The neighbor was, perhaps, the most logical dynamic the man had observed in the new life of Emilio Cortez. It seemed he’d set himself up as an investigator in this town — whether this was a genuine passion or a simple means of making cash remained unclear — and an investigator working side-by-side with a journalist certainly made sense. The relationship clearly wasn’t one that was strictly professional, though. There was a certain back and forth between them, a banter that implied some form of friendship. It was the kind of thing that could be made useful.

Approaching as the hunter’s friends left their places of employment seemed the most effective method. There was little chance of running into the hunter himself, and leaving work for the day tended to leave people relaxed enough to be a little more open. So the man waited outside the newspaper (newsletter? Was that what they were called online?) office for the journalist to exit. When she stepped out, he stepped forward. He held his hands up, palm out; she struck him as the paranoid type. “Excuse me, miss.” His accent was thick, heavy. English wasn’t something he’d practiced, and it showed. “I am hoping to speak with you on something. Is very important.” 

—

Arden liked her job. She didn’t always love it, but she liked it, the process, the research, the editing. It was satisfying work, and she had spent the last several years of her life focusing almost entirely on her career as she avoided facing herself. So it felt strange to notice that she was obsessively checking the clock these days, eager to get back home to Teagan and the cats, or to go catch up with Metzli or drop in on Leila or hang out with Wynne or whatever it was she happened to be doing on any given day. 

That day, she was just ready to get back to the cabin, and curl up in bed and take a damn nap– preferably with Teagan. As she stepped out, though, she almost immediately found her path blocked by a man stepping forward. Despite the winter gear and the poor posture he was clearly rather buff, and he was taller than her for sure. Judging by his appearance and the slight wrinkles, she’d guess he was Latine, probably somewhere in his late 40s or 50s. And, man, he had a mean look on his face. 

It was clear he'd been waiting outside the office to approach whoever was leaving, which made her feel slightly wary, but wasn’t alarming enough to set off alarm bells quite yet– though the raised hands almost felt more suspicious than a normal approach. A precaution, maybe, to counteract the resting bitch face? Either way, if he was hanging around the office, it was likely business related to the paper. 

“And what would that be?” Arden asked, looking up at him, brow raised. 

—

There was no greeting, no hello, but he supposed that was to be expected. Americans had a reputation of rudeness, after all, and the man had approached with little warning. Besides that, he suspected that anyone who spent a considerable amount of time around hunters were bound to inherit some of that patented paranoia. (Did she know, he wondered? Did she have any idea what her neighbor got up to in his free time? The things he’d done, the things he likely continued to do now… Was she ignorant, or complacent? Either way, he thought, it was sure to say something about her.) 

He tried for a smile, but it was an unpracticed thing. Clumsy and unnatural, like it had been carved onto his face by force. If anything, it looked like more of a grimace. Most expressions did, these days. It was difficult to manage anything else. The last few years had been especially hard on him, after all. 

He made no move to get closer to her. The last thing he wanted was for her to run, to have to chase her down or to have her call the hunter and end all of this before it could begin at all. He needed her — and the rest of them — unassuming. Or, as close to it as he could hope to make them. The man had never been particularly good at coming off as nonthreatening; it wasn’t in his nature, and it was difficult to sell such a monumental lie. Still, he made some attempt. He allowed the distance to remain between them, allowed that grimace of a smile to remain on his face. “Is about a friend you have,” he said. “A neighbor. Emilio Cortez?” He watched her expression carefully, waiting to see if there was any shift there, any change. Even the smallest details could give him more information than he had now, and information would be helpful during the inevitable confrontation to come.

—

He seemed to be trying to appear non-threatening with the raised hands and pitiful attempt at a smile, but it only served to assure that she would not be lowering her guard anytime soon. He surprised her, though, with the mention of Emilio. Her brows furrowed slightly as an uneasy feeling settled in her gut, the situation immediately feeling more suspect, more dangerous. 

The man wanted to talk about Emilio. Emilio, who had a knack for finding trouble, making enemies–especially the undead– and pissing people off. (Distantly, Arden remembered Teddy mentioning something about goons.) He knew they were friends, which, granted, they did have public conversations online from time to time, and he knew that they were neighbors, which would’ve been clear had he gone looking for their addresses, regardless of their current living situations. But it meant he’d clearly done at least the bare minimum of looking into them both. He’d even sought her out at work.

She didn’t like this.

“Can I ask what this is about?” she asked, trying not to let her nerves show. She was hyper aware of the knife in her coat pocket, the familiar weight of it a slight comfort. It would be ballsy to try to attack her immediately in front of the paper offices, but, well, she was just human, and the man was large. There was only so much she’d be able to do about it. 

—

He saw it happen. He saw her guard shoot up even further, saw those already impressive walls grow in magnitude. He hadn’t gotten much from the kid, but he felt like he’d at least walked away with a little more than he’d had before that conversation. But here? With her? The man had a feeling he’d be getting nothing from this. It wouldn’t dissuade him from trying, of course. The stakes were too high to walk away without so much as an attempt. Even if the reporter was closed off and unwilling to share, there was always an attempt she might let something slip unintentionally, between the words. The man was good at picking up on those things.

So he kept that forced, unnatural smile firm on his face, he shrugged a shoulder. “Not very interesante, I think. I knew him back in México. Would like to catch up with him here, but, ah…” He trailed off with a hapless shrug. “He is… hard to approach, no? Best to know what… state he is in before trying to say hello.” He’d yet to actually lay eyes on the hunter as of yet — he wasn’t sure how he’d react, even from a distance — but he’d gathered a few nuggets of information here and there. After what happened in Mexico, the hunter was bound to be on edge. It would do the man no good to ignite his plans half-cocked, with no information on his side. If he wanted this to go his way, he needed to know everything he could.

It started here. With the reporter, with the kid, with whatever friends or acquaintances the man could approach without giving himself away. Tangaroa wasn’t the threat he would have been years ago, but unapproachable all the same. The man didn’t particularly want to tangle with the rangers the hunter seemed to have been spending time with, either, or the other slayers. Keeping to humans for now, the kind with no enhanced senses to speak of… That was his best bet. Even if those humans were as guarded as the reporter seemed to be. “I’d just like to know… what state he’s in these days. How he is doing.” He heard the hunter walked with a limp now. It seemed to track with the massacre. It seemed like it could be useful, if it needed to be. But emotional state… that would be handy to know. That was the sort of thing you could only learn by asking. 

—

There was something about his tone, his phrasing, that didn’t sit right with her. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but it felt like he was trying to play this off casually, keyword: play. The explanation didn’t really make sense, either. If he was a friend– a word he hadn’t said, she noted– why wouldn’t he just go say hello? Why come to her? And why would he need to know Emilo’s state?

She really didn’t like this. 

Her mouth twitched at the ‘hard to approach’ comment, so she leaned into it, allowing it to grow into a smile that she hoped seemed somewhat sincere as she back on how she had confidently strode into Axis so many months back. “Oh, are you an old friend, then?”

Someone from Mexico, though… 

Emilio hardly ever mentioned his home, his past. Arden hadn’t heard the entirety of the confrontation he’d had with Teagan at the cabin months ago, but it was her understanding that hunters had killed his family, same as the nix. They hadn’t spoken about it, though, and she knew nothing of the details, didn’t know what had happened or when, or if there was even more tragedy in his past. All she knew was that Rhett was the only family he had left …and she had caught him fidgeting with a ring a few nights when they’d had too much to drink. Other than that, though, she just knew he’d left two years ago. There certainly hadn’t been any mention of friends. 

“How nice of you to check in on him,” she continued. After a moment, she cocked her head to the side. “You know, I don’t think I caught your name.”

—

It felt like a game between the two of them; a chess match that he doubted either of them was entirely prepared for. How much did the reporter know about the hunter’s past, he wondered? It was unlikely he’d go into detail, if his patterns over the last two years were to be taken into account. The hunter stayed in a town only as long as he needed to before moving on to the next. But Wicked’s Rest was already an outlier, wasn’t it? He’d stayed here long enough for the man to catch up with him, put down enough roots for there to be reporters and kids and friends to approach with questions. Maybe he’d broken his usual pattern in other ways, too. Maybe the reporter knew more than he’d assumed she did. That was an answer all its own, wasn’t it? The hunter had people here. 

It was a good thing to know.

“Friend, yes. Something like that,” the man replied, his smile tightening around the edges just a little. It would have been easier if these people were only associates, he was realizing. Friends asked too many questions, had protective streaks. But the hunter didn’t seem to have gathered a good deal of casual associates; he was inspiring a loyalty in this town that was surprising to say the least. The man hadn’t thought him entirely capable of it. 

More unwelcome inquiries. The man shrugged again, noncommittal. “I didn’t say it,” he replied. “You know, the last time I saw Emilio, he was in… ah… a state. Bad. Not easy to talk to. All I want to know is if he is still so… voluble. If you can’t tell me this, maybe I just go on my way, no?”

—

Arden had seen that look far too many times to miss the way his smile tightened. She was annoying him. He didn’t like her asking questions, clearly, but he should have thought of that before approaching a journalist– this was literally part of her job description. 

Something like that. Like that wasn’t super fucking suspicious. Her lips curled up at the next words out of his mouth. It was almost funny, he didn’t even try to give her some bullshit name, he just wasn’t giving her anything. It hardly seemed fair when he clearly knew hers– he’d come looking for her, after all. She was tempted to say just that, but she didn’t want to anger this stranger. She was already annoying him, and she didn’t know not what he was or what he was capable of. It wasn’t the time to be a smartass, though, she had no doubt that Emilio would disagree were he there.  

Voluble, that one wasn’t in her vocabulary. Damn her terrible Spanish. She was fairly certain she got the gist of it, context clues and all, but she tried to file it away to look up the moment she had the opportunity.

She really wanted to push, wanted to see if she could turn the tables on the man and get him to spill some information, but it was a risky move. There was too much she didn’t know, and the more she spoke the more she risked spilling information herself. Not to mention she would possibly be putting herself in danger. 

No, she needed to be smart about this, quit while she was ahead. 

“I think that might be for the best,” Arden agreed, still in that polite tone of voice. 

—

He was a little surprised at her response. He’d expected her to push more — to try to get more out of him, and to unintentionally give him more in return. But she was smart, it seemed; smarter than he’d given her credit for. Too smart to be running around with hunters, isn’t she? What was someone like this doing associating with a man like Emilio Cortez? There was more to the story here, more to the relationship. There were pieces the man didn’t have, and there was a part of him that wanted to push for those, wanted to take things apart bit by bit until he held more of the puzzle than she did. 

But doing this would mean giving her something in return. She was too smart to walk away with nothing, and he was too desperate to give up anything that he had. He wanted the upper hand when he finally approached the hunter firsthand; giving away too much here would mean losing it. Nothing was worth that. Not even satiating his desperate curiosity. 

So, hating it a little, the man nodded his head. “Perhaps there are others I can ask, then.” Doubtlessly, the journalist and the kid would put two and two together that the same person had been in contact with them both; the man remembered uncovering a shared address between the two when he was in the earliest stages of his fact-finding mission. He wondered if they would approach the hunter separately or together, or if the kid had told him already. Would the next person he approached see him coming? Time, he thought, would be the only thing to tell.

He took a step backwards, not taking his eyes off the journalist, not turning his back. A hand in her pocket — would she go for her cell phone, or a weapon? He was confident he could take her in a fight, but it would be a bigger mess than he was hoping to leave behind here. It would almost certainly expose him to the hunter with less doubt than he had working for him now. Not worth it; best to avoid.

“It was nice to be meeting you,” he said politely. “Maybe next time, you’ll have more to say.” Let her take it how she wanted — a threat, or a friendly goodbye? It served the man’s purpose better to confirm neither option.

—

He hadn’t expected her to agree, it seemed. She took a bit of satisfaction from it, the way his eyes narrowed in response. But of course he wouldn’t just approach her, would he? And if he knew about her, he likely knew about Wynne. The thought both worried her and pissed her off, however Arden tried her best to keep it from showing. 

When he moved, her hand went to her pocket, clutching the hilt of the knife in her hand as she watched him slowly back away, staring right back at him. 

“Likewise.” Though, her grip only tightened as he offered his goodbye. A threat. Excellent. “Maybe so,” she replied, offering him another fake smile. 

She didn’t look away, watching his retreat until he disappeared out of sight. And even then, she gave it a moment before turning around and heading back into the office. It was only once she was safely back inside, back pressed to the door, that Arden allowed her face to fall.