The night it all began, the rain was falling in thick, silver ropes. Juanes sat on the fire escape of his tiny apartment, licking coffee from a chipped mug, when a shadow detached itself from the steam vents below. A lizard-folk woman, scales the color of jade, trembling as she clutched a metal briefcase to her chest.
Juanes set down his mug. The Cuerpos Grises—the Gray Bodies—were ghost-like cyborgs, former humans who’d sold their flesh for cold, logical immortality. They had no mercy because they had no pulse.
The hunt led him through the , a bazaar that existed only in the space between streetlights. There, he traded riddles with a three-headed coyote for a location. Then down into the Catedral de Tubos —a subterranean maze of organ pipes and forgotten subway trains, where sound became solid. He could hear the faint, hiccupping flicker of the boy: pop. fade. reappear. scream. kemono juanes
“Keep it,” he said. “One day, he might need it. I’ve already got my song.”
The Gray Bodies clutched their smooth heads. The sound wasn’t loud; it was true . It vibrated through their synthetic bones, reminding them of a heartbeat they no longer had. Cracks spiderwebbed across their porcelain faces. The night it all began, the rain was
“No,” Juanes replied, smiling with fangs. “You’re like you. That’s better.”
The boy’s flickering slowed. Stabilized. He blinked, solid and real, and whispered, “Papá?” Juanes set down his mug
“Step away,” Juanes growled, low and feline.