A little over a dozen chairs were already taken, so he and Paris took chairs in the very back row near the snack table. Unpleasantly harsh florescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, and he was glad he brought his coat, as there seemed to be a chill breeze, although it was perfectly unclear where it was coming from. The strong coffee scent almost covered up the sharp, lingering smell of carpet glue.

Paris slumped down in his chair and put his feet up on the back of the empty chair in front of him - rude, but a very straight male thing to do (god, he was good at this; perhaps being bi helped) - and chewed gum nosily as Roan scanned the existing crowd. They all seemed to be in their twenties and thirties, white males (with the exception of a single woman on the far left), the perfect demographic for frustrated violence. But they also looked very normal, the guys you might wait in line at the supermarket with, the guys you would pass on the street without a second glance; no one looked like an extra from The Road Warrior or a foaming at the mouth Jerry Springer guest (except that guy in the front row with the buzz cut - he had a swastika tattoo on his exposed right bicep, only it had the unsure construction and spidery black lines of a prison tattoo).

A couple more people came in, and at five thirty six, a pale man with prematurely greying hair and small square glasses came in, wearing a blue cable knit sweater and chinos and holding a sheaf of papers to his chest like a prized object. Just his wardrobe and demeanor marked him as a speaker, not a crowd member. God, he looked like the middle manager of a paper company in Slough on casual day.

At the dais, he made a show of neatening papers that were already neat, and cleared his throat before speaking in a voice that managed to be soft and loud at once; the consonants timorous, and yet full enough to fill the enclosed space. He introduced himself as Tim and welcomed them all - not counting Paris and himself, there were nineteen people here - and much like a group therapy counseling session, asked if there was anyone who had a story they would like to share about “encounters with infecteds”. Roan felt like crossing his arms, but since that could be interpreted as a defensive or hostile gesture, he didn’t.

It was the woman who stood up first, and really that didn’t surprise him. She was a medium sized, stout woman with stringy brown hair the color of mud and surprisingly bony hands, her face a knife blade of anger and pain. Something haunted her and twisted her, something that made her look about fifteen years older than she actually was.

In a voice that grew more strident as the tale went on, she told the story of her daughter, whom she said was “preyed upon” by “fucking cats” (she never said cats without the “fucking” modifier first) who convinced her that being infected was a good thing, and infected her. She didn’t survive her first transformation, and she felt it was murder, but the cops said if her daughter voluntarily sought to get infected there really wasn’t anything they could do. Even if they figured out who infected her, it wasn’t assault because she had sought it out. (If you infected someone without their knowledge that was legally considered assault, unless you had the tiger strain, then it was considered attempted murder). Her growing rage seemed to galvanize the crowd, bringing them together in a way they hadn’t been.

Roan felt bad for her - it was an awful thing that happened, and her grief had not only aged her but warped her, turning her into this jagged, fragile person who clung to hate in lieu of hope. She was probably the most dangerous person in this room, although he was certain only he and she knew that.

People started speaking up after her, with the lamest complaint being a cat damaging one man’s property and the insurance company raising his rates because of it, and one of the most harrowing being the neo-nazi in the front admitting that he came upon a cat gnawing on his girlfriend’s younger brother (the boy lost his arm).

In the cacophony of people talking over one another, Paris added with convincing anger, “One of those damn cats deliberately infected my roommate in college just to get revenge on the guy who infected her. He went fucking nuts and no one’s seen him since.” It was a change to the back story - which only mattered on a consistency level because they’d told no one their stories yet - but Roan fought to keep his expression neutral, his posture and feelings a studious blank.

The anger was convincing because the anger was genuine; Paris had been talking about himself in the third person. Paris did seem to split his life into two halves, before infection and after, and sometimes he talked about his “then” self as if that was indeed a different person. He was; in Paris’s own words “that Paris” was selfish and pleasure obsessed, vain and extremely manipulative, something he couldn’t quite imagine this quick witted, sweet, frustrating man being (okay, the manipulative part tracked, yet he tried only to use that only for good), but Roan sometimes wondered if he still mourned everything he had lost. How could he not? He wanted to sympathize, and he tried very hard, but Roan knew he could only do it in a sort of abstract way, as he never lost himself. He was born with this disease; he didn’t know life without it. But Paris did; Paris had had a good life, an enjoyable one. He had been popular and loved and a golden boy, one destined for great things even though he was probably going to fuck and manipulate his way there; his life was set. Then he was infected, and his life imploded. Roan was born in rubble and grew up in the craters; he didn’t know what it meant to have a home, a life beyond this. It must have been devastating to have something to lose and then lose it all in one fell stroke.

He wanted to touch him, just put a hand on his back and let him know that he understood his pain even if he couldn’t quite share it, but he didn’t dare; he couldn’t here. So he allowed himself to cross his arms over his chest and slumped slightly to the opposite side, adopting a posture of impatience and boredom. If he couldn’t communicate anything to Paris, he could at least send out a message to the room.

Tim managed to get control of the group, and started to explain that Humanity First was trying to channel this “discontent” (ha!) into action on the political stage; they felt that the infected were not getting equal rights but “special” rights, ones that allowed them to terrorize and kill normal people with little fear of punishment. Paris leaned over and whispered so quietly he could barely hear him over the muttering of the crowd, “Those fucking cats want to get married and not get fired ‘cause they’re trans-species abominations … or am I thinking of gays? Which ones are the buttfuckers again?”

Roan covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to scratch his jaw, and bit the inside of his cheek until the urge to laugh passed as Paris offered him a stick of gum, a lame cover for him being so close to him, but Tim was holding the room and no one noticed. Roan took the proffered gum, and murmured under his breath, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

Looking at him directly so no one else could see him, he mouthed “You love it and you know it”, and raised his eyebrows in a mock suggestive manner before slumping back in his chair and assuming a blank, almost surly look on his face. Paris was such a natural actor it was frightening - but which part was the act? He chewed the gum and wondered.

Tim started handing out pamphlets that looked hand stapled, and seemed to be the Humanity First manifesto, although cleaned up a bit, not so rabidly zealous. The ready for prime time version. But Tim was saying that they were always looking for volunteers to be in more “proactive in their communities” and had a sign up sheet up front for those interested. He exchanged a glance with Paris to make sure they were on the same wavelength - they were - and waited until almost everyone else in the room was standing before they got up as well.

Roan waited until almost everyone else who was going to sign up did - this included Paris, who even managed a brief chat with the neo-nazi. (How did he do it? Seriously, how? Roan had an almost unquenchable urge to sucker punch anyone who a racist tattoo; he just wanted to smash their heads into walls until they left dents. There were so many good reasons for hating people on an individual basis that mass, generic hatred seemed idiotic. Hate a person for who they were, god knows he did, but for what they were? Moronic and lazy.) As Roan printed his fake name and address (he gave the address of his old apartment building, but his current cell phone number), he scanned and memorized the names and phone numbers of the other people on the list (he skipped “Kevin Stiles“; he’d given Randi’s address as his own), making a note to get the only female name on the list. Her name was Karen Hammond.

It was unlikely anyone in this room had committed violence against infecteds or would, but the most likely person to do something was Karen. Yes, she was a woman in her late thirties to early forties - it was hard to guess her age, considering how weathered her face was - and demographically not the most likely to commit violence, but what the demographics never included was how rage and the need for revenge - not a desire; a need, a physical ache that begged to be sated - could push the most timid person over the edge. Karen radiated rage like a low level electrical current; she hated because she didn’t dare feel anything else. It was almost a smell, something like flop sweat, sour adrenaline, and slagged metal. Killing some dirty cat would probably dull her pain, but not for long; there might not be enough people for her to kill to make her feel even remotely better. He felt for her, he really did, but he also knew that she was a potential suspect.

He waited until they had left and turned the corner away from the church before pulling out his small notebook and scribbling down the names he could remember. Unless you had perfectly eidetic recall, your memories were bound to screw things up the more time passed.

He and Paris didn’t speak until they got back to the car. Thunder rolled in the distance, and Roan could smell the rain coming in, but they reached the car just as it started coming down, fat drops as warm as blood. Once they were inside, the rain started sheeting down, pounding on the roof of the car like an angry mob.

“That was really weird,” Paris finally said, staring out at the rain streaming down the windshield. The water seemed to obscure everything now; they could have been at the bottom of a lake. “Do you think we’re going to get in?”

Roan nodded. “I’m sure there’s a vetting process, but as long as we keep to the script we should be able to get inside without a problem.” After a moment, he said, “You changed your back story.”

He shrugged a single shoulder, continuing to do everything but look at him. It was forced nonchalance, and Roan wasn’t buying it. “It seemed better, more honest somehow.”

He did what he wanted to do back at the church. He touched his face, trailing his fingers lightly over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Paris looked at him finally and seemed startled. “About what?”

“What happened to you.”

For a long moment he just stared at him, something like panic flashing through his eyes as the percussion of the rain filled the car with noise. Paris finally decided to say something, but he cut himself off, grimacing painfully, and then leaned over, burying his face in the side of his neck. Roan put his arm around him as Paris broke down into huge, wracking sobs, the kind that you couldn’t hold back and felt like they were punching their way out of you. He didn’t know what to do or say, so he just held him, resting his head against his, and let him cry, stroking his back and occasionally saying soothing things that meant absolutely nothing. His heart broke for him. Maybe Paris was as far from a saint as you could possibly get, but he didn’t deserve what had happened to him; no one deserved that. No one deserved to have their life destroyed or their body ravaged by a virus that killed you a little bit every passing month and very nearly robbed you of your sanity.

Tears soaked his shirt, he could feel them sliding down his neck, and through the window of water he saw a brief, bright flash in the sky that was soon followed up by a grumble of thunder that seemed so close it felt like it shook the car. Paris was clinging to him desperately, shuddering as he tried to fight back the tears and they came out of him anyways. He had no idea Paris had so much pain in him. He was always the guy with the joke, the smart remark, turning everything into a comedy routine, but what kind of detective was he that he couldn’t see that was a deliberate choice on Paris’s part so he didn’t he have to deal with any of this shit? He was so concerned with the “big” stuff he kept missing the little stuff. He should just turn in his license now.

The storm raged inside and out for about ten minutes, during which the lightning and thunder seemed to grow closer and then went away, surging past like an inconstant tide. Paris finally managed to get a hold of himself, probably just running out of tears, and he sniffed and shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed by this violently emotional display. He leaned back against the seat and looked out the passenger window at the water sluicing down the glass, wiping tears and snot from his face with his forearm. Roan wanted to tell him he shouldn’t be embarrassed, that he shouldn’t feel bad for finally letting it out, but he wasn’t sure how to say any of this. So he just started the car and drove away.

They rode home in silence, the rain gradually letting up, going from a torrent to a milder cascade, but visibility remained piss poor and the gutters on the side of the streets filled up fast. The water was spilling onto the road, and he supposed it was a good thing they were getting off the street, as everybody around here seemed to forget how to drive in the rain and needlessly freaked out about it. Either they had outpaced the thunder and lightning or it had gone in the opposite direction.

Since Roan was already drenched from Paris’s tears, he didn’t care about getting soaked, which turned out to be a good thing because he was a drowned rat by the time he got in the house. Not that he was complaining, they needed the rain after the long, abnormally hot summer, but he hated feeling clammy.

Paris had his back to him; he was just standing at the base of the stairs, water dripping from his hair and pattering on the floor, and he seemed to have the frozen, distracted air of someone who suddenly isn’t certain why they’d come into a room.

He waited a very long moment, slipping off his coat and hanging it on a hook parallel to the door, adding his dripping cap afterwards. “Par?” He wondered how upset he still was. The grief process, especially when you were basically mourning your own broken life, could be a weird one.

Paris slowly turned to face him, his eyes red rimmed from tears and his hair plastered to his face in spidery wisps, and Roan saw this look come into his eyes. It was need, almost fury, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss him or hit him as he approached.

Luckily Paris went for the kiss, but it was hungry and violent, so raw it caught him off guard. Paris snaked his hand under his wet shirt, pulling it up and peeling it off of him as he briefly broke away. He tossed his shirt aside and then took off his own, throwing it aside just as heedlessly. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said before kissing him again, pressing him back hard against the door.

Did he have a choice? Of course he did, but as Roan felt the hard, smooth muscles of Paris’s back move beneath his warm, damp skin, he didn’t think he had the willpower or desire to remind Paris they were still technically on the clock. Besides, Paris probably just wanted to forget, to escape, and Roan didn’t think that was such a bad idea.

He just wished he knew what it was specifically that Paris was trying to forget.

****

They had dinner around ten o’clock that night, both too tired and too ravenous to call for delivery, so they just nuked some leftover Chinese food they had in the back of the fridge. It wasn’t moldy or furry, so Roan figured it was good enough.

They were still both damp, but at least it was from the shower so they were warmer. It continued to sheet down outside; in the far corner of the kitchen, you could hear the gutter gurgling as it attempted to deal with the deluge. He wondered if he should clean the gutters, and then wondered if he had ever cleaned the gutters. He was new to this whole house owning thing - that was his excuse and he was sticking with it.

Par was sitting on the end of the couch watching “The Wire” on t.v., dressed in black silk boxers with little red lipstick prints all over it (he loved that kind of tacky shit), feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream directly from the carton. There was a spoon in the carton for Roan too, as Paris had figured there was so little left that there was no point in getting bowls, and he supposed he had a point. (And how lucky was he that he found someone else who liked mint chocolate chip ice cream? So many people hated it, and he had no idea why; that shit just rocked.)

Roan sat next to him, handing Paris his cup of tea. Beer and ice cream didn’t exactly go together, but Roan had felt like one anyways. For a technically short day, it had felt like a long one. He propped his feet up on the coffee table too, and noticed goosebumps on Par’s legs. See, that was why he was wearing the flannel pajama pants with the little cats all over them (Par’s idea of a joke) - you couldn’t be damp and eat ice cream and not get cold.

After a few minutes of silence, Paris finally said, “I’m sorry about … y’know, what happened in the car. I don’t know where that came from.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replied. He wanted to tell him he knew where that came from, but didn’t mention it. Par knew too, he just didn’t want to admit it.

That just settled in the room for a moment, long enough for Roan to grab his spoon and help himself to some ice cream (yeah, it tasted really weird with beer), before Par added hesitantly, “I guess I don’t like to talk about it. It just seems like … it’s like it all happened to someone else, you know? It doesn’t even seem like my life anymore, just something that happened to somebody I’m not sure I know.”

“You can always talk to me about it, you know. I mean, I know my experience isn’t exactly similar, but I can listen.”

He glanced at him with a weak little smile. “I know. I guess it’s like you and the whole cat traits thing; it’s just not easy to talk about.” He had to bring that up, didn’t he? Oh well, fair enough. He put his hand on his chest and rubbed his thumb underneath his collarbone. “As this is, I’m sure.”

Paris wasn’t caressing his chest - he was tracing the scar across his torso, the one that ran from his shoulder to the hollow of his throat, the one he never talked about. Oh, there was the one on his face too, but it was small and of all of his scars it had faded most with age. This one hadn’t; this one would dog him forever. “Someday,” he said lamely. It was all he could offer right now.

Par nodded and seemed to accept that for now, letting his hand fall away. Enough time had passed to signal the change to a more comfortable topic. “That meeting wasn’t anything like I expected. It was like group therapy.”

“That’s the processed, user friendly face of Humanity First. The real group, the more rabid side, won’t be visible until you go deeper. Kind of like their website.”

“Or Divine Transformation.”

“Exactly. It’s a cult buffer system.”

The telephone rang sharply, not so much startling Roan as annoying him. Everybody knew not to bother him during The Wire - who the fuck was calling now? He let it go to the machine.

The voice that responded to the message was heavily muffled, not professionally distorted but still very hard to understand. “Ask Elijah about Melissa Prescott. He knows more than he’s said.”

A cold shock stabbed through him, and he exchanged a surprised look with Paris before scrambling to the other end of the couch and groping for the phone. He grabbed the receiver and asked, “Hello? Wait -” But all he got was the drone of a dial tone; they’d already hung up.

Caller i.d. said the number was blocked, so he hit star sixty nine to dial the number. But it rang and rang, at least twenty times before he finally decided to hang up. Son of a bitch.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Paris asked. “Was that a prank?”

It was possible, but they’d have to know that Eli (Elijah) had hired him, and was concerned about the killed infecteds - and that latter information was not common knowledge.