Location: Ashwick Corridors — Muchachos Restaurant — Day
The waiter's hand hung in the air.
Mid-swing. Frozen.
His eyes moved across Elijah's face—Diego's face—searching for something that would justify the violence he had been about to deliver. He found nothing. Just the same soft, round features. The same wide, brown eyes. The same perpetual look of mild confusion.
He lowered his hand.
Then he laughed.
Not a friendly laugh. Not a relieved laugh. A cruel one. The kind of laugh that came from the belly and stayed in the throat, mean and sharp.
"Looky, looky," he said.
He turned to the other waiters.
"What do we have here? A circus clown. Trying to play pretend. Trying to be an opportunist."
He spread his arms.
"You just pop out of nowhere. No warning. No message. No call. And you expect us to believe you're the boss's cousin?"
He pointed at a man clearing a table near the window.
"Well, I'm his uncle."
He pointed at a woman carrying a tray of drinks.
"And she's his great-aunt."
He pointed at a busboy sweeping broken glass into a dustpan.
"And he's his... his... whatever. The point is, anyone can claim anything."
The room erupted.
Laughter—loud, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that fed on itself and grew. Waiters slapped their thighs. Busboys leaned against walls. A cook leaned out of the kitchen, his face flushed, his mouth open, his teeth showing.
"His cousin," someone shouted.
"His cousin!"
"Did you hear that? He's his cousin!"
Elijah stood in the center of the chaos.
His face—Diego's face—was the face of a man who had been slapped and mocked and laughed at his whole life. His eyes were wide. His lips were pressed together. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching.
"I am his cousin," he said.
His voice was soft. High. The voice of a man who had spent his life apologizing for existing.
"I don't understand why you won't believe me."
---
A big man stepped forward.
He was built like a refrigerator—wide, thick, his arms straining against the sleeves of his white shirt. His face was round, his nose was flat, his eyes were small and dark and glittering with amusement.
"Hey," he said.
His voice was a rumble.
"Hey, hey, hey."
He stopped in front of Elijah.
"What's with your voice?"
"My voice?"
"Yeah. Your voice. You sound like..."
He pursed his lips. His cheeks puffed out. His voice climbed into a squeaky, nasal register.
"...like a little mouse. A little Mexican mouse. 'Tutu, tutu, I'm lost, I need directions, please don't hit me.'"
The room erupted again.
The waiter who had tried to slap Elijah—the one who had started the whole thing—was laughing so hard he had to grab a chair to steady himself. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His shoulders shook.
"Tutu," he gasped. "Tutu the Mouse."
The big man grinned.
He turned to the others, his arms spread wide, his body swaying like a comedian milking an audience.
"Tutu," he repeated. "Tutu the Mouse. That's what we should call him."
He looked back at Elijah.
"What's your name again, brat?"
"D9. Diego. Diego de la—"
"D9? What kind of name is D9? You sound like a robot. A robot mouse."
He made his voice go flat, mechanical.
"I am D9. I am here to see my cousin. Please take me to him. Beep. Boop."
The laughter was deafening.
Elijah's expression didn't change.
His eyes remained wide. His lips remained pressed together. His hands remained at his sides.
But something behind his eyes was different.
Impatient, the others would have said, if they had been paying attention. He looks... impatient.
---
The big man stepped closer.
"What's the matter, brat? You want to cry? Did I hurt your feelings?"
He reached out.
His finger tapped Elijah's shoulder.
"You want me to call you Goofy? You want me to do the voice?"
He made his voice go deep, goofy, the kind of voice that belonged in a cartoon.
"Gawrsh, I sure am lost. I sure hope my cousin helps me."
He tapped Elijah's shoulder again.
"Gawrsh."
Tap.
"Gawrsh."
Tap.
"Gawrsh."
The room was in chaos. Waiters were doubled over. Busboys were wiping tears from their eyes. Even the cook had come out of the kitchen, his apron stained with grease, his face red.
Elijah's eyes narrowed.
Just a little longer, he thought. Let them laugh. Let them mock. Let them think I'm nothing.
Then show them.
---
He began to breathe.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... different.
His chest rose. His chest fell. His hands—still at his sides—curled into fists, then uncurled. The air around him seemed to shift—not temperature, intent. The units of aetherflux in the room, scattered and diffuse, began to move.
Three units, his perception whispered. Floating near the kitchen.
Five units. In the back, near the stairs.
Two units. In the breath of the big man.
He inhaled.
The units flowed toward him—not visibly, not to the eyes of the waiters and busboys and cooks. They saw a man breathing. Nothing more.
But Elijah felt them.
They entered his chest. His lungs. His blood.
Eight units, he thought. Enough. Just enough.
---
The big man was still tapping.
"Gawrsh."
Tap.
"Gawrsh."
Elijah's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... final.
His fingers closed around the big man's index finger.
The big man's grin froze.
His eyes moved down to his hand. To Elijah's hand. To the way Elijah's fingers were wrapped around his finger, squeezing, pressing, crushing.
"What the—"
Elijah squeezed harder.
The big man's face contorted. His lips peeled back from his teeth. His eyes bulged.
"Ah—ah—AH—"
His knees buckled.
His other hand came up, aiming for Elijah's face.
Elijah's other hand moved.
His fingers closed around the big man's wrist. Squeezing. Pressing. Crushing.
"LET GO!"
The big man's scream cut through the laughter like a blade.
The room went silent.
Waiters froze. Busboys stared. The cook's mouth hung open.
The big man was on his knees now, his body twisted, his face pale, his eyes wet.
"LET GO! LET GO! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!"
Elijah didn't let go.
His voice—Diego's voice—remained soft. High. Almost sweet.
"Are you going to take me to my cousin?"
"YES! YES! ANYTHING! JUST LET GO!"
The other waiters exchanged glances.
One of them—the one who had started the whole thing—stepped forward.
"Hey," he said. "Hey, whatever you're doing, you better stop. You better—"
Elijah's head turned.
His eyes—wide, brown, innocent—met the waiter's.
"Or what?"
The waiter's mouth opened.
No sound came out.
---
The big man was crying now.
Tears streamed down his cheeks. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. His hand—the one Elijah was holding—had turned purple.
"Please," he whimpered. "Please. I'll take you. I'll take you to him. Just—just let me go."
Elijah held on for a moment longer.
Then he released.
The big man collapsed.
He lay on the floor, cradling his hand, his body shaking, his breath coming in wet, ugly sobs.
Elijah looked down at him.
His voice—still soft, still high, still sweet—was different now. There was something underneath it. Something cold.
"So," he said. "Are you going to take me to my cousin? Or do I need to ask someone else?"
The big man's eyes met his.
Then he nodded.
He pushed himself to his feet.
"This way," he said.
He walked toward the stairs.
Elijah followed.
The room was silent.
---