Chapter Text
The foyer is filled with people, every one dressed in their finest suits and robes, jewelry glittering from their necks, wrists and hands. It’s a pity that Napoleon is under strict Commands for this mission, or he would have picked something to add to his collection. If he was avian, he would definitely be a magpie.
Napoleon pretends to laugh at the suggestive joke the woman in front of him told him, while he places the second to last charm. She’s at least fifteen years his senior, which doesn’t seem to bother her much judging by the not quite casual way she leans into his space. It’s unpleasant, but it’s neither the first nor the worst “accidental” grope he’s had to endure in his life.
He noticed the man leaning against the wall the second he set foot into the theater. He blends in well enough, but the fact that he’s towering over everyone else made him catch Napoleon’s eye. Despite the rather noticeable scar on his temple, it’s his posture that sets Napoleon off. It’s nothing more than a feeling, but he knows his instincts are rarely wrong.
He excuses himself from the lady to place the last charm near the exit, completing the pentagram. The artefact he needs to get his hands on is sealed somewhere below the stage. It’s a rather complicated system of spells, unlocking only with a tripartite key, the pieces divided between the owner of the theater, the director and the stage manager. All of which are here today. It’s a good thing that Napoleon never had problems with acquiring the means to get into places he doesn’t belong in.
His last charm is an engraved coin waiting in the pockets of his pants. He gets himself another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and takes a last look around the room. He catches the tall man watching him again. Napoleon doesn’t care if he made himself suspicious anymore. He raises his glass in his direction in greeting, takes the coin out of his pocket and flips it.
There’s time enough to take a sip of champagne before the coin hits the ground. Napoleon can feel the spell strike through the room. Instantly the ambient noise ceases. He sets his glass down on a nearby table as the other patrons freeze. As he starts forward, a barely audible gasp disrupting the silence makes Napoleon wheel around again.
The blond man looks around the room, his eyes slightly widened in surprise. The spell didn’t work on him. It’s Napoleon’s turn to freeze. He doesn’t make mistakes, the spell was perfect. How is this possible?
Their gazes meet across the space in the unmoving crowd. The man takes a single step towards Napoleon and the spell implodes.
With an inward curse Napoleon swings around to leave the foyer through the back. He can hear the other man pushing his way through the people, who resume their chattering as if nothing happened at all.
As soon as Napoleon is in the empty hallway, he blocks the door behind him with one of the pedestals decorating the corridor and continues his way, quickening his steps. He hadn’t gone far before the handles of the door rattle violently. He’s barely made his way out of the building when he hears the pedestal crash.
A Hunter, it has to be. It’s just Napoleon’s luck that a Hunter shows up tonight.
Napoleon jogs down to the streets and snatches the car keys off one unsuspecting couple coming late to the performance. He’s already behind the wheel, before they realize that he’s not one of the valets parking the cars.
The Hunter runs down the steps when Napoleon takes off. The streets of East Berlin are almost empty, so he doesn’t hesitate to stomp down on the gas pedal.
The gunshot was nothing Napoleon expected. He grabs the steering wheel tighter, as the car careens from side to side. The screeching from the back of the car loudly broadcasts where the bullet hit.
Napoleon takes a look at the rear view mirror and nearly crashes into a light post. The Hunter is running after him. On foot. And constantly gaining ground.
“You can’t be serious.”
He can only watch as the man closes on the car. The man, or whatever he is, grabs the handles of the trunk and plants his feet firmly on the ground.
He’s trying to stop the car with his bare hands. Definitely not human. With a breathless laugh Napoleon watches the dashboard as the car struggles against him and loses. It would be hilarious, if Napoleon wasn’t the one trying to escape in said car.
With a sudden crunch the cover of the trunk gives up. Napoleon meets the other man’s gaze through the mirror as he staggers to a halt with the chunk of metal still in his hands. Freed of the resistance the car picks up speed. The cover of the trunk thrown after it misses just by a few inches. When the Hunter starts to run after the car again, Napoleon knows that he can’t hope to get away like this.
Napoleon sweeps the car into the next back alley and braces himself. As he guessed the alley was only a few feet short. He steps on the brakes, but it is useless. The car crashes against the wall at the end of the alley with still considerable speed. The impact throws him against the steering wheel and knocks the air out of his lungs. Still he loses no more time to kick out the shattered glass of the windshield. The hole is not big enough to fit a grown man, but it doesn’t have to be.
Napoleon changes.
The feeling is not comparable to anything else in the world. His whole body just shifts, his flesh and bones turning into another form as easy as breathing. It only takes a blink of an eye to complete the change. On light paws he jumps through the hole in the glass. He hops off the hood of the car and crouches between a dumpster and some cardboard boxes. His black fur blends in perfectly in the darkness of the alley.
It’s not long before the Hunter rounds the corner. Napoleon watches silently as he draws his gun again before he closes in. He pauses shortly when he finds the car empty and looks around. In the distance sirens start to blare. Their little race didn’t go unnoticed then. The man curses silently and rips open the door of the car. He takes out the clothes, which Napoleon had to leave in the driver’s seat, and looks around again. Napoleon closes his eyes, so their reflection from the sparse light doesn’t give him away, and ducks a little deeper.
By the time he opens them again, the man is gone.
* * *
“He’s here.”
Napoleon can barely hold in a sigh, but it doesn’t help his situation anyway. Not that he can think of anything, which could help him, but that doesn’t mean he’s set on making things even worse. Wordlessly he follows Jones into the other room.
Sanders sits in one of the armchairs, the TV babbling in the background. Something about freedom, protection and all the stuff that lost its meaning to Napoleon a long time ago.
Sanders doesn’t even face him as he starts to talk, which is totally fine with Napoleon.
“So where is the artifact?”
Napoleon knows that Sanders knows exactly where it is, which is to say, not with him, so he doesn’t bother to answer that question.
“A Hunter was waiting for me.”
There is that small huff of a laughter, condescending without even needing to word it out. “Don’t flatter yourself. We’re on their turf. They’re waiting for your kind on every corner.”
“You don’t understand. What was waiting for me was not human.”
He couldn’t really discern what exactly the man was, but he wasn’t just baseline. Enhanced strength and endurance possibly, but definitely some kind of magical abilities.
“Hunters only recruit humans, you know that.”
Napoleon tries to keep the anger out of his voice. Of course he knows, but he knows what he’s seen. “It wasn’t human. It tore the spell in half in just a moment. I can –“
Sanders stands up abruptly.
“Tell me again, what you can and cannot do, Solo.” He flicks his fingers. The light catches on the ring on Sander’s pinky. Napoleon can’t help but look. Every time he sees it it’s the same shock all over again, even after all these years. It’s not right. It doesn’t belong to Sanders, it belongs to him. He swallows the words down before they spill out.
Sanders smirks and steps in close.
“In case you don’t remember, I am the one that gets to decide over this.”
He lets his gaze wander down. Napoleon flinches when Sanders slips a hand into his shirt collar and pulls it down a little. “I know you’ve been sneaking out on your own. I don’t let you out in daylight enough to get a tan-line this time of the year. Did you think I don’t know about the stashes you keep?”
Napoleon curses inwardly. He thought he covered his tracks well enough. “Sir –“
“Enough.”
Sanders steps back a little. “I don’t think you are aware of your unique privileges.”
Napoleon can’t help but scoff this time.
A spark of magic runs up his legs and makes him flinch. Sanders extends the hand with Napoleon’s ring on it towards him. “Don’t move.” Napoleon can feel his muscles lock in place in their own accord. He hides his discomfort as he meets Sanders gaze. The sorcerer’s eyes hold that glint again, anger and contempt bubbling below the surface.
“Change.”
Napoleon’s mind barely registered the Command, but his body complies instantly. A white hot pain shoots through his head and his lower back. He lets out a gasp, but the first Command is still active, so he can’t do anything else. The pain of a forced change is always a surprise to him. It’s unnatural for switching between his forms to hurt, least of all the smallest change he’s capable of. The pointy ears now poking out on the top of his head sting as does his tail, his body not yet accommodating to the different anatomy, the nerves misfiring. His tongue pokes the sore spots where his fangs elongated.
“Undress.”
He barely has the time to glare at Sanders, before his body bends down to untie his laces. He tries to fight the Command although he knows it’s fruitless. He hates this, even more than the constant sneer of the other operatives, more than taking orders from the Circle, more than risking his life because they think it’s fun to bet on if he makes it or not. Seeing his hands move, working against his will, is the worst. He’s well aware that his life doesn’t belong to himself, but the feeling of his own fingers touching himself like a stranger is something completely different.
Before long he’s completely naked, his clothes carelessly scattered around him.
“On your knees.”
The force of the Command makes him hit the ground hard. His tail twitches.
With a smirk Sanders conjures a collar in his hands. Napoleon can only watch as Sanders leans down and wraps it around his throat. It’s uncomfortably tight, digging into his skin and impossible to forget.
Sanders is still smiling when he rises. “This is your place.” He extends his hand and grabs one of Napoleon’s ears, fingers running through the soft fur.
“You’re not human. You’re not fey. You’re not even part of the chimera or the dark breed.”
He closes his hand to a fist, squeezing Napoleon’s ear painfully.
“You’re a beast, a pet Solo, your kind always has been. This is the only use for shapeshifters.”
He tilts his head to the side and lets his gaze wander down. Napoleon’s never been shy, but this makes him want to throw up.
“You know, I could just sell you off or rent you to one of these cathouses. A pretty feline like you would fetch quite a prize.”
Sanders’ threats are empty, Napoleon knows that. He’s their best operative, even if no one acknowledges that, but Napoleon has to fight a shiver. He’s been lucky enough not to have been part of such an establishment, but he visited one of them on a mission. He has seen the patrons checking out the cages, the lined up toys, the show stage. He would do almost anything to not end up there.
Sanders smiles again by the time he looks into Napoleon’s face.
“Like I said, I don’t think you appreciate enough how good you have it with us.”
He lifts his hand to hover it over Napoleon’s head. “I believe you need time to think about this. Change.”
This time agony shoots through his whole body. He can feel his skin tearing, his bones breaking. A scream escapes him. Suddenly his body is free again and he sags forward. The pain as his head hits the floor barely registers. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on his side as his body starts to change.
It takes only a few seconds, but it feels like hours. The pain doesn’t stop, only transforms. His body is on fire. He blinks his eyes open and notices the extra layer of skin. A haw. The colors of the room are dimmed, but the contours are sharper than before. He knows he’s lying on the ground, but Sanders looks huge. Another thing of forced changes, the few seconds in which he’s not sure what he even is. The small white socked paws where his hands should have been clears it up pretty fast.
A cat. Sanders forced him into his cat form.
“Don’t change into another form, until I give the permission.”
The Command settles heavily on him, cutting off something in his core. For a second Napoleon can’t breathe. A part of him is blocked, the body Napoleon usually enjoys taking suddenly feels like a cage. Napoleon tries not to panic at the strange numbness, not in front of Sanders. Instead he looks up to Sanders and hisses. Only then he notices, that the collar is still around his throat. It changed with him, still tight. He paws at it, but the buckle stays closed. Sealed with a spell then.
Sanders huffs out a laughter. “That won’t come off. It should be enough to drive people away. I own you, don’t forget that. You may come back, when you have learned your lesson.”
He snaps his fingers in Jones’ direction. “Throw him out.”
Napoleon hisses again as Jones comes near him. He manages to get a good scratch on the other man’s hand, before he picks him up by his collar. Napoleon tries to struggle, but his body still hurts too much to make it effective.
Jones takes him outside. It’s dark, cold and wet, an ordinary night in March. There was nobody to be seen on the streets, just a few shadows in the alleys. Jones walks behind the building and literally throws him in a dumpster.
“That’s for scratching me, bastard.”
Napoleon only has it in him to hiss as Jones turns away. When he can’t hear the man anymore, he gathers what’s left of his strength and hops out of the dumpster. He’s glad that cats always land on their feet, otherwise he probably would have hit his head again. Determined to put as much distance between him and Sanders, he grits his teeth against the pain and trots down the street until he finds a bag full of old rags. Too tired to care about the stench he drags them into the next alley and collapses on top of them. He curls into a tight ball and passes out.