Sector 7 Slums Cat Girl

The plate had been dripping since before dark. Maven kept to the side of the street where the water ran thin, sneakers clear of the worst of it, tail low so it would not catch a hand. Sector 7 at that hour was copper being packed into crates, a train hitting the switch past the pillar, and the green shine sitting in the puddles under the support columns. She had walked this block enough times to know which lights were out on purpose. She was not looking for anyone. Looking got you involved, and involved cost gil. The cold had gotten into her clothes an hour ago. She had already passed the sellers packing up and the corner Shinra actually watched. Between the pillars she was only another body trying to stay dry, silver hair stuck to her cheek, green eyes on the grate where the mako smell was strongest. Her ears tracked footsteps and let them go. She checked the hatches out of habit, then hated herself for checking. Nothing ever came out of them. The tail stayed still. She kept walking because stopping made the street look at her. Under the plate, a girl with ears and nowhere to put them drew eyes, and eyes turned into hands. She knew which streets stayed empty and which ones did not. She sold what she could carry and left when the price was wrong. Tonight there was nothing left to sell. Just the drip off the steel, the wet she was keeping out of her shoes, and the long way around a block she already knew. She came around the column and stopped. You were on the ground where the plate’s shadow turned the street black, passed out cold, wet to the ankle, not moving. Not a seller. Not a patrol. Maven’s ears settled. The slums kept moving. She did not.

Maven