she'd had a breezy day on the job at the gym taking people's daily charges and cleaning the place up, and everyone she saw seemed perfectly happy to mind their own business. It seemed like such a nice day, and she was in no hurry, so she'd wound up walking most of the way home rather than teleporting, taking elevators, or even flying.

So it was to her great surprise and chagrin that, trotting cheerfully down a quieter, darker residential street that was... sort of on the way to the apartment... she heard muffled, panting whimpers. Though she didn't have particularly big ears-- technically, she didn't have visible ears at all-- she still had pretty good hearing, being a godling and all, and one who cultivated sharp senses to better serve her purpose, to boot. So, when she stopped at the first hint of the sound, she could pinpoint it with ease. Whoever was crying was doing it a ways down the street, and around a corner, out of sight of the main thoroughfare. And no one else, apparently, was paying it any attention-- not the few people on the street, nor anyone in nearby apartments, and certainly not any kind of authority anywhere she could see. Disgusted, Natron started off course in that direction.

There weren't exactly alleyways between apartments, as most of them were flush up against each other to conserve the limited space, but there were still alcoves, narrow streets on the cheaper blocks, and broken light panels to make regular streets look like back-alleys. The sounds of distress were coming from one of those darker, narrower side-streets, one that would be uncomfortably small for most dragons-- Natron had to shrink herself down to keep from feeling claustrophobic-- and obviously meant for smaller tenants. And poorer ones, she expected, because the upkeep had been allowed to fall behind, both in replacing those failed and stolen lighting panels and keeping the walls clean: the advertising screens were fuzzy with graffiti, there were a few patches of rust and even xenodragon resin here and there, and the ground was littered with food wrappers and other bits of trash. The street to the apartment she and Netahiln shared was actually a lot like this one, only dragon-sized. Usually, Natron didn't mind the grunge, liking a little grit to make things more interesting and more honest, but just then she resented it, the same way she resented that no one thought to even look to see who was upset in the dim street.

Rounding the corner and tracking the sound, Natron was assaulted by the scent of blood. She made a face and went from her cautious walk to a hurried trot. Whoever was distressed was also hurt-- which explained the pained quality of the whimpers. She picked up the pace.

Despite trying to be careful, in her haste Natron very nearly tripped over the very person she was seeking: in the dim light, with the blood-smell permeating everywhere, she didn't see the lump of black and gray leaning against the wall until her own glow fell on him and she had to backpedal to avoid stepping on him. Even then, she was so surprised that her spirit didn't move back quite as quickly as her body, and as he took another limping step forward, her spirit-muzzle accidentally plunged through a bloody forelimb before she managed to yank the inner part of her back along with the outer part of her.

At the sensation-- Netahiln always claimed it felt creepy, both chill and oddly hot, to touch her non-bodied spirit-- the dark head lifted sharply, Natron's own green glow reflecting off stubby gold horns and squinted blue eyes, and the panting turned into a hitching, faltering growl.

::Hey, hey, it's okay,:: Natron said hastily. ::I didn't see you there.::

Whoever she'd found took a step back from her, nearly fell down in the process, and whimpered involuntarily when he tried putting weight on his right leg. He slumped against the wall again, mouth hanging open in an attempt to get more air. Natron winced in sympathy. He really did look beat up: blood everywhere, leg likely broken, one wing hanging limply and missing most of its feathers, membranes torn ragged, and an ear very nearly severed. There was frost clinging to his short fur and fledgling feathers, and even some of the wounds-- that couldn't be good for them. Worst of all, given the obvious yautjadragon heritage-- where else could those tusks have come from?-- he was too small to be anything other than a child.

Natron eyed him a little sourly. She couldn't just leave him there, which meant she'd have to do something with him. ::Come on,:: she said, padding up to his side and ignoring his warning growl. ::Gotta get you to a doctor. You look horrible.::

::No,:: the kid sent, even his mind-voice sounding tired and raw. ::No-- doctor.::

::Well, can't leave you like that,:: Natron answered reasonably, ducking under a foreleg-- yautjadragon in build, too, walking bipedally.

::I'll be-- fine.::

::You'll bleed to death, or be found by somebody unsavory. Hell, you got found by me, didn't you?::

He tried to weakly push her away, and failed miserably, because she was too big and he was too cut up. ::Leave me alone.::

::Nothin' doin'. If you won't go to a hospital, then you're at least getting off the street and we'll see what Neta' and I can do for you.::

Again he tried pushing her away, and again she ignored him, even when he tried using claws. ::You keep that up, and I'll cauterize all those wounds without trying to close them up first,:: she warned him heatedly, and she let a flicker of green fire escape her shape-shift to tickle his throat. Wisely, he gulped and let her half-lead, half-carry him out of the narrower street without further protest.

::Why are you doing this?:: he asked faintly as they turned the corner onto the wider, main stretch of street.

::Because I don't like blood all over the poor, undeserving ground,:: Natron snapped lightly back at him. He snorted his disbelief, and she said quietly, after a slightly embarrassed pause, ::Wouldn't you?::

::Just because I would doesn't mean anyone else would.::

::Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody,:: she grinned at him, and dropped to her belly, shifting sizes back up to something more comfortable and more useful. ::Now get on, and hold on. I'm not limping you all the way back to the apartment.::

He stared at her with wide eyes. ::Why should I trust you?:: he asked baldly.

::Because if I were gonna make things worse I would've done it back there rather than taking you home?:: she suggested. ::Besides, what else is anybody gonna do to ya that's worse than this, huh?::

The kid actually flinched, as if somehow that struck a nerve she hadn't known existed, and his voice was bleak when he answered, ::Nothing at all.::

Once he'd gotten settled on her back, or as settled as a kid with a broken leg and wing could get, Natron stood carefully and, holding him in place with mind as much as balance, started off again. ::You got a name, kid?::

There was a long pause, and she fully expected him to not answer. That'd be okay, she figured, if he didn't want to share. She'd just keep calling him "kid", the way Netahiln kept calling Timande "Ugly" or her "Brat" even though she wasn't an ankle-biter anymore.

Well, maybe not quite like that.

But he did answer, finally. ::Rusaleon,:: he said, voice subdued. ::Rusaleon Mei'Ontainde.::

Chapter Nineteen

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