RP Home Is - A Foreign Land

Katpride

Katpride

Story Collector


A Foreign Land​

​
Ireland. 1970s.

The storm hits just before midnight. The skies crack open, and the rain tumbles down all at once. It hits the earth like a slap, swamps the roads and turns all the dirt to mud near instantly.

The Hound knows an opportunity when they see it. They’ve been eying the sky for days, biding their time and holding their tongue, gathering all the slack their handlers are stupid enough to give them. The storm doesn’t disappoint. Rain pours down in sheets. The wind howls, whipping the water this way and that. Booming thunder splits the sky, flashing lightning chasing its heels, and the power flickers, once, twice, then gives up in a sudden rush.

A metal fist is removed from the breaker box, glowing bionic eyes the only light in a suddenly pitch-dark room. The Hellhound’s laughter is too soft to carry over the howling wind. The screams that follow are not.


Hours pass, and the storm doesn’t let up in the slightest. The radio yammers on about closing the roads, battening the hatches, staying indoors and out of cellars.

The Hound’s eyes flick to the rearview, to the smouldering building shrinking into the horizon behind them. They flip to a different station and step on the gas.


They ditch the car half a mile outside town, driving it off a cliff and jumping out at the last second just because they can. They watch it tumble down, smile growing with every crunch. Then they walk the rest of the way, hands shoved deep in the pockets of their leather jacket. They’re thoroughly drenched by the time they’re halfway there, and contemplating another cathartic round of murders when they finally reach the outskirts.

Luckily for the residents of this dingy little middle-of-nowhere town, the pub is still open, and The Hound is amenable to using less sanguine liquids to drown their sorrows. Sodden and shrouded, they push through the doors of the establishment and drip their way over the threshold. There are a handful of people already inside, and they give them all one cataloguing sweep before closing their eyes behind their mirrored shades, cutting off the faint red glow and relying on sound and memory to guide them to the bar.

They draw the attention of the bartender soon enough, being the only person currently at the bar rather than seated at one of the booths. He greets them, and they give him a short wave in answer, their mask of polite disinterest firmly in place.

“Whiskey. Mix it with somethin’ warm, yeah?” They order, and when he shuffles off they remain standing, hip propped on one of the barstools rather than taking a seat. The fingers of their non-metal hand drum along the countertop, but they go still when the bell above the door rings. Footsteps, approaching the bar - one set. They risk cracking their eyes open, peering through their lashes at the woman who strides up beside them.

They don’t recognize her. Some of the tension leaves their shoulders, and they release the handle of the knife in their pocket. They crack a smile, let their shoulders drop further as they turn slightly towards her, commiserating. Casual. “Hell of a storm out there.”

 
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She hated the rain.

This was not the first time such a thought had crossed Freyja’s mind as she slogged through the Irish countryside. Indeed, such a hatred of rain would raise the question of what she was doing anywhere within a hundred mile radius of Ireland, or indeed of the entire United Kingdom.

Her cover answers were varied, including ‘visiting a sick family member/friend’, 'sightseeing’, or ‘attending university’. Responding to someone’s inquiries with ‘searching for magical artifacts that could cause serious harm in the wrong hands’ tended to get the British salivating and the Irish shaking their fist and yelling about how the English dogs have already taken more than their fair share.

It wasn’t the best time to be an outsider in Ireland anyways, to be perfectly honest. When Freyja had arrived she’d had no idea of the tensions between the IRA and loyalist factions, but she’d done her best to stay out of it, combing the countryside every hour she could in order to find her target.

Today she’d been unfortunately grounded. Veljara wasn’t happy about being stowed away, but when the clouds had burst her wings had quickly grown sodden and heavy. She’d stubbornly continued trying to fly until the weight had grown too much and she’d tumbled to the ground. At least she’d had the decency to stay out until she’d hit the ground, absorbing the impact before letting Freyja take the driver’s seat.

She remembered skirting a town not too long before the storm struck, but that had been as the valkyrie flew. It still took her the better part of an hour trudging through the moors until buildings finally came into view. She immediately began searching for a pub, letting out a sigh of relief as she saw light flickering in the windows.

Freyja pushed open the door, aware of just how bad she looked. She was soaked to the bone, hair and clothes stuck to her as they’d been drenched within the first ten minutes. The bartender started towards her with a worried expression, but she shook her head with a smile.

“Little rain never hurt nobody.” Freyja said, voice unusually cheery despite currently looking like a cat someone had fished out of a river. “If you’ve got a pot on, I’d love a coffee though. Double-strength.” She took her seat at the bar, wrapping her hands around the chipped mug as soon as it arrived

“Heh, you can say that again.” She responds, turning to look at the only other patron sitting at the bar. They certainly cut an interesting figure. Leather jacket and mirrored shades, scruffy hair that traveled down to their shoulders. Looking into their glasses Freyja grimaced slightly. She expected to look bad, but not that bad. She looked like she’d swam across the Irish Sea and gave up halfway across.

“Looks like we’re the only two idiots dumb enough to be caught out.” She chuckled, raising her mug and taking a small sip. Warmth instantly started to spread through her, the coffee and whiskey working in concert to chase away the chills. There was something about them that itched her brain, something that said there was a story there waiting to be read in them. She’d always had a knack for telling who or what had an interesting story tied to them, and it hadn’t led her astray yet.

“I’m Freyja. And you are?”

Code by Reyn
 
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Their drink arrives soon enough, set at their elbow along with a towel in a not-so-subtle attempt to get them to stop tracking water across the floor. They consider ignoring it, but a similar offer is made to the woman beside them, and she accepts hers.

It would be a waste to leave before they’ve finished their drink. They sit properly, one foot resting on the lower rung of the stool, and sling the towel across their shoulders to catch the water still dripping from their hair. Their hands are covered by thin leather gloves, which they dry on one end of the fabric before picking up their drink, mirroring her and raising it to their lips. They take a sip, smile turning wry.

“Parched,” they deadpan, still studying her. She’s tall. Well-built. Unarmed. Dark ink curls along her forearms, disappearing into the bunched-up sleeves of her waterlogged flannel. The nearest one looks like some kind of leafy plant. Maybe she’s some kind of environmentalist. That would certainly explain why she was wandering around in the rain.

Their eyes slip shut when the bartender wanders near, and they frown into their half-empty mug. They should keep moving. The storm won’t last forever, and when it breaks they’ll need to be as far from the base as they can manage. It’ll be easier once they steal a new car - won’t have to worry about trackers in some rando’s four-door - but they can’t say they’re looking forward to doing even more driving in this weather.

Well. There’s no avoiding it forever. They down the rest of their drink, hardly tasting anything but the burn, and set the mug back on the bar alongside a twenty pound note. Then they slide to their feet and turn to the woman, already reaching up to remove the towel from around their shoulders.

“Guess you’re smarter than me, angel.” They grin, fluff their hair out of their collar, nod to the money tucked under their empty mug. “Drink’s on me. At least one of us will get to appreciate it.”

The smallest sliver of red peeks through their lashes as they lean forward and wrap the towel around her shoulders. Their voice, already rough and fairly hushed, lowers further, like they’re about to impart a great secret.

“Your hair’s wet. Careful you don’t catch cold.”

They’re smirking as they release the towel, shoving their hands back into their pockets and straightening up. Amusement radiates off them in waves, but they waste no time in starting for the door, one hand briefly leaving their pocket so they can wiggle their fingers in an off-hand goodbye just before they shove it open. A ring of keys glints against their leather-covered palm.

They step outside and they’re gone, swallowed by the storm in an instant.

 


Freyja let out a polite ‘hm’ at their stonewalling, choosing to use that moment to take another sip of her drink. Their avoidance was interesting, as a name was something usually freely given in these parts. Well, as long as it wasn’t a Name, those tended to be rather nasty things. But Freyja had only run into a few artifacts that made use of fae rules, so that almost certainly wasn’t the case.

Her drinking companion sat down properly, taking the towel offered by the bartender with seemingly no offense. Freyja did her best to keep her eyes off them, even if she wanted to pry. People didn’t refuse to use their names or cloak themselves in leather and reflections if they wanted to be an open book, or indeed if they wanted to tell anything about themselves.

What could only generally pass for camaraderie passed too swiftly, however, as they quickly downed the rest of their drink (Freyja winced, didn’t that hurt?) before paying for both their drinks. That last word caught her by surprise. Angel. Her cheeks flushed, unconsciously tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. They were kind of attractive, in a scruffy sort of way, and for a single moment she imagined the strength behind those gloved hands. By the time her attention was back on them, the distance had between the two had evaporated. They whispered in her ear, low and rough, and it took every fiber of her being for Freyja to suppress the shudder that ran through her.

And just like that, they were gone. They gave her a farewell wave, she half-raised her glass in a toast, suddenly overheating despite the dampness that still clung to her. Something in the way they held themself, the way they moved towards and slipped out the door reminded Freyja of a predator, the way that lions or panthers moved, knowing that almost nothing could possibly hurt them.

Veljara noticed too, her internal approval rippling through Freyja as she turned back to her drink. That itch wasn’t going away anytime soon, but she almost certainly wasn’t going to see them again any time soon. Pulling their money out from under their mug, Freyja decided her drink was starting to taste like another, and signaled the bartender.


It wasn’t until she’d finished her third drink that Freyja realized something was wrong. She’d drank through the money her mysterious stranger had left and was reaching for her wallet when she found that something was conspicuously missing from her pockets. Something metallic and vaguely key-shaped.

That bastard.

Freyja quickly let go of the mug before her hand reflexively clenched a second later. Her teeth followed, and she threw down some cash onto the counter before storming out, practically ripping the door of its hinges in the process. Cold steam wafted from her as Freyja stomped towards where she’d left her truck.

It was gone. That was the final straw. With a roar and the sound of shattering ice, wings ripped through her back as frost-coated armor snapped into existence around her. Veljara clawed her way into the air, wings now dry as a bone (funny, she could have mentioned that sooner). The rain had long since washed any tracks away, but Veljara had the eyes of a hunter, and the movement of prey drew her attention like light to water.

She took off like a shot, choosing a direction and loosely following the road. It wasn’t the fastest Veljara could travel, as she occasionally had to revert into Freyja to dry her wings, earning a few choice words as they fell before Veljara managed to pull them higher.

Eventually she saw movement, a lone truck doing its best to weather the storm. Frigid vengeance sang in her veins as Veljara drew her weapon, one of the few artifacts Freyja deigned to keep for personal use. A lone pocket knife, in its most basic, deceptive form. But as Veljara flipped it open-

-nothing happened. She cursed loudly, though only herself and the heavens bore witness.. What was the point of sharing a body with a nigh-immortal valkyrie if Freyja insisted on small things like using the safety latch on her knife.

With a frustrated sigh, Veljara clicked the latch off before opening the knife. The blade flipped open, and kept unfolding. The blade lengthened and thickened with each fold, the handle turning into a comfortable grip. It only stopped when the blade was almost three feet in length, the worn handle comfortably nestled in her hand.

Sword in hand, Veljara dived towards the moving vehicle, wings tucked in tight against her to gain the most speed. A wicked grin split her face as she snapped them open, slowing her fall just enough so that she didn’t punch through the metal as she crashed onto the roof, blade angled downward as she stabbed it into the roof of the truck, slightly too far to the left to properly hit the driver, but enough to let them know of her presence.

“Relinquish the vehicle!” Veljara yelled to be heard over the storm, holding on tight as the driver attempted to shake her off. Her claws dug gouges into the paint as she stabilized herself, tucking her wings in to avoid being blown off. “I won’t ask twice.”

Code by Reyn
 
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The woman from the bar drives a red pickup truck that looks like it’s seen better days. The Hound gives the covered truckbed a curious glance as they pass it, but after determining that there are no heat signatures inside they decide that solving that mystery can wait a few dozen miles.

They duck into the cabin on the driver’s side, wrestle the door shut against a sudden gust of wind and sleeting rain, and jam the keys in the ignition. The engine turns over, and they immediately crank the heat up to full blast, fiddling with the radio while they wait for it to kick on. (They’re also backing out of the parking spot and pulling onto the road, but that takes less attention than finding the channel they’d been listening to in the last car.)

Soon enough, music fills the cabin, and the town dwindles to nothing in the rearview mirror. The Hound props rain-streaked shades in their hair, burning eyes fixed on the horizon, and tries to focus on the unfamiliar melody instead of the sticky tendrils of boredom starting to creep into their mind.


Something lands on the roof of their stolen car, and The Hound is instantly awake, jerking their head up from where it was resting lazily against the headrest and swiveling to stare at the ceiling. There’s a short length of pointy metal poking through the upholstery, and without a second’s thought their metal hand shoots up to grab it. The edge of the blade cuts right through the thin leather of their glove, but their hand is made of sterner stuff - they hold it there as best they can, steadying the car with the one hand they’ve still got for the steering wheel.

They hear the order. It’s delivered in a woman’s voice, booming and brash even after filtering through the blasting vents and music as well as the wind and rain. They hear the order, and they laugh, the sound surprising even to their own ears. It’s practically a cackle, high and howling and openly delighted; they let it play, then suck in a greedy breath, the grin slashed across their face more genuine than any they’ve summoned in ages as they shout back their response. “Hell no! Finders keepers, my good bitch!”

Their fingers dig into the blade. Their foot slams into the brake. Inertia drags them forward, but they’re braced. More than braced; they use the sudden jerk to yank hard on the blade, attempting to tug it through the roof. They don’t know if what they’re trying is even possible - it must have a hilt, right? - but excitement roils in their veins regardless. Swords are objectively cool. They want one. (And maybe jerking the weapon out of her hands will knock the woman off the roof, but really, that’s an ancillary goal.)

 


Veljara had heard a plethora of responses to an issued threat. Few could stand against the full attention of the valkyrie, and the typical response ranged from false bravado to pants-soiling terror. She was used to being given threats in kind, or desperate pleas for mercy that she could graciously ignore.

Veljara was not expecting mirth. The thief inside simply laughed at her threat, their sheer, unbridled cackle a blade in its own right. It struck true, burying itself in Veljara’s chest as she growled down at them. She felt the jar of fingers wrapping around the blade and smiled viciously. Hoarfrost, spiked, brittle, and fiercely cold coated the handle before creeping over the crossguard and down the blade.

Just as it would have hit the offender’s hand, the truck screeched to a halt. Veljara flew forward, the sword slipping from her grip and remaining stubbornly embedded in the roof of the truck. She soared over the hood, hitting the muddy ground with a wet smack. She lay there for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of ripping the truck in half to get to the offender inside. Someone in the back of her mind chimed in, reminding her that they needed the truck, if not for the transportation than for the artifacts inside. A muttered curse slipped out beneath Veljara's breath, along with something that sounded like 'the sheer indignity', before she grumbled and closed her eyes.

Freyja opened hers only moments later, having just gotten used to being relegated to the backseat for the time being. She was once again soaking wet. Any dryness that may have come about from being tucked away was unfortunately undone by the fact that someone decided not to dispel her armor before slinking out of the body. Which meant that Freyja not only awoke in the mud, but was also drenched in literal ice water. She let out a sigh and decided to just lie there for a moment. If the person from the bar wanted to run her over, she was fairly certain Veljara would stop them. Probably. Maybe.

Code by Reyn
 


The shape that tumbles over the hood of their car has wings. Big, dark, feathered fallen-angel wings, rain-soaked and ragged but responsive enough to bundle around her as she falls, blunting the collision with the concrete. A baleful eye glares at them through frosted metal and feathers, and The Hound - blinks. Watches the eye close. Watches feathers melt away along with ice and frostbitten metal, a kind of fascination creeping into their mind through the open windows of their eyes.

Without inertia dragging them forward, they settle back into their seat, and give the sword one more perfunctory tug. It continues to be firmly stuck in the roof, unwilling to budge either way now. (Something like ice cracks and falls away when they release it, but they don’t look away from the stationary shape now splayed on the road just before them. Their prosthetic is still responding normally, and if it wasn’t them that broke then it isn’t their problem.)

They put both hands on the steering wheel. They ease off the brake. The car idles forward, angled to go around the woman rather than over her. (But.) It stops. The Hound looks at the road ahead almost longingly, then sighs and turns down the radio, one foot planted firmly on the brake while they lean over the center console (and around the damn sword still lodged in the roof) and push the passenger side door open.

“Hey.” (They recognize her, now, even muddied and lit only by the stripe of light spilling through the open door. Their lips quirk in a smile, forgotten muscle memory tilting it crooked. A fox’s grin beneath the devil’s eyes.) “Lookin’ for a ride, angel? You coulda just asked.”

 
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The distinct sound of rubber slowly shifting against ground meant that Freyja was most likely not about to be a victim of vehicular homicide. Truthfully, she hadn’t been completely sure Veljara would come out to protect her, at least not right away. She couldn’t shake the thought of being at least partially under the front wheels before Veljra emerged in a burst of frost, punching up through the transmission and totaling her precious truck.

Freyja could feel her eyes rolling, a dismissive flick of a wing. A denial, though of what, exactly, she didn't make clear.

One sore eye, gods everything felt sore, cracked open at the sound of a door opening, just in time to be lanced by a beam of light coming from the cab. Freyja groaned, throwing one arm over her eyes even as the other moved to push herself upwards. She was, for the second time in as many hours, sopping wet. A familiar voice pulled Freyja out of her commiseration, rough and warm like a highball, though not nearly as elegant.

The crooked smirk looked a little out of place on their face, a grin a touch too youthful for someone who carried themself with a presence that practically screamed at the lethality kept under leather trappings. As if the way the stranger held themself wasn’t warning enough, their eyes would have sent any with even a hint of cowardice in their hearts running for the sea.

Twin points of crimson peering out of pools of darkness loomed above the smirk. Eyes of Balor trapped within a human face that were at once impartial and deeply, deeply interested. A faint glint to the side informed Freyja of their unnatural origin, and for a moment she itched to delve deeper, to test if they were an artifact of their own.

She used that thought as leverage to push herself up, throwing a look in their direction that bared just a hint of her edge before climbing into the passenger’s seat and slamming the door shut.

“I had a ride, púki.” She spat. “Someone lifted my keys and decided to take it for a joyride before getting a knife stuck in the roof.” Freyja eyed the blade warily. That wasn’t coming out anytime soon. Gods she’d have to ask Veljara to do it. She wouldn’t hear the end of it.

“Thanks for retrieving my truck from that vicious thief.” Freyja bared her teeth slightly on the last two words, leaning over the seat and digging around in the back before finding the scratchiest, least comfortable bit of cloth she had back there. She typically used it as a layer between her bedding and the bed of the truck, so it would serve just perfectly to start wiping herself off.

“Where are we off to?” She asked casually, reaching over to twist the heat all the way to cold. Before they could protest she turned the other dial, turning it past ‘off’ to an unlabeled position. Almost instantly the heater roared to life, hot air rolling out of the vents and replacing the tepid air that had been feebly pushing its way through just a few moments prior. “And yes, I do mean ‘we’.”

Code by Reyn
 
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They’re back in their seat, lounging casually, by the time the woman gets to her feet, one finger tapping along the upper curve of the steering wheel and one leather-wrapped knuckle tucked between their teeth. Their eyes are locked on the horizon, peering into the rain and fog as though looking hard enough will unlock a secret route to paradise instead of the beginnings of a migraine. They look over when the door slams, a pleased, slightly confused surprise sneaking into the arch of their brows. “Pookie?”

The woman rolls right over their comment, and they let her, taking their finger out of their mouth and their foot off the brake. Their boot shifts to the gas pedal, and they press down a little too hard, a little too fast, a tiny jolt shoving them back into their seat before the car catches up.

(But that’s fine. It has to be fast if they want to satisfy the itch in the back of their mind, the knowing that sits just beyond their fingertips when they reach for it, but brushes against their ankles when they let their mind drift, tells them to pick up glasses and gloves and kerosene, to filch keys and cars and cigarettes, that guides their hands through the motions of adjusting mirrors and turning the wheel and whispers that they couldn’t leave that woman in the mud any more than they could leave any of their handlers alive-)

“Mm, my condolences,” they mumble, about as sincere as a snakeoil salesman, darting those uncanny eyes from the road to her and back again like they can’t decide which is more interesting. That smirk is back, but twisted even further this time, turned to something almost simpering. “You’re very welcome, miss. All in a day’s work.”

(They’ve forgotten her name. Something tells them that should bother them more than it does.)

She’s a little spot of self-contained motion in their peripherals, fussing and fixing, and they leave her to it until she reaches close to them and instinct has their cybernetic hand twitching through a sharp, cutting gesture - they check it before it can get more than halfway to her wrist, pull it back to the wheel, frown at her with all the quiet indignation they can dig up.

Why on Earth would she want to make it cold? They open their mouth to ask just that, but snap it shut again when the heater properly kicks on. Then they frown at the car, affronted, offended, (all of it a cover for the momentary lapse), and roll their eyes elaborately, looking off through the driver’s side window for a dramatic, drawn-out moment before directing their gaze forward again. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re running away to join the circus. I hope you have your little rucksack packed, ‘cause I hear they only pay you in walnuts.”

They’re flying down the road and fighting the storm with every meter, but The Hound manages to make it look almost effortless, melting a little more into their seat with every fractional increase in speed. At one point, they take one hand off the wheel to rub at their neck and then fuss with the radio again, navigating the buffeting winds with the same inhuman precision all the while.

 


Freyja just rolled her eyes at their response, the only acknowledgement she’d give it. She hadn’t expected them to know Icelandic, but for gods’ sakes she’d literally just pronounced it. She jerked back in her seat as they started driving again, shooting the stranger an accusatory glare. But their face betrayed neither malice nor apology, so she let it slide, choosing instead to finish wiping herself off as much as possible before balling up the cloth and tossing it in the back.

“Walnuts?” Freyja piped up, a note of derision creeping into her voice. “I don’t know what circuses you’ve been to, but most of them prefer to pay you with peanuts since that's what they have on hand. Y’know, on account of the elephants?” She gave them a look before turning to stare out the windshield, watching the wipers continue their endless war against the rain.

The conversation lapsed after that point, the two of them falling into a silence that was anything but comfortable. It felt more like a war was being waged between them; quiet, scrutinizing looks that only lasted for a few seconds before they turned elsewhere. She could practically feel their gaze on her, those unnatural eyes combing over her with what felt like machinelike precision.

They weren’t the only thing about her mystery companion that was unnatural. Everything about them was crooked, a slight slant from what a person was supposed to be. She only noticed it with the walnuts at first, but as Freyja kept thinking on it, the more moments jumped out to her that dipped closer and closer to the uncanny.

There was something in their expressions that wasn’t quite right, like they were on a half-second delay. That or they were exaggerated, almost pushed too far. That part of her brain itched again, that there was more to this person than she knew, than perhaps they’d even tell her. But flying down twisting Irish roads in a rainstorm with a stranger driving your car was not the best time to pry into someone’s life story, so Freyja remained quiet for the moment, letting the radio fill the space between them as she pondered her new acquaintance.

An hour or so later, the crackle of radio static was cut through by a loud growl. Freyja let out an awkward chuckle at the sound, mentally chastising her stomach for its outburst.

“You getting hungry?” She asked her travelmate. “There’s probably somewhere we could get some food in the next town.” They’d burned through a few small towns on their drive, their speed slowing only infinitesimally as buildings began to flank them. Luckily, nobody was stupid enough to be out in this weather, so Freyja didn’t have to worry about testing her mystery companion’s reflexes.

“And maybe find some place to stop for the night, too.” It was already starting to get dark, and while Freyja would usually make do with making the back seats her bed, there certainly wasn't enough space for two people back there. Not that she would mind sleeping in close quarters with the person currently sharing the cab with her. Freyja stole another glance at them, all sharp mirrors and rough leather, shaggy blond hair drying and starting to make little soft curls up at the end. Her fingers flexed minutely as she thought about how it would feel to run her hands through it.

“I also still don’t know your name.” Freyja added, putting on an air of indignance to mask the faint blush that had crept up into her cheeks. “After you made me stab my own truck and drove me out to the middle of gods know where. One might even think you’re planning on killing me.” She barked out a laugh, teeth flashing in the low light.

“Are you, Mr. Mystery Man? I’d love to see you try.”

Code by Reyn
 


The Hound shrugs, letting the correction slide over them without catching. The road twists into a gentle curve, and they guide the car around the loop with the kind of speed usually reserved for late night drag races, whipping around the corner in a spray of gray puddle-water. The car shudders slightly, but they don’t even blink, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the line of tar stretching away through the fog. “See, you’ll fit right in.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that, it seems. The quiet starts to grate on them almost immediately, and they pry a hand off the wheel to twitch the volume knob on the radio up a few degrees. They glance at her afterwards, wondering if she’ll have any barbs to throw concerning their music choice, but no dice. She’s looking out the window, jacket-covered shoulder and pale, tangled hair the only parts of her easily visible. Another half second allows them to pick out the curve of her ear, the sharp angle of her cheekbone, a droplet of water tracking along her jaw.

They cut their gaze back to the road before they can get too distracted. Don’t want to wrap the car around a tree. They need the car. (Or they need a car, anyway. Maybe choosing this one wasn’t the best idea.)

The signal out here is dogshit. The radio fuzzes every few minutes, shot through with static where it doesn’t drop completely, and The Hound spends a good quarter hour trying to find a clear station before they’re forced to admit defeat.

(They wish they’d kept trying. The static harmonizes with the buzzing in the back of their brain, simple and insidious and eating away at everything they’ve managed to scrape together in the past however-long, and the longer they drive, the more it builds, until whole stretches of road pass between blinks, slipping - slipping -)

(Sound.) They blink, easing just slightly off the gas as they turn their head for the first time in what feels like an age, consider the woman beside them with their jaw still set too tightly, teeth grinding together, static and void and blank incomprehension all that sits behind their eyes. They blink again, (like waking up, like crawling out of a deep, dark hole, swimming up from a deep-sea crevasse), processing, (melting, ice turning to water and dripping off pale eyelashes), and the look fades, (fans whirring, gears turning), replaced with something sharp and testing as they paste a too-innocent smile over their lips.

“Should I?” They ask, too lightly. They let up on the gas even more, the truck’s shuddering evening out at last, and turn forward again, dancing their fingers along the wheel to work out the soreness in their hand. After a moment, expression turning thoughtful, “Hm, no, I don’t think so. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead, sweetheart.”

They shake out their hand, then bring it up to their mouth, tugging the glove off with their teeth. Frowning around the garment, they lean forward slightly in order to dig around in the inner lining of their jacket, eventually unearthing a cigarette which they’re quick to swap for the glove. The leather disappears into another pocket on their jacket, which they feel around in for a moment before frowning again, tucking the cigarette between their fingers and returning their hand to the wheel just in time to guide them around another sharp curve. A town appears in the distance, looming through the fog so suddenly it looks like it just popped into existence. They slow further, sinking down in their seat.

Darn. They buzz their lips in belated disappointment, then remember their passenger and perk up, cut the woman a hopeful look. “Got a light?”

 
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Freyja had seen a lot in her self-imposed quest to recover dangerous artifacts. She’d seen people possessed by things far too powerful for their feeble minds, men reduced to meat suits being puppetted by some other force that hadn’t caught a glimpse of humanity in centuries, women with hair that twisted on its own and far, far too many teeth that reached out to grab her with hands that changed how many fingers they had when you weren’t looking. None of those were quite as unsettling as the sheer nothing that covered her companion’s face as they turned to look at her.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t anything. It was as if an empty, yawning void had slipped into them while she wasn’t looking and was staring out at her. Gods, she practically heard the creak of their neck as they slowly turned to fix their sightless gaze on her.

Veljara drew her blade, a frostbitten thing even as she let loose a growl of warning, wings fluttering restlessly behind her. Freyja barely managed to keep the growl from slipping from her own throat, coughing as it died halfway through. She gnashed her teeth at Freyja, clearly unhappy about being restrained when something completely, utterly ómannleg sat directly across from them.

By the time Freyja managed to turn her attention outward again, the moment had passed. The thing had slithered back behind a carefree expression and careful movements. They made a lighthearted joke about how dangerous they were, and while Freyja chuckled along she wasn’t so sure it was a joke.

For the first time since meeting them in the bar, she was starting to come to terms with just how dangerous this person truly was. Sure they were able to slip her keys from her pockets in a moment of careful flirting, but that was different from actually being able to fight and kill. And Freyja was rapidly realizing that she didn’t know their experience in those categories, and that her assumed baseline may have been far lower than expected.

That should have terrified her. It should have made her demand her vehicle back, or get out as soon as they drove into town and let them have the damn truck instead of risking her life. Instead, it intrigued her. It drew Freyja in like a good book, because she could sense the shapes of a story waiting in the wings, the fuzzy edges of something deeper that she could only see if she stuck around.

How could she resist?

Freyja watched them tug off their gloves with a perfectly normal amount of interest, as teeth pulled each finger loose before slipping the leather off. She dug around in her own jacket pocket before producing a well-worn Zippo. She flipped it open, spinning the wheel and producing a soft orange flame.

“Here you go, Kerry.” She said, holding it out to light their cigarette before flipping it closed again. “Crack the window, at least.” While she wasn’t fully sure that they had processed what she’d said earlier, or even heard it, that was now the second time she’d asked their name and they hadn’t responded. So they got a nickname until they gave her something else.

“We should stop soon. It’s getting late.” As if to remind her that it still existed, her stomach let out another growl in agreement. “Unless you were planning on driving through the night?” She let the question hang, a subtle probe to try and figure out exactly what was wrong with them. Of course, Freyja wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of sleeping in a truck driven by a stranger, but Veljara would be more than happy to stab Kerry at the first sign of indecency.

Code by Reyn
 


“Thanks.” The Hound’s smile has more teeth than the gesture truly warrants as they reach over and hold the stick to the flame, right arm stretched across their chest and left steady on the wheel. It catches quick, and they pull it back, rest their elbow on the tiny shelf under the window as they bring it to their lips.

They pause there for a moment, then track their eyes to the side and give her a measuring, nearly judgemental look, caught somewhere between amused and annoyed. A wave of their hand indicates the raging storm outside, kept at bay by steel and glass and not much else, but at her insistence they relent, popping the cigarette in their mouth and dipping their hand down to turn the crank on the window a few degrees. The rain gets in almost instantly, splashing their shoulder and the edge of their jaw. They raise their eyebrows, pressing a hand to the side of their face as though surprised, and then roll their eyes and return their attention to the road.

The town is fast approaching. They’ll be on it in minutes. The Hound jitters the leg not occupied with the gas pedal, chewing on the cigarette as they consider the question.

They don’t have an answer. They stay quiet. The silence settles heavily over them, broken only by the rain pounding down and the static blur of the radio as they blow past the first buildings on the edge of town.

They shoot her another glance - this one unreadable - before flipping their shades down over their eyes. Their head turns, only a few degrees but somehow sufficient to shield their eyes entirely, the rest of their face impassive as the car rumbles on down the strip, coasting on borrowed momentum.

There. They tap the brakes, turn smoothly, gently, into a parking lot. Say nothing as they pull into a faded spot, put the car in park. Red reflects back at them from mirrored lenses as they stare straight ahead, ash their smoke over the floorboards, take another drag, finally let their gaze track over the sign for the inn now that it’s pinned under the glow of the truck’s headlights. They consider it through a haze of gray, then tip their head back against the headrest, let it fall to the side and consider the woman. “You keep saying ‘we’.”

A pause, another breath of smoke. They watch her closely, everything about their slump careless and careful all at once. “And, see, I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into, angel.”

Their metal hand unlatches from the steering wheel at last, and they turn the palm towards themself, run their thumb over the two thin cuts in the leather. Still watching her, they trace their hand upwards, tug at the fingertips until the glove comes loose, slip it off and crumple it in their palm. They reach up to pluck the stub of the cigarette from their mouth, letting the smoke drop from their lips in a sigh as they extinguish it on the burnished metal of their left palm. “I don’t think you know at all.”

 
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