Starglow Basin Asesino

Lanza swept in with the dark to find his boss. The scent of the brothers was there, faded. Grey-glint eyes hovered over their marks in the earth and the tracks that led in two different directions. Octavio too... that was interesting. They had moved the operation entirely. The man didn't care where the de Toro brothers peddled their goods and reaped their rewards. He had been sent on a mission and he was returning with the spoils. 

A preys pelt satchel was used to carry the item Juarez had requested. It was intended to be delivered as a gift. Lanza carried it delicately in his teeth, searching for the jaguar and his dark kin.

Moises jitters through the dusk like a patinador de agua, belly hanging low and full with the mouthfuls of a scavenged kill, wearing his customary look of petinence, a face fit for a gibbeting, the expression of a martyr who knows not what he is being martyred for.

It is not so much that he is drawn towards the familiar Lanza as he is terrified of the unfamiliar, having been the type of child who cried endlessly when his parents weren't within eyeshot of him, which was often.

He knew that others didn't enjoy being around him, leaving at the first chance, but the why of it escaped his comprehension.

Que tiene ahí?

His voice splinters, an arrow shot into another arrow.

That soft voice - like the sound that leaves made as the wind passed through them. Moises. 

The spear turns his sharp features toward the young man and takes in his appearance. Something always seemed to be off about the boy. Something always seemed to be dwelling beneath his flesh like a spread of rot that was making a claim on his body. No one was fond of Moises except for the boss. Lanza was neutral with all of them. Maybe neutrality felt similar to kinship. He placed the satchel at his paws, protective of it. 

Un regalo para Juárez. 

The spear's eyes fixed on Moises' face. 

¿Has comido, Moisés?

He has never seen Lanza once make an unnecessary movement. His economy makes Moises and his tics look like a debaucher.

Solo los hu-hu-huesos. His face seizes with the effort. Another irony: it is only the softest sounds, the most formless syllables he struggles with. The fricatives, the plosives---he can manage these with just as much grace as anyone else. Something about the embouchure of huella, huerta, humillo makes it impossible to get them right without great concentration. They fill his mouth, great bolls of cotton.

Le agradas, Lanza. El jefe, digo.

Porque hago lo que me dicen. 

The answer was given simply, without hesitation. And the spear would have guessed - assumed - that Moises knew this lesson for himself. If he did as he was told, the boss would look kindly on them. Lanza knew that it was not merely a display of obedience that won the jaguar's faith. It was a proper showing of skill. Moises had not found the strength of his skills. He teetered on the edges of his frayed nerves. 

The spear lifted his chin. Grey eyes fixed to the young man's face. 

¿Qué has aprendido hasta ahora, Moisés? 

What had he learned from the wildcat and his followers...

Thank you for the kudos <3

The answer winks and fizzles out in the last of the sunlight.

Que sí lo hacen, ojo por ojo.

As far as Moisés can understand, el jefe is a businessman, an inventor, a capitalist.

He runs a machine, only what the machine permits as lubricant is more liberal than most others: oil, blood, and the shadowed bodies of couriers casting slanting shadows, echoing the micro-trajectories of their freight, through capillaries, towards chemical bliss. All of these things that made their world turn.

Moisés wants to meet the spear's eyes, but he cannot. Instead his gaze flickers to his cheek, then the puckered corner of his harsh mouth.

Y al morder a alguien, mantén tu lengu-u-u—lengua en el techo de su boca.

así que no la mu—

He screws up his eyes; sometimes this helps.

Mu-er-des.

No need for thanks. Your writing is stunning.

An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. Even life was a currency.

At least Moises had learned the important things. He had more he would discover as he stayed with the wildcat and his men. There would be things that would etch jagged and harsh wisdom into his flesh and mind and bones. Things that could not be learned without experiencing them firsthand. These were the things that made a man. Moises was still just a boy.

Y cuando muerdes, debes hacerlo en serio.

The spear’s lip curled. A glint of piercing ivory beneath the dark of his muzzle.

Róbales antes de que puedan robarte a ti.

If Lanza could teach the young wolf anything, if he could impart only a fraction of wisdom in his whistling little mind, it would be to never let others get the better of him. Control was the only thing they had. They should wield that self-mastery like an unyielding weapon.

:D <3

This is established: el jefe likes Lanza, and Moisés wants nothing more than to be liked by el jefe, the only father figure he has ever had in his life.

So he listens, rapt, hanging onto the spear's every word, chewing on them like a cow does to its cud, the plodding movement of the jaws almost petulant. For a time it seems like Moisés has gone catatonic; his mouth, which purses and then goes slack, is the only thing that moves.

Lanza, he finally breaks the thick silence, before hunkering down to the dirt, as if he is going to kiss the ground like a priest. But in the last moment, he plucks something small and smooth out of the grass, a piece of a rat's skull, maybe, long since desiccated and bleached, falling apart as he holds it, though it can't be said that Moisés has a gentle touch.

Then he flings it into the air with a sharp turn of his jaw.

Atrápalo! he yells, almost smiling.