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Most teenagers hate the smell of blood. If their best friends put knives to their chests, they'd scream and cry. They live with their parents. They know where they are.
Alyssa and James are not normal teenagers. They sleep with blades in their pockets and guns under their pillows. James's parents are dead and Alyssa hasn't talked to hers in months. They are somewhere in the United States, hopefully, almost about to land. It's a bit difficult to smuggle oneself between countries on an airplane, but their new companion has experience.
Santiago Jones is not a normal teenager, either. He doesn't have a best friend, but he does carry weapons. He hasn't seen his parents in months, but he called his mom's favorite Syrian motel a few weeks ago and she picked up, for once. He always knows where he is, because he knows everywhere.
Three teenagers lay low in a luggage compartment, far enough away that their parties wouldn't catch each other out. Santiago didn't ask why they wanted to leave England, so they didn't ask him, either. They also didn't think to ask where the flight was going. They might regret that part.
The flight itself was boring, so Alyssa and James were fast asleep in minutes, but Santiago woke them up on the descent by whistling. Alyssa cursed at him for hurting her ears, while James thanked him for keeping them safe.
The escape is difficult with airport security, but Santiago is clearly experienced. He bribes one worker to distract the others while they climb onto the luggage tracks behind the largest suitcases. Santiago tells them this is the hardest part, because they have to get off the tracks and out into the airport without being apprehended. If they time it just right, they can make it through pickup.
Since they're trapped in close quarters for a while, Alyssa demands to know where their new companion learned to do these things.
"Around," he says, but not like he's being intentionally mysterious. "I don't really remember. I've been crossing borders illegally since I could walk."
James nods in understanding.
Alyssa groans. "I'd hoped you might be stable."
"How?" Santiago asks her. "We're running from the law."
She shrugs. Something pings and Santiago pulls them to a raised platform by the tracks.
"Why do they have this?" James asks him.
"Repairs," he explains. "I think it's an OSHA thing."
"What's OSHA?"
Santiago ducks into a corner behind them where he's found a thin access stair. "Can you two walk quietly?"
They nod and he starts them down.
This American airport is far more of a maze than the small English one they left from, especially when they have to leave a staff-only area. Santiago does something with the card scanner they go through and leads them to the loudest sounds they hear.
"There's so many people," James whispers.
"Sorry," Santiago says. "We have to leave through them." He tugs at his rucksack, looking around at the crowd. "Left," he decides.
—
Smuggling a known killer into a foreign country was not one of Santiago’s best decisions, but he’d met killers before, and these were kids his age. They’d just looked so sad sitting there, and while he now knew that was their general attitude, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret helping them out. Alyssa and James, who think he doesn’t know their records, have not threatened Santiago in any way and are actually good travel companions when he doesn’t mind their brooding.
James uses his scarred hand to carry his luggage and he’s casual with it, so the disfigurement can’t be new. Alyssa seems a bit disgusted the one time he sees her touch it, but James must not mind. This isn’t their first time running away, but they’ve never done it by plane. One of the benefits of being from everywhere is seeing everyone—Santiago knows how to judge a character, and the fucked-up kids following his lead are not malicious, just weird. Santiago knows weird.
American airports aren’t better than others, but they stand out in his mind. Santiago’s companions slow to stare at the stores around them and he has to lead them out of traffic. He tells them he needs to use the charging stand for his laptop, which gives them time to roam until the magic of capitalism wears off a bit. Santiago doesn’t know why they don’t have phones, but it’s convenient to avoid tracking, so he lets them keep their secrets.
Twenty minutes into the wonders of faulty cables, Alyssa storms back with a frown and a glare. “We need to go?” Santiago asks, because he knows trouble.
“Some lady bumped James an’ got pissy about his hand,” Alyssa tells him, blunt as ever. “She thinks he needs a doctor. We’re gonna run when he gets here.”
Santiago grunts in response and pulls out the plug. She doesn’t look twice at the alien tech he has wired to his laptop. As he packs up, Alyssa opens her backpack and pulls out a small pocket knife—Eye Witness, if he had to guess. She tucks it in her pocket and looks at him, probably judging his approval. He just ignores her and zips his bag.
It only takes a minute for James to get back to them, looking suitably uncomfortable with the outcome of their adventure. Santiago understands the feeling and, grabbing his rucksack, starts off in the direction he hopes will lead to the exit. His companions follow close behind, almost jogging to keep up with him.
Santiago turns a corner and stops. There, on a screen displaying international fugitives, is his face, staring down at him. It's from his arrest in Italy, one of a few, where he'd been made to pose for a mugshot. His photo glares down at him as his companions whisper to each other at his back.
Spying an exit sign, what must be a fire door, he fights back the urge to run and walks in its direction, faux casual. "Thank God for Americans," he says to no one. "They love to mind their business."
At the door, Santiago digs a gadget out of his pocket—he doesn't know its name—to disable the alarms. He knows it's a risk to leave this way, but James was right about the people. He couldn't stand being in there for much longer.
Alyssa and James follow him quietly, not even talking to each other, as he sneaks past crews and trucks. Airports are always busy, but as long as they stay out of sight, they should be fine.
After the silence grows too loud, and they're nearly to an employee exit that should get them to a good road, Santiago stops behind a large storage crate. "I'm a fugitive," he tells them. "You saw that inside."
"What the fuck did you do?" Alyssa asks. She doesn't sound angry, despite her choice in language.
"Militant ecosocialist," he says, "or something like that. I don't keep track."
"Baller," Alyssa says. She doesn't say anything else.
"How does that make you a fugitive?" James asks.
"After your tenth violent protest and third high-profile theft…" Santiago shrugs.
A clatter and a series of shouts send them running for the gates. Alyssa and James are not very fast runners, and both of them lean awkwardly as they move, like they don't know what to do with their bodies. Santiago slows down for them. He likes having companions.
Santiago pulls at the collar of his turtleneck—uncomfortable, but necessary—to make sure it's covering his tattoo, then approaches the guard station. They haven't automated it yet, which could be good or bad. He waves to the guard and points at the gate. If they're lucky—
The gate swings up slowly, whining as metal scrapes on metal. Santiago nods to the guard in thanks and the trio walk out onto a windy ridge. Damn. It's going to be a long walk.
—
The sky is remarkably clear on the East coast of America. Alyssa and James whisper to each other, and as they frolic, for lack of a better word, Santiago watches their bone-white skin, opaque and dull like they've never seen the sun. He'd forgotten the English climate was so different from here, forgotten these two were so new to everywhere. Virginia, he thinks, is the state in which they've landed. His companions may be runaways, but they've never recreationally travelled. Some part of him—the part from Jo—takes pride in an almost-kidnapping.
"Santiago!" Alyssa calls. The two have fallen behind. He waits for them, watching the road—a service road. The highway is visible ahead.
"Your name's too long," she tells him firmly, "even longer than mine."
Santiago shrugs. He's still watching the road. Something tells him that they're no longer alone.
James catches his eye—same instincts, it seems—and moves closer to Alyssa, who quiets just a bit. “You should have a nickname,” she says, and Santiago hears what she means.
“Jon for short,” he tells her. “You can be El, Elena.” No person comes around the corner. Santiago still can’t breathe.
“Not far,” James says, his voice low, though his face is steady. He sways a bit as he steps forward. Alyssa catches his hand.
“If we’re lucky, no one will think we’re drunk,” Santiago tells them as he speeds up his pace. “We’re all underage in America.”
"I fucking hate America."
—
Santiago may not have much experience with extraterrestrial danger, but he knows the signs. He knows that the sound of footsteps following them cannot be a small animal. His companions know this, too. He can see it in their eyes.
They walk, and they walk, and the being follows them. They walk until they reach a highway, empty of cars for just a moment. Here they stop and wait. They'll hitchhike for a ride.
"Show yourself," James says to the air, as Santiago digs for supplies.
"Yeah!" Alyssa punches where she thinks it is.
"Maybe don't—" Santiago begins, and he turns around with knives in his hands. He stills. The others are quiet.
The thing that looks at them must be a child. The look on their face is full of fear. Their little horns are tiny and their eyes are wide. Santiago knows they won't speak English. He hopes his universal translator still works after so long. He tugs on his ear and hums out a tune and clicks his tongue twice. "Can you understand me?" he asks, and he knows his companions can't.
Grunts and gasps like the human body can't make are new to Alyssa and James. The alien looks so excited to hear Santiago’s noises, but they don't make any response.
"I don't think they can speak," James says. "They might not even understand."
Santiago nods and grunts to himself. He tugs his hair and spins in a circle and waves to the child with a smile. "Inconvenient translator," he tells them. "The implant's not very advanced."
Alyssa just glares at him. She's probably right.
Santiago reaches out to the child with both arms, keeping his palms facing out. He smiles at them and hopes he looks sincere. They look at him for a long moment. "Please," he whispers.
After a moment more of hesitation, the child leaps at Santiago. He catches them with years of practice, holding them to his chest. He hums softly and adjusts their position while Alyssa and James return to their private conversation.
“I have a cloaking device in my bag,” Santiago tells James quietly, after a moment's peace. “It's a clip-on. Just makes whatever you're carrying look like a backpack.”
“Right,” James agrees, moving to unzip the bag that's still on his new companion's back. “Main pocket? This gray thing?”
“Sounds right.” Santiago shifts the child to his other side to get a better view. “Yeah, that's it. Just keep it in your pocket.”
James nods and fits it between a knife and a pack of gum.
“Are we gonna talk about that?” Alyssa asks—demands—with a scathing glare that the child, luckily, misses. She quickly gets her expression back under control, to a slightly sadder glare that seems to be her resting face. “Not the alien, everyone knows those are real. The other thing you did, the—translator? How did you do that?”
Santiago winces. It's not often he has to give the alien talk. Usually, someone else handles the issue, and he's able to convince everyone else it was a scam or collective hallucination or something.
James starts their pseudo-interrogation, in his own awkward way. “Well, you've met an alien, obviously.” He doesn't wait for a response. “Or are you an alien? Human mouths don't make those noises, right?”
“Throats,” Alyssa corrects. “The mouths don't make the noises, the throats do.”
“Well, it's sort of both—” Santiago begins, but their attention immediately turns to him and he is reminded for the first time that he has befriended a boy convicted for assault, resisting arrest, petty theft, and more, and acquitted for homicide on the basis of self-defense. Are they friends? The papers accused James of kidnapping Alyssa, but the official documents say they were friends who had just met. He hasn't known them even for that long—is he their friend?
“Not an alien,” Santiago says firmly. “My godfather is—he's half my family's godfather, I think. I only met him once.”
“And he just gave you a bunch of alien things?” Alyssa looks curious, maybe even eager. She never had a parent to give her much of interest, from what Santiago can gather.
“He was too busy for that. He gave me a few things, most of which are for my phone and laptop. The thing I use to unlock doors, too—it's sonic, I think, but I have no idea what it is past that. The translator and cloaking device are way too primitive for his standards, and he wouldn't really need them. His are built in to his ship.”
“Where did you get those, then?” James asks. His expression is different from Alyssa's, a more sinister curiosity. Trying to decide if he's worth bringing along, probably, and how much they can get for this tech.
“Stole them from UNIT,” Santiago explains cheerfully. “My grandmother and her friends don't care for them very much. Something about too many guns? Like them better than Torchwood, though. Torchwood has a history of experiments, I think. The current guys are fine, though, they're just paranoid.”
James and Alyssa exchange a look. “I have no idea what a UNIT is or why their torch has wood—” Alyssa begins “—but they sound like government, and I hate the government, so I support you.”
James looks a bit less convinced on that part, but doesn't press about his sources any further. “So, they're bad tech?”
“Basically, yeah,” Santiago agrees. “UNIT wasn't guarding them too closely. Most translators have little quirks like that. I guess it's because they had technical issues—maybe it couldn't tell when to stop translating, or something. The bag thing just seems convenient, but it's probably also because of errors. I mean, the—my godfather's ship is constantly stuck in the same disguise because of a malfunction.”
“Spaceship,” James whispers. He doesn't seem to notice that they can hear him, even when Alyssa bumps his shoulder.
“Ignore him,” she says. “He's a nerd. I want to know where it goes. You called it an implant. And how you got it in.”
“It's a brain implant, kind of like a cochlear, I think? Like, it connects to your ears and to your, I don't know, Brocca's or whichever brain part makes the words come out. I had a surgery. Definitely not a safe one, but I was in the Andes when I found the time, and there weren't a lot of options.” Santiago shrugs. “Same guy took a bullet out of my leg, though, so I figured I could trust him.”
“Right,” Alyssa replies, dragging out the word. “Because brain surgery and removing a bullet are basically the same.”
“They're close enough,” Santiago grumbles.
“Well, I think it's impressive that you know geography and politics and smuggling and stuff but you don't know where your brain surgery was,” Alyssa says, sounding surprisingly genuine. “There aren't enough weird people out there.”
“Thanks?” Santiago shifts his weight again, already getting used to the presence of the child. He's cared for kids before, and this is far from the first time an unfamiliar child has sat sleepily in his arms, relaxing despite the presence of strangers. He's usually one of the strangers, in fact, but Santiago’s knowledge of languages and translator implant make him appear uniquely trustworthy to orphans in foreign company.
It's hard to think about his skills as a tool like that, when it comes to a child's safety, but his own anxiety about what could be done with that is nothing when he compares it to the consequences if these kids don't trust him, or at least see him as friendly. Santiago is grateful that neither of his new companions disturb his thoughts, clearly busy with their own revelations.
He smooths out the delicate little wrinkles on the child's back as he thinks, something that is seemingly standard for the species, by the way they snuggle into his chest even more. Santiago watches them for any distress, knowing that James or Alyssa will be watching the road. He wonders when he should sleep, before concluding that the issue is for his future, once they're settled somewhere with a roof.
It's another few minutes before a car comes into view. Any that passed earlier were outside their attention. Santiago tells them that this is normal for rural highways, even though the cities always seem so busy. The main road to the airport is elsewhere. The child is asleep now, its little horns moments away from piercing Santiago’s shirt.
Santiago’s companions stand closer to the road, while he stands a yard or two back, keeping the child a bit further out of sight. James had attached the cloaking device by now, but he can’t help the anxiety that comes with the situation. If he can see through the shield, who’s to say that others can’t? And it’s not as though it’s especially normal for a person to wear a backpack both on their front and their back. What if someone takes it the wrong way?
He’s being ridiculous, he concludes, when the fifth car passes without a second’s hesitation. Someone must have seen him by now, and the bright purple and orange of the child would not be easily overlooked. If anything, he’s surprised that no one has stopped, but it has been a while since he last came to the U.S. He remembers them being a bit… paranoid, generally.
The first person to stop is a trucker, actually. She stops, warns them about creeps on the road, and introduces herself as Keisha. She drives a semi with a decent-sized sleeper cab and she’s headed south. That was Santiago’s goal, initially, and Alyssa and James have no issue with that as long as it gets them to a city eventually. The child is asleep, but Santiago doubts they’d understand enough to have an opinion either way. He’s certain by now that they’ve been alone for a while, if it wasn’t evident by their apparent lack of speech. If this were a situation like he’s used to with wild animals, where the parent leaves the child alone but within reasonable distance and checks on them often, then there would have been some sign of another alien by now.
Their decision is made pretty quickly, and they all file into the sleeper berth with little fuss. Santiago is relieved to be back in a cab, honestly. He’s always found it much more comfortable than sleeping on the roadside. The child refuses to budge, so he lays down with them still clinging to his chest and helps the other two fasten the harness on the lower bunk while they take the upper one with no protection. They’re sure they’ll be fine, and Keisha doesn’t seem too worried, and Santiago has squeezed into one of these with far more people before. They tuck their bags into storage and lay down to rest. For James and Alyssa, it’s only been a normal day’s time since they last slept, but Santiago hasn’t gotten sleep since before they boarded the plane.
He settles in for one of the best sleeps he’s had this month. Tomorrow, he’ll face the day in a new place, with new people. Today, though, he’s going to be the first parent this child has had in who knows how long, and he’s going to hold them all through the night.