Between Fur and Skin

Ch. 1

Todd's been dying for as long as he's been living.

Not in the dramatic, every breath could be your last sense—though sure, he's had that too—but in the literal way. Nine lives. That's the deal. It was the deal for his mom, too.

She was a black cat hybrid with more hex in her veins than blood, born under an unlucky moon and carrying it like a curse. Not much of a mom in the storybook sense—sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued, hands quick to shove you toward survival whether you liked it or not. Her last life was running out by the time Todd was born, her body stuck in her cat form, injury locking her out of shifting back. He'd never seen her stand upright, never seen her with hands instead of paws. Just dark fur, yellow eyes, and a restlessness that smelled like fear.

When the dogs cornered them in the alley—three, maybe four, frothing and snapping—she didn't hesitate. She grabbed him by the scruff, tossed him toward the pack, and bolted. He remembers the scramble of teeth, the hot flash of pain, the shriek that might've been his own voice. He doesn't blame her. Not really. She had to live. But it doesn't stop the hollow in his chest when he thinks about it too long.

That was Death Number One. He was three.

Number Two was a rusted sedan in Queens. He was five and starving, paw-deep in a tipped trash can, when the headlights caught him. A horn blared, brakes screamed, then bone-snapping dark. He woke up on a damp curb with his tail curled tight and another life gone.

Number Three crept in slow, like rot. Winter in the city at eight years old. His breath came out in clouds he could barely see through, stomach eating itself in slow, grinding hunger. Sickness made his paws unsteady. He curled up on the frozen sidewalk, tail over his nose, waiting for warmth that never came. Nobody stopped. Nobody noticed.

Number Four wasn't as quick as it should've been. Middle school bathroom. Six-on-one. They broke his nose, split his lip, rattled his ribs like a maraca before leaving him half-conscious. He crawled home—if you could call the abandoned squat "home"—shifted into fur to hide the bruises, and never shifted back. Not until his heartbeat gave out. Twelve years old.

Number Five, Brotherhood years. Todd had a roof, a room, a team. They were idiots and criminals but they were his idiots. Didn't matter. Fights with the X-Men were always messy, and that day Cyclops and Spyke had both gotten lucky shots in. Todd felt the break inside before anyone else saw it. He slipped out before they noticed, crawled into an alley two streets over, and died in quiet so nobody would have to watch.

Number Six was Mystique's call. Expendable muscle in her war with Magneto's latest crew. The blow hit hard enough to crush his chest. He barely made it to his cat form before it took him out. Died in the crook of a tree branch, seventeen years old, hidden from everyone.

Which left him here. Eighteen, on life number seven, running missions that weren't his idea and never would be.

—----

The warehouse stank of ozone and cold metal. The thing Mystique wanted—whatever it was—sat on a slab in the center, humming low enough to make his teeth ache. Todd didn't get the specifics. Didn't care. He could smell the charge in the air, feel the prickle along his skin that said this thing was bad.

"Alright, grab it and go," Lance ordered from behind a crate. His voice was tight, a warning under the command.

Todd's gut twisted. This wasn't grab-and-go. This was wrong-move-and-you're-done. His gaze swept the team—Lance tense, Pietro pacing with energy buzzing under his skin, Tabby crouched and ready, Pyro nearly shaking with anticipation. They couldn't afford to be wrong.

If this went bad, they wouldn't come back. None of them. And Todd—well. Todd had options.

"Stay put, Toad!" Lance barked.