Catwalk: Messiah by Nick Kelly

African-American heritage. Her hand graces the bare layer of his arm, and he cannot resist the attraction at the feel of her fingertips. He mouths the request for water, though he never realizes if the words cross his tongue. His attention is solely on her, his new savior, the embodiment of his physical improvement. She represents a life away from the wheelchair, from the paralysis.
    He lies here in the hospital bed, a young punk who willingly hit the streets to find quick and easy money and sex. He had been the feet on the streets, the delivery mechanism for the latest and greatest in chemical satisfaction. It occurs to him, numb and distant, that the drug runner is all the nurse sees on the bed. She has no inclination of his life, no desire to find out who he is. She tends to him because she is paid an hourly wage to do exactly that.
    The angel reads the chart and sneers, her words thick with contempt. “You’ll never walk again, Leon.”
    Hope dies in his throat. The vision of the wheelchair is a slap in his face. He chokes on his own breath, the frozen emotion of hopelessness. He struggles to draw air in defiance, but her words crush him. Leon swallows, memorizing the instant for eternity. He remembers every wrinkle of her face, some caused by age, others by disdain. He remembers his own response, and how it isn’t defiant enough.  
    The time will come soon enough to return that venom.  

    “Oww!”
    “Don’t be such a baby.” Delambre fought off a grin as he addressed the man accustomed to murder and mayhem as a way of life.
    “Pulling glass out of me shouldn’t involve putting metal in its place. I’ve been through that before, remember?”
    “If you’re such a hardass, why didn’t you take out one insane woman who envisions herself a bat?”
    “Shock you, Delambre.” The medtech had hit close to home with that comment. Why hadn’t he been able to even mount a countermeasure against the winged attacker? Cat had been caught so unprepared he’d barely managed to survive intact. Now, his newly hired partner was pulling shards of glass out of his unarmored neck and hair. He had no answers regarding Midas’ killer, and nothing to go on, save the brief video feed he’d snapped while running for his life.
    Delambre’s confident and chiding response interrupted Cat’s mental assessment. “One of Nitro’s highest conductors just found himself the recipient of sudden, and rather drastic, cosmetic surgery. Any leads?”
    “I gave you the video feed. That’s the best I got. I’ll do a search on his allies and enemies, but you know how long that’ll take.”
    “Hmm, I already have Angela working on it.”
    “Did you have her include the keywords for leather wings, razor sharp claws, and the ability to decapitate shiny pimps at will?”
    “Of course, Catwalk. I even had her use the filter that protects her backside from drooling ex-cops with a blatant desire to fondle her, regardless of her father’s presence.”
    “Hmmm, subtlety’s never been my strong suit, Delambre. Next time, have yer old lady push out an ugly kid with a huge ass an’ you won’t have to put up with me so often.”
    Delambre twisted the scalpel in a way that made Cat flinch. “Somehow, Catwalk, I doubt it would even slow you down.”
    Cat’s response never escaped his gritted teeth. Instead, he focused internally, centering on his breath and the ability to fortify against his pain. The medtech could have continued the procedure with less agony, but they hadn’t yet reached a level where they truly knew or trusted one another. For now, he would suffer the probing metal of a protective father and counter it with meditation.
    Shock it. It was worth it just for the line about Angela’s backside.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    There were six messages waiting as Cat stepped, tired and sore, into his loft. Three were solicitations or exotic off-world travel packages targeted at the financial group he was in as a front. The fourth was a