With one hand trailing over the scabrous stucco, partly to hold himself upright and partly from what was by now grim superstitious habit, Miles turned—right—and stumbled up the alley to its first cross-corri—corner.  The pavement was cold.  His captors had taken away his shoes early on; his socks were in tatters, and possibly also his skin, but his feet were too numb to register pain.

His hand crossed a faded graffiti, sprayed in some red paint and then imperfectly rubbed out, Burn The Dead.  It wasn't the first time he'd seen that slogan since he'd come downside: once on an underpass wall on the way from the shuttleport, where a cleaning crew was already at work effacing it; more frequently down in the utility tunnels, where no tourists were expected to venture.  On Barrayar, people burned offerings for the dead, but Miles suspected that wasn't the meaning here.  The mysterious phrase had been high on his list of items to investigate further, before it had all gone sideways . . . yesterday?  This morning?

Turning the corner into another unlit street or access road, which was bounded on the opposite side by a dilapidated chain-link fence, Miles hesitated.  Looming out of the gathering gloom and angel-rain were two figures walking side-by-side.  Miles blinked rapidly, trying to resolve them, then wished he hadn't.

The one on the right was a Tau Cetan beaded lizard, as tall, or short, as himself.  Its skin rippled with variegated colored scales, maroon, yellow, black, ivory-white in the collar around its throat and down its belly, but rather than progressing in toad-like hops, it walked upright, which was a clue.  A real Tau Cetan beaded lizard, squatting, might come up nearly to Miles's waist, so it wasn't exceptionally large for its species.  But it also carried sacks swinging from its hands, definitely not real beaded lizard behavior.

Its taller companion . . . well.  A six-foot-tall butterbug was definitely a creature out of his own nightmares, and not anyone else's.  Looking rather like a giant cockroach, with a pale pulsing abdomen, folded brown wing carapaces, and bobbing head, it nonetheless strode along on two stick-like hind legs and also swung cloth sacks from its front claws.  Its middle legs wavered in and out of existence uncertainly, as if Miles's brain could not decide exactly how to scale up the repulsive thing.

As the pair approached him and slowed, staring, Miles took a firmer grip on the nearest supporting wall, and essayed cautiously, "Hello?"

The butterbug turned its insectile head and studied him in turn.  "Stay back, Jin," it advised its shorter companion.  "He looks like some sort of druggie, stumbled in here.  Lookkit his eyes."  Its mandibles and questing palps wiggled as it spoke, its male voice sounding aged and querulous

Miles wanted to explain that while he was certainly drugged, he was no addict, but getting the distinction across seemed too much of a challenge.  He tried a big, reassuring smile, instead.  His hallucinations recoiled.