He approached Yosef, and shook the man’s hand. “It was good to meet you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” the translator conveyed Yosef’s response.

“I really do believe that with our help, you could implement something like our PRT. Adapt, assimilate, condition, and use the institution as a bridge between parahuman and human.”

The translator motioned for him to slow down.

He didn’t wait for the translator to completely finish before starting again, “You have a prime opportunity here, infrastructure already in place, and so much research. We could each share the best parts of our cultures with one another.”

Yosef shook his head.

Kamil pressed, trying to channel all of the enthusiasm and fervor that he’d had as a young scientist into a certain kind of energy. Irrepressible, the geek that believed everyone was as interested in his favorite subject as he was. Relentless.

Yosef tried to interrupt, and he pressed on. “The textile bridge, the sharing of knowledge, security, it’s the start of something, and I’m really excited about that.”

“Lie,” Crock o’ Shit cut in.

Kamil stopped. The smile dropped from his face.

“Words backed only by desperate fear, not truth,” Crock o’ Shit said.

“What do I do?” Natalie asked.

“You stay,” Kamil said. To the rest of the room, he said, “You keep her safe. Whatever happens in… in this riot, you keep her here and safe.”

Yosef responded. Translated, “We have no grudge with her. We have no grudge with you.”

What were the options?

Crock o’ Shit stepped forward, arm out. She was of a height with Kamil, but stronger, her arms muscled and past what looked like three layers of fishnet sleeves, they looked covered in scale tattoos.

No phone, no weapon, and a dangerous parahuman walking him to his execution.

Yosef said something in his tongue, brief. There were nods from guards and the translator. Kamil could imagine what it was, knowing the deeper context.

This was an unsanctioned execution. Yosef would be saying something like how he was never here.

Crock o’ Shit escorted him from the cell. Into a prison hallway, past prisoners who kept their heads down and gave Crock o’ Shit a wary look.

“You were Fidelis, weren’t you?” he asked.

“Was.”

“I would have liked to study your problem.”

“You’re telling the truth, but I’m not your guinea pig.”

“I know.”

He had related to Ashley Stillons, back in the day, by thinking of his own upbringing, the hard road to get out and away, the desperation. He had related to Weld by tapping into a part of himself that wanted to do good, by tapping into the boy inside of himself.

Every negative thought and feeling was a building block, a tool or a lens through which he could interpret and study the people around him who struggled.