RP Home Is - A Foreign Land



The silence from the blond in the driver’s seat is pointed enough to take an eye from the unwary. They continue to ignore the woman as she shifts and shuffles, their gaze fixed solely on the road ahead.

The car’s headlights are on, cutting a swathe of illumination from the rain-dark sky, but even with the reflected glow the lights in their eyes are bright enough to cast a faint reddish tint over the folded-up sun-screen. This tint shifts exactly once, sweeping leftward when the passenger side door opens, but they give the woman only the most cursory of glances before silently dismissing her again. They give no other sign that they’ve even heard her, keeping the car on the straight drag of the main road only because doing so means they can squeeze a bit more acceleration from the engine.

They pass the outer limits of the town soon enough, buildings falling away in favor of hills and marsh. The black van is still on their tail, one of its windows wide open. A man leans out. In his hands is not a gun but a plastic cone, raised not to his eye but his mouth.

They reach an intersection, the other road cutting perpendicular to the one they’re on. The Hellhound hauls on the wheel, tires leaving the road and slicing a muddy curve across the grass.

The truck jumps back onto the road, bucking hard enough along the way that they slam their shoulder into the door. They grit their teeth, feeling the way the tires slide frictionless and fishtailing over the slick roads, but keep their boot pressed into the pedal, regaining control of the vehicle just as the amplified order from the car behind them slides through the open door and into their ears.

“Höllenhund! Fuss!”

The change is instant. Their jaw unclenches, their grip on the wheel loosens, and their foot lifts from the accelerator. They continue to stare straight ahead, but the sharp, judgemental awareness leaves their gaze, empty eyes registering only road and obstructions as they press almost delicately on the brake, the vehicle slowing as they begin to bring it to a gentle stop.


Höllenhund - Hellhound
Fuss (pronounced Foos) - Heel
 


Kerry hadn’t said a single word to her, and Freyja was trying not to take it personally. They were, after all, fleeing for their lives from unknown men who wanted to kill them. Freyja was aware she was making several assumptions in that statement, but given the (practically nonexistent) information she was working with, she felt like that was the logical conclusion.

But come on, no sarcastic comments? Not even a little quip? Why were they so quiet now, when a well-timed joke could slice through the tension like soft cheese? Her stomach growled at the thought, reminding her of the breakfast she’d only gotten to eat three-quarters of due to someone who was now running scared for reasons that they deigned not to share.

Well, at least there was never a dull moment.

She felt the truck lurch drunkenly to the side as Kerry silently (bewilderingly), followed her shouted command. Freyja’s grip tightened on the handle, wings coming forward to wrap around her as she brought the stone to her lips, holding it for a second to ensure its magic had been stifled.

They hurtled around the corner and Freyja watched with satisfaction, letting out a whoop of triumph as the other car slipped and spun on the ice, taking the corner far too fast to be controlled. But even the scream of tires and the howl of the engine couldn’t drown out the words shouted from a megaphone.

“Hellhound! Heel!”

Her German was a little rusty, but the words were clear and deliberate, if tinged with the lilt of the Irish. The command was a touch odd, but it was the first part that nearly made Freyja lose her grip and crash to the ground.

Even as the realization hit her, Veljara was growling in her ear, fighting to regain control of their wings, of their body, to take to the skies and leave her truck and artifacts behind, to abandon this murderer, this boogeyman who was spoken with the same hushed reverence that the ancient Greeks had once spoken of Thanatos.

It should have been obvious. The glowing red eyes and the mechanical hand were a dead giveaway. But the Hellhound was a robotic killer, a murderous machine that was known to leave a path of destruction in its wake. Kerry was a little odd, but they were snarky, considerate in their own rough way, and…

And sitting in the driver’s seat, not having said a single word to her, staring directly ahead and driving with stiff, robotic movements.

Kerry was the Hellhound.

Veljara was still straining, struggling to break free and rip control from Freyja’s grasp. But thoughts were cycling through Freyja’s brain at near-light speed. The Hellhound had stolen her truck. She’d tried to stab the Hellhound, and lived! She’d traveled for hours with the Hellhound, without them trying to kill her once. And perhaps, most importantly-

She had fucked the Hellhound!

Well, they’d fucked her, but that was more semantics than anything else.

As this thought popped in her head like a golden soap bubble, Freyja was suddenly aware that the hills and marshes were passing by at a slower and slower rate. What should have been a daring escape from the smoldering wreckage of their pursuers was rapidly turning into a chance for said pursuers to catch up. Freyja already saw them shifting in their vehicle, getting their bearings before beginning the chase anew.

Freyja slid back into the truck, slamming the door firmly behind her. She had no reason to remain out there, and fate would have been more than happy to take its due if she had. She dropped the stone back into its bag, but kept it close.

“Why are we slowing down?” She asked, her voice as even as she could manage, like she didn’t just realize that the person she was in an enclosed space with had a body count that couldn’t feasibly be measured. Kerry’s only response was shifting their foot, pressing on the brake instead of the accelerator. Maybe they were only speaking in German now?

“Warum verlangsamen wir?” Freyja tried haltingly. She hadn’t set foot in Germany in at least a few decades, and it showed. She frowned at their short, clipped answer. There was no bite to it, no tension, not even a bit of sarcasm. Something was wrong, that yawning void she’d felt just yesterday was staring at her once more, threatening to drag her soul out and devour it. She tried to shake off the feeling, to urge them to get the truck moving once again.

“Hey, Kerry, los geht’s!”

For the first time since they’d jumped out of the window at the inn, Kerry turned to look at her. Freyja wished they hadn’t. The eyes that met hers were those of a monster, of some unfathomable creature that should never have been brought up from the depths, that was never meant to be gazed on by the living, the dead, by any but the damned. Some part of her knew that it was Kerry’s eyes, the same eyes she’d stared into the night before, but it was as though somehow the soul had been ripped from their mechanical sockets, the crimson glow now a targeting laser.

In the next second, metal digits were squeezing her throat, cold steel palm slammed against her windpipe. Veljara shrieked, the echo of a chain snapping through her mind as she ripped one arm free and began working on another, desperate to be free. Freyja tried to pry their hand off, but their body was an iron statue. Their face hadn’t even shifted. It was still slack, still neutral, that cold, dead stare burning a hole into her.

“Nein! Kerry! Bitte!” Freyja gasped, unsure why their hand was a vice around her throat, choking the life out of her with each second. She tried again, in English.

“Stop! Please!” Nothing. Okay, maybe it had to be in German?

“Fahr!” Spots were already starting to appear in her vision, and Freyja could distantly hear the black van getting closer, no longer hurrying as much as its quarry seemed fit to sit still.

Maybe German, but not just any word. ‘Heel’ was a dog command, that much she knew. Freyja cycled through what words she knew, trying to figure out if they could feasibly be used as a command for dogs. They were still slowing down, almost stopped by this point, and something sprang to Freyja’s mind even as the oxygen trickled out of her lungs.

“Schneller....h-hund.” She choked out, frost and darkness dancing at the edges of her sight as Veljara fought desperately against the chain that still bound her. But Freyja felt warm, even as she saw the last of her breath limp past her lips.

Code by Reyn

Warum verlangsamen wir? - Why are we slowing down?
Los geht's - Let's go
Nein - No
Bitte - Please
Fahr - Drive
Schneller - Faster
 
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The Handler’s van is 55 meters behind the vehicle The Hellhound is currently driving. There is nothing on the road in front of them. There are one heat signature(s) in the vehicle with them, two in the Handler’s slowly approaching van, and no others within viable range.

They press more firmly on the brake, decreasing the speed at a steady rate so they may safely stop the vehicle at 55.5 meters. The [???] beside them asks a question, and they answer, enunciating crisply so that there will be no need for repetition. “Befehle.” --[Orders.]--

No approaching heat signatures. No obstructions in the road. Distance to Handler has decreased to 49 meters.

The order to fight takes a few milliseconds to process, as there are no persons designated [Target] within range. The Hellhound turns to the [???], awaiting further clarification. None is forthcoming, so they take one hand off the wheel in order to meet the demand, closing their fingers around the [Target?]’s throat.

33 meters. The vehicle trundles very slowly along, and there is no real need to watch the road at such speeds. They continue to watch the [Target?] as she slowly dies, thinking without thought that it is odd for a Target to use commands, and odder still for that command to bring their own end.

It matters not. The Hellhound was not made to question orders.

19 meters. Two words leak from the [Target?]’s lips, and The Hellhound blinks exactly once. The… [Handler]’s orders contradict those of the other… not-Handler, reshuffling their priorities. They release her, catch the front of her jacket when she slumps, and lay her lolling head against the seatback, already shifting their foot to the gas pedal even as they circle their fingers very gently around her wrist and check the readout in the corner of their vision.

The results are satisfactory. They remove their hand, returning their gaze to the rapidly approaching road ahead. In the mirrors, they can see the black van with the not-Handler begin to accelerate, the window on the passenger side rolling down.

They reach into their jacket, retrieve their pistol, and swap which hand is holding the wheel so that they can roll their own window down. Then, jamming a knee under the steering column to hold the vehicle steady, they turn and open fire.

The front right wheel blows first, and the vehicle skitters along in a shower of sparks. Then the left wheel goes, and it swerves dangerously. The Hellhound locks eyes with the man in the driver’s seat and fires twice more.

Driverless, the vehicle spins out, swerving into the bog and sinking halfway down in the mud.

The Hellhound returns to their seat, tossing the pistol onto the seat beside them as they take up the wheel once more. Almost as an afterthought, they roll their window back up, then fiddle with the heating, turning the dial all the way cold before rolling it back to hot.

Hot air blasts from the vents. They tap their fingers on the wheel and wait for the thaw.

 
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Freyja was cold, trapped in an endless expanse of frost and darkness. Her fingers were long and withered, ancient, gnarled things that still bore the tips of claws long since worn from use. Heavy, tattered wings hung around her like a cloak, although they did little to block out the chill that stabbed through her down to the very bones. She shifted, attempting to pull the wings closer, and heard the rattling of metal. She glanced down.

Thick, black iron manacles wrapped around each of her bony wrists, countless links stretching off into the darkness. She pulled at one experimentally, the chain growing taut and frost beginning to crystallize around her wrist. Already freezing, she let the arm fall back down, the chain swinging as it regained slack once more. The ice still clung to her skin, refusing to thaw.

Freyja had no idea how long she stayed in that darkness, useless eyes staring into nothing. Occasionally she could’ve sworn she caught a glimpse of something, a flash of a sensation; a warmth against her chest, flitting down to her wrist, thawing the ice, something cracking in the distance, a wave of warmth that somehow made the chill cling closer to her. At some point, the void around her had shifted, whatever vague sense of direction that existed in this place now hanging her upside down, only visible by that way her wings and hair fell.

Hours passed, days crept by, weeks sprinted, and months passed in the blink of an eye. And Freyja remained; suspended, motionless, frigid.

Until a deafening crack rang out, the sound so loud it chased away the cold as Freyja tried to clap her hands to her ears. To her surprise, one obeyed, although it did a poor job of blocking out the echoing sound. Freyja glanced at her hand to see it now freed, the chain dangling limply, manacle nowhere in sight. It took her a moment before she realized that it must have been the source of the sound.

A second crack echoed the first as her other manacle exploded, shards of ice digging into her body as Freyja began to fall, icy wind whipping through her hair, her wings, her face. It caused tears to stream from her face, freeze them before they could even properly trail off. Miniature daggers ripped across her skin, tore her clothes, shattered even as they buried themselves in her flesh. It was an eternity of falling, of agony, and Freyja could no longer see the chains that once held her. She fell, and had no signs of stopping.

Ice-blue eyes cracked open, observing the moving road ahead of them. They closed, and half a second later frost-gray ones replaced them, scanning across the cab to see Kerry slouched against the seat, eyes on the road. She noted the gun on the seat between them, and something growled in her to take it, to empty it into the demon in the driver’s seat and kick the corpse to the side of the road.


Something else reminded her that they had merely used their bare hands against her, and a gun probably wouldn’t do much. It also pointed out they were slouched, not the unsettling, ramrod straight they had been before the cold. The eyes slid shut again.

Freyja opened her eyes with a groan and a small cough, her throat raw and rough as though she’d been gargling shards of glass. She also felt feverishly warm, and it took a moment for her to realize the air in the truck itself was stifling. She sat up, coughing some more as her windpipe complained about its current treatment.

“Kerry?” Freyja muttered, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Is that you?” She braced herself for a fight, for a monosyllabic German response or, perhaps, just maybe, a sarcastic response.
Code by Reyn
 


After some idle digging, they find a pair of sunglasses in a small black case in the glove box. They pop it open and slide them on, then frown as they discover that the lenses are merely smoky, sepia-toned plastic rather than true mirrored glass.

Their rust-red gaze flicks to the fuel gauge, and they sigh, resigning themself to a half-blind gas run at some point in the very near future. At least it means they’ll be able to buy better sunglasses.

Movement in the corner of their eye catches their attention, and they turn, watching as Freyja props herself up in her seat. A thin sheen of sweat covers her face from the effort, and they look away, occupying themself with guiding the car around a bend in the road.

“Hey, Angel.” The Hound’s voice is soft, conveying as much of an apology as they can in three syllables. They look her over once more, only then noticing the firearm they left in the space between them. A few of their metal fingers uncurl from the wheel in an instinctual attempt to recollect it, but they stop themself, frowning at the prosthetic until it yields to their override and wraps neatly around the wheel. “Yeah.” Now they just sound tired. “You might want to hold onto that, though.”

They don’t clarify whether they mean the question or the weapon.

 
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The familiar nickname sent a shot of warmth through Freyja, cutting through the oppressive heat of the truck. She sat up a bit more, tension releasing from her spine as her fight or flight response (more literal with her new wings) faded into the background. She noticed Kerry’s gaze shift, and followed it to the revolver on the seat before them, barrel pointed towards Kerry.

They sounded tired. For a moment there was some form of softness in their words that Freyja could almost convince herself she imagined. There was a hint of apology, and the unspoken topic of what had just happened hung heavy in the air between them, like-

Well, like a loaded gun with the handle facing her, sitting there like an offering. It wouldn’t even be that hard. It was easily within arm’s reach, laying on its left side so she would be able to grab it quickly and squeeze off a shot or two without Kerry being able to do much about it.

Freyja reached out slowly, calmly, and grabbed the gun. She swung out the cylinder, tilting the gun upwards and letting the brass tumble out of it. While it was mostly light clinking, a couple of heavier thumps did reach her ears. She scooped up the empty casings and two remaining bullets and slid them into her pocket before reaching into the innards of the gun and sharply pulling on something. The piece slid out with a soft clink, and Freyja added the thin, rounded cone of metal to her rapidly-growing collection.

Swinging the cylinder back into the revolver with a satisfying click, Freyja spun it experimentally before pulling back the hammer, keeping the barrel pointed away from both of them as she squeezed the trigger. The hammer raced forward, smashing against the rest of the gun with a dull sound, but nothing else. She repeated the process a few times, an unusual game of Russian Roulette with all blanks and no players.

Satisfied that she’d done her job right, Freyja set the gun back down on the seat, handle now pointed towards Kerry instead. She let the silence hang between them for a moment before breaking with a question.

“How long was I out for?” Freyja asked, voice mostly back to normal but still with a trace of roughness.

Hammer cocked. Trigger pulled. Click.
 


She reaches for the gun, and for a moment their breath falters. Despite the heat of the cabin, their heart ices over, sitting cold and heavy in their chest like the hunk of metal it probably is.

They force themself into stillness, staring blankly through the windshield at the road ahead. They wonder whether slowing down or stopping entirely would yield the best outcome.

Just as they’re about to take their foot off the gas, they hear the soft clinking of shells being unloaded from the chamber.

The Hound does not sigh. A single breath leaves their lips, and they close their eyes for a moment. When they open them again, the red of their irises is even duller, a single trickle of rust cycling through a maroon so dark it looks almost brown through the sepia-tint of their stolen shades. They slump further into their seat, smushing their head against the headrest and unintentionally adding even more cowlicks to the air-dried tangle atop their head.

“‘Bout an hour.” They answer after a quick glance at the clock on the dash. Unlike her, they don’t let the silence sit for long before adding, “Truck’s almost out of gas.”

A red battery with a single sliver in it flickers in the corner of their vision. They blink it away. “Should find a station soon.”

 


Freyja let out a sigh, a long exhalation as she stretched, feeling several pops in her spine and neck that she refused to think about. Both guns were unloaded, it seemed. Kerry’s answer came quick and unerring, and despite her best efforts Freyja could not avoid the comparisons to the mechanical manner in which they’d spoken and moved earlier.

The voice was different, now with a lilt of emotion behind it that showed their even tone was a choice rather than a default. Their movements were once again fluid, as if whoever had been animating them finally remembered to add the inbetweens. Yet they still maintained that efficiency. It left her wondering if their eyes were the only mechanical pieces in their head.

The second part of their statement hit her, and Freyja mentally kicked herself. She knew they should’ve gotten gas before bedding down for the night. But then she remembered the night in question and felt a faint flush creep across her cheeks.

“Gotcha. Well just pull into the first one you see.” She bent over, digging through her bag once more, sinking her arm up to the elbow as she rattled around inside. “I can pump.”

It was an offer that was equal parts courtesy and hesitation. They’d been driving for a while, and Freyja could certainly get the gas for them, that was no problem. There was just a part of her that couldn’t shake the worry of Kerry wrapping their hand around the clerk’s throat, choking the life out of them before emptying the register and torching the place.

She shook her head lightly, hiding it behind a flourish of leather as she found what she’d been after. Freyja was painfully aware of her two new appendages, and knew the weird looks (or shotgun pellets) she’d probably receive if they were seen. Shifting awkwardly in her seat, Freyja wrapped the jacket around herself, her wings sinking into the back of the jacket until it rested against her spine. She could feel a faint tingling in her shoulder blades, right at the spot where the wings shifted from reality to somewhere else.

It wasn’t long before a station came into view, boasting self-service pumps and a price of 50 pence per litre. A bit pricey, but unless they wanted to push the truck to somewhere cheaper, this would suffice. Besides, it wasn’t like she had a lot of use for the money anyways. Not to mention Kerry would probably suggest they just abandon the truck altogether, and she wasn’t quite ready for the fight that would break out in that scenario.

With a nod she stepped out into the deluge, tugging up the hood on her trenchcoat as she braced against the elements. With a flip of a lever, the familiar hum of petrol flowing through the pipes greeted her and she stuck the nozzle in, watching the plastic numbers flick higher and higher.

Once the satisfying ka-chunk of a full tank sounded, she reracked the nozzle before opening the passenger’s side door.

“Want anything?” She asked, waiting for their answer before flashing them a smile. “Back in a jiffy.”

With a chipper note in her voice that was only slightly forced, Freyja ventured back out into the tempest, braving the harsh journey with only the temporary respite of the warmed shop interior to comfort her through it.
 


“‘kay.” The Hound does not point out that what she suggested was what they were already planning on doing. They just melt further into their seat, cheek pillowed on the relatively soft, leather-covered knuckles of their right hand. Their elbow is propped on the tiny ledge between window and door, other arm resting mostly in their lap as they guide the car with the barest press of unfeeling fingertips.

They want to say more, but a sidelong glance at Freyja - whose complexion still hasn’t lost its waxen sheen - stills their tongue. There are too many conversational pitfalls waiting beyond the stifling silence for them to break it without reason.

Instead, they watch. The road, yes, but also her. They watch as she pulls a well-worn leather overcoat from the depths of a little black bag, and though they only look away for a second at most, when they look back they find that the garment has done away with her wings.

A strangely acute disappointment pangs through their gut at that realization, and they frown, raking their gaze across her back and shoulders twice before reluctantly conceding a point to whatever eldritch fuckery she harnessed to get that to work.

(It helps that on the second pass, they catch the sweeping lines of pinions and primaries embossed into the leather, long black lines with sharpened edges telling the tale of what she concealed. It eases their frown, reversing the pull till they’re halfway to a smile. (They can’t say whether it’s from the irony or the kitsch.))

They’re back to neutral by the time they pull into the gas station, guide the car into place beside one of the pumps, put it in park, and cut the engine. They nod back to Freyja, then look out the opposite window, watching the rain run into an overflowing ditch on the side of the road. Their fingers itch for a cigarette, but their pilfered carton ran dry before they left the hotel.

The rain sounds like static and the void between stars.

The door opens. The Hound blinks, hard. The lights in their eyes flicker back on. The battery alert blinks insistently in the corner of their vision as they turn to the w- to Freyja. “Yes.”

A pause, infinitesimal. They blink again. “Cigarettes. Shades. Uh, sunglasses,” they point at their face demonstratively, “I mean.” They lower their hand, tucking it firmly in their pocket, and turn half-away. “Mirrored, if they have them. Thank you.”

The door shuts. They wait a second. Two. Three. Five. Then they sigh. Raise a hand, rake it through their hair, start the car and pull forward. Hesitate. Look at the shop. Look at the road. Look at their own haggard reflection in the rearview.

Swear. Turn left. Park the car in front of the shop. Kick the E-Brake on and leave it running while they scoot over into the passenger seat. Decide that sleeping is better than answering questions about why they’re sleeping, and - belatedly remember to close their eyes, slamming them shut in the final fraction of a second before the crash.

 
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Freyja’s smile dropped with the sound of the truck door slamming behind her, the effort of maintaining it shifting to confusion at the interaction she’d just been a part of. For a second, it had seemed like someone entirely different had been sitting in the driver’s seat. Not in the way it had been before, where Kerry had vanished and been replaced with a machine wearing their skin. No, this was as if something had slipped and they were running a second out of sync with everything else.

...Where they drunk?

Even if there was no way they could’ve snuck a flask by her between waking and now, it would certainly explain their odd way of talking; the inexplicable decision that she required not one, but two verbal and one visual aids to get across the point that they’d wanted her to try and get them a pair of sunglasses inside the station. And they’d thanked her. Kerry hadn’t thanked her for anything since she’d met them, and now they were thanking her for potentially getting them sunglasses and cigarettes?

When they stopped for the night, Freyja was going to grill them for answers. She was tired of being in the dark, especially with how off they’d been acting all day. A low rumble came from the back of her mind, Veljara growling in agreement. Freyja started slightly. It was the first she’d heard from the valkyrie since she’d woken up, and even now a half-memory of some weird dream in which they two of them had swapped places danced along the edges of her thoughts, constantly slipping from her grasp any time she even dared to attempt to snare it.

Yet another thing to add to her list. Pretty soon Freyja was going to have to start writing these things down.


A short while later, after answering the store clerk’s questions (yes she was real, yes she knew the weather outside wasn’t fit for man nor beast, no she wasn’t crazy, yes she actually did want some beef jerky), Freyja ventured back out into the rain. Her wallet was somewhat lighter but her pockets were certainly heavier as a result. Well, if she could feel the weight of them. Extradimensional spaces and all that.

They weren’t specific about what kind of cigarettes they’d wanted, but whenever Freyja watched Kerry smoke it was like they wanted to inhale the cigarette itself, polishing the thing off seemingly in a manner of seconds. In the end she’d grabbed three cartons of Marlboro 75s. While she wasn’t exactly a cigarette aficionado, she knew they were smaller, which meant Kerry could probably smoke them faster. Add to that two pairs of mirrored shades (uh, sunglasses), and a couple of chocolatey things for good measure and Freyja deemed her haul to be quite the success.

That was, of course, not including the sheer variety of chips, pretzels, jerkies, waters, sweets, and other various snacks for the road that somehow managed to stretch her near-infinite pockets to near-bursting. Kerry didn't seem inclined to eat all that often, and Freyja refused to let herself be caught hungry in light of their refusal to stop for food.

So caught up in cataloguing her spoils was she, that Freyja didn’t even notice the truck was gone until she was halfway to where it had been.

Emphasis on had.

Anger welled up inside her, the rain falling off her in icy shards as Veljara clawed her way to the surface. She’d trusted Kerry, and once a-fucking-gain they’d stolen her truck and left her beh-

Oh wait, there they were.

The anger died as quickly as it had flared once Freyja spotted her truck idling several meters away. Veljara slunk back into her pit while Freyja sheepishly made her way back to the vehicle, hoping Kerry hadn’t seen that. Opening the door, she was surprised to find it pushing itself open, extra weight leaning against the door.

“What the-? Kerry?” Freyja exclaimed, confusion causing the end of her words to rise in pitch. As quickly as she’d opened it, she slammed the door shut, pacing around the truck to clamber into the driver’s side. Doing so was easier said than done, and she spent several embarrassing moments half-hanging out of the truck whilst trying to adjust the seat back to its proper position. Kerry had apparently moved it forward to accommodate their stubby legs and, despite having decided to cede the driving to her for the time being, had neglected to give her the common courtesy of some god damn leg room.

“You okay?” Freyja asked once she’d managed to arrange herself inside the cab in a way that didn’t require several broken bones. “Want me to take over driving? Oh wait!”

Caught in the middle of a thought, Freyja pulled out one pair of shades and one pack of cigarettes, setting them on the seat between the two and pushing them over to Kerry.

“Wasn’t sure what kind you wanted, so just grabbed the first ones I saw.” A lie, perhaps. A blatant one, maybe. But they didn’t need to know that. Just like they didn’t need to know about the others she had tucked within her jacket.

“So, like I was saying, I can drive for a bit. Anywhere specific or just ‘away’?”
 
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They’re falling.

The Hellhound is instantly awake, emerging from the quiet dark with eyes blazing as they fling their arms out and catch themself on the headrest and the dash.

The door behind them slams shut before they can do anything more. The battery in the corner of their vision blinks a frantic warning, and they sigh, releasing their grip on the truck and leaning back against the door once more.

“Scheiße,” they breathe, closing their eyes and going back to sleep.

The Hound wakes with adrenaline still singing through their veins, the aftertaste metallic on their tongue. They check their battery levels, unsurprised to find them lower than expected. They have maybe five minutes of wakefulness before they will have to sleep again, but they open their eyes regardless, watching with vague amusement as Freyja fights with the seat controls.

They don’t bother straightening from their sideways slouch, only lifting their head to prop it on the back of the seat when she finally turns to address them.

“Mm.” The vaguely affirmative sound serves as answer for both of her questions, though they do perk up when she slides the previously-requested goods in their direction. “Ah, yes. These are fine.”

They pick up the sunglasses first, swapping them for the ones on their face and taking a moment to return Freyja’s to their little case in the glove compartment. Their now-shielded gaze drifts briefly to the useless handgun in the footwell, but they only kick it a little further out of their way before ignoring it once more, directing their attention towards the carton of cigarettes.

The carton is wrapped in a thin little layer of clear plastic, they find. They study this novelty for a moment before setting it back down and peeling the glove off their right hand, shortly thereafter picking it up with their left and making quick work of the wrapping with the short fingernails of their (mostly) human hand.

The rest is habit. Rusty habit, yes - they don’t think they’ve gotten the opportunity to rip into many new cigarette packages in the past… however long - but habit nonetheless. They rip the tab up, frown slightly at the jagged edges where they’d miscalculated the force needed to do so, and tap one of the sticks into their palm, then pop it in their mouth and store the rest in their pocket.

Naturally, their lighter isn’t in the first pocket they check. They fish through a couple more, but progress is slowed significantly by the complete lack of feeling in their prosthetic. They can’t turn the sensory input back on without draining their battery even faster, so they don’t, but they do roll their eyes at the inconvenience.

“Away. Unless you’ve got a craving for a bullet between the eyes, I wouldn’t go back that way. Or stop for too long.” They tilt their head in the general direction they’d come from, then give her a pointed look over the top of their shades. It only lasts a moment, drifting away again as they continue to dig through their pockets.

 


Freyja took what was probably an unwarranted moment to watch Kerry as they took her offerings, slipping off their borrowed shades and affixing the new ones. She barely managed to keep a frown off her face when she caught a glance of their eyes, the glowing red cores the color of dried blood. She’d never seen them that dim before, and Freyja suddenly wondered how their mechanical components were powered.

Man certainly had no limit on what they would consider for a power source. She’d seen magical gems embedded within ancient circuitry, all sorts of animals on various wheels and treadmills, and even once watched as the blood of a very devout priest was drained from his body, run through tubes to extract the “holiness” from it, then returned to his body to produce more.

Obviously as time went on the methods of power generation had evolved, but Kerry provided a unique circumstance. Was there something mechanical within them whose sole purpose was power generation? Or was the power drain so negligible that it could be restored by ordinary biological processes?

Gods, she wished they were more amenable to answering questions about themself. Or simply amenable to questions about themself. Or amenable to questions in general.

Freyja realized she was staring. Fortunately, Kerry seemed too preoccupied with tearing open their new carton of cigarettes to notice. They popped one of the cigarettes into their mouth and began rummaging around. It took Freyja far too long to realize what they were looking for, which then sent her scavenging through the pockets of her own jacket. Unlike Kerry, however, her search bore fruit and her hand emerged clutching one of several disposable lighters she’d purchased.

“Need a light?” Freyja asked, holding the device out to them even as she made a mental note to stash a couple more around the truck. While ice was her preferred element and fire made Veljara a touch testy, she had several artifacts that reacted wonderfully when exposed to open flame. And considering that sticking with Kerry seemed to imply a near-constant threat of danger (not that Freyja was complaining), she may have the opportunity to put those artifacts to good use.

Speaking of, Freyja let out a playful groan at Kerry’s pointed glance over their newfound shades before putting the truck back into gear, glancing both ways before pulling out onto the rainy Irish roads.

“Sheesh, sorry for making a pit stop. Would’ve been faster but someone needed smoko supplies.” A touch of a twang entered her voice as she finished the sentence. Australia hadn’t exactly been a fun time for Freyja, but that was more from the heat than anything else. If an eternal frozen warrior spirit could bitch and moan in discomfort, then Veljara certainly had for almost the entire time Freyja was on the continent.

Freyja fiddled with the radio for a little bit before giving up and shutting it off, the annoying hiss of static sending chills down her back as she was inexplicably reminded of the dead thing that she’d glimpsed behind Kerry’s eyes when that thing had been wearing them. She cracked her window, letting the cool air trickle in and wash over her, the sound of rain calming her ragged nerves.

“So,” Freyja started when the silence grew unbearable. “Anything you want to tell me about the men who just tried to kill us?” While she may have been fluent in Latin, along with several other languages, ‘subtlety’ and ‘tact’ did not feature in her vocabulary. “Seems like they were mostly interested in you, right?”

She would not bring up the Hellhound, not yet. Not until whatever trust that lay shattered between them had been at least somewhat repaired. Until she knew that she could have a fighting chance in case that thing came back out.
 


“Hm? Ah. Thanks, babe.” Tilting their shades back up, they take the lighter, flicking it on and lighting the stick in their mouth before shaking the flame out and tucking it away in the same pocket as the rest of their haul.

“Not my fault you have a problem,” they mumble, smirking slightly. Ash crumbles on the seat between them, but they don’t bother wiping it away, only moving to prop their elbow on the seatback. They lounge against it, curious eyes locked on their… (-partner? victim? hostage?-) Freyja as she drives.

Faint smudges of red and rust catch their eye, and they frown at the offending splotches, mapping the washed-out traces of past violence between hazy clouds of smoke.

Most of it seems to be caught in her hair and flecked across the back of her neck. It doesn’t look like the spray of someone else’s blood, but they can’t see any injuries on her, either - the bruises on her throat have already faded to nothing, and she doesn’t speak or move with the air of a woman still nursing a bruised windpipe. She must have some form of enhanced healing, but how enhanced? Enough to shrug off a bullet in the back? Did one of those bastards get a lucky shot off, somehow?

Fire fizzles at their fingertips, and they crush the spent cigarette, flicking it away and replacing it with a new one. The low-battery alert continues to flash in the corner of their vision, but they wave it away, watching in silent, restless anger as Freyja guides the car around a corner and onto another endless road, taking advantage of the straightaway to shrug out of her coat.

Her wings reappear, midnight black and covered in the same dried blood as her braid and the back of her shirt, and The Hound pauses. Takes a breath of tar and smoke. Lets it out slow. Studies her from behind their shades and a fresh veil of gray, and smiles, just a little mean, just a few too many teeth.

“Whatever gave you that impression? Seemed to me they were looking for some kind of… wayward hund, and I haven’t seen any dogs around here. Have you, Freyja?” They keep their gaze trained on her, smile continuously slipping between benign and amused as they consider her through half-lidded eyes.

 


Freyja was determined not to blush at Kerry’s newest nickname and scowled internally as she failed, Kerry’s deft fingers plucking the lighter from her grasp. It didn’t escape her notice that they pocketed it once they’d finished, and she was grateful for her own foresight in purchasing multiple.

Even with her attention fixed on the road, Freyja could feel their gaze on her, feel it in the way her feathers shifted and ruffled even within the disconnected confines of the coat. It wasn’t quite the piercing, steady gaze of a predator staring down its prey, that was for sure. Freyja had faced down enough monsters to know that feeling intimately. No, this was something different; still predatory in nature but somewhat withdrawn, as if the beast in question had not yet decided whether she was food or fascination and was enjoying the time it took for the decision to settle.

Barely repressing a shudder, not wanting to give it the satisfaction of knowing she was squirming under its gaze, Freyja eased the truck around a corner. Pins and needles sank into the sensitive flesh of her freshly-healed wing wounds, and Freyja let her hands slip from the wheel for a moment in order to free them from the sleeves, letting out a sigh of relief as the jacket fell away, her wings slipping into reality once more. They shifted slightly, stretching however much they could in the enclosed space as Freyja posed her questions to her… (-passenger? attempted murderer? newfound partner in crime?-) Kerry as they took a drag from their second cigarette.

There was a sharpness to their answer, their tone equal parts mocking and biting; a curved blade with a point at either end, bared in response, generous enough to let her decide which part she wanted to fall upon. Her wings fluttered again, and Freyja could feel the bits of frost starting to collect on the edges of the feathers, the darkness pooling in the spaces between them. She pushed
her
down, grimacing slightly as Veljara sunk
her
claws in, a frigid burn dragging itself down her chest as the ice melted as quickly as it had crystallized.

Kerry had once again placed a loaded gun on the seat between them, smiling as she met their ruddy gaze. And this time she couldn’t pretend she didn’t know why it was there.

“Can’t say I have, Kerry.” Freyja did her best to keep her voice neutral, even as Veljara clawed at her throat. “Not too worried about it, though. If things get too dicey, I’ve got the Hellhound to protect me.”

No pause, no inflection, nothing to draw attention to the two syllables she’d been hesitant to say until now. The only change was another glance, firmly meeting their gaze and smiling in return, a smirk that told Kerry she knew what they were and that it didn’t scare her.

A lie, true. But one she could afford to tell herself for a little while longer, at least.
 
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A beat passes. The Hellhound considers the woman’s claim, the lights in their eyes piercing even through the shades. The bloodied refraction casts their already sharp features into even sharper relief, rendering them unreadable. Finally, just when the silence seems stretched to the point of snapping, The Hound grins, crooked and just the right kind of mean, leaning in with deliberate slowness to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Oh, babygirl. The Höllenhund is not your friend.”

Their fingers are warm, their touch surprisingly delicate when they skate across her jaw. There’s something in their voice too sharp to be pity - admonition, perhaps, or warning - as they trace a line to her carotid artery, pause there to feel her heart hammer under their fingertips. “Haven’t you heard? That mangy mutt doesn’t love anyone or anything.”

Lazy whorls of smoke curl from the cigarette tucked between their knuckles. After a moment, they draw their hand back, bringing it to their mouth to finish their smoke. Their next words come out gray, darkness pressing in on the edges of their vision.

“No, they won’t protect you. But I’ll do my best.”

Pinching the embers out, they flick the stub away. It goes spinning off into the dark, but they don’t watch it fall. They just slump into their seat, teeth clacking together as their head falls into the bend of their arm, their irises fading to the same void-black as the rest of their eyes.

 


Freyja tried to keep her eyes on the road, but there was just something about Kerry’s gaze that drew her in, the silent hum of their cyclic crimson irises dragging her vision sideways, the yawning darkness of their pupils and sclera a black hole that she could not escape from. It wasn’t until she felt the electric touch of fingertips brushing against her skin that Freyja was jolted out of that gaze, eyes jumping back to the road in time for her to subtly adjust the wheel, bringing the wheels back over the dividing line.

Her mouth had gone dry. They hadn’t denied it, being the Hellhound. They’d even used the German name, meaning at least they could say it without issue. Freyja realized the fingers were lingering, pressed firmly against her neck, the pulse of her blood carrying adrenaline and cortisol from her heart slipping under their fingertips before continuing throughout her body.

There was something jagged in their voice, pointed, something that turned the fingers at her neck to a knife’s tip pressed against her throat. Describing how the Hellhound didn’t care for anyone, for anything, only cared for themself, Freyja wondered once more whether they were about to kill her. She idly wondered if Veljara could surface before they snapped her neck, and already she felt her fingertips growing cold, delicate layers of frost beginning to crawl over the steering wheel.

Freyja was so focused on summoning Veljara from the depths but still keeping her under wraps that she didn’t hear Kerry’s last words until they were already falling to the floor along with their discarded cigarette.

They won't protect you. But I’ll do my best.


She glanced over at them and felt her heart crawl into her throat. Kerry looked as though they could be sleeping, save for the fact that their eyes were still open, those crimson irises now cold and lifeless. The ice melted, but Freyja felt the cold continue to grow in her, her fingertips beginning to turn black as she and the valkyrie’s wills overlapped and merged.

Steering the car to the side of the road with perhaps a bit less care than was deserved, Freyja pulled the parking brake even as her truck groaned in protest of the abuse, leaning over to place her fingertips against Kerry’s neck; an echo of their earlier gesture, although significantly lacking in malevolence.

A slow thrum of crimson beat a steady rhythm beneath her touch, and Freyja felt the cold, which had crept up to her arms, begin to slowly recede. Just to be sure, she held her hand in front of their mouth, waiting with bated breath until she felt the shallow flow of air.

Okay, they weren’t dead. Perhaps her initial reaction had been correct, and they were just sleeping. But with their eyes open? And dark? Freyja thought back to her earlier theories about Kerry’s mechanical components. Had they run out of power? Did they need to be...plugged in? She'd run her hands over as much available surface area as possible, and apart from a few...ahem, typical spots she could think of, there seemed to be no obvious area for plugging in a power connection. She could investigate, but the idea of Kerry coming to consciousness while Freyja was strip-searching them was enough to put the fear of just about every god into her.

Freyja grabbed her jacket, shaking off anything that may have fallen on it before spreading it out over her passenger. The large panels of cloth let it rest comfortably over them, and as long as Kerry didn’t grow any surprise wings, nothing would slip into the pocket dimension she’d managed to set up.

And so she drove. The radio, busted as ever, only spat static at her each time she attempted to coerce it into working, so she drove in silence. Her mind’s whirrings were her only company, playing and replaying the scene she’d just lived through. Freyja kept finding herself coming back to two key things they’d said. They’d called her babygirl. Babygirl. A nickname that should not fluster here nearly as much as it did, and one that had her usual passenger growling in disgust.

The second one was perhaps the most important. At least to her.

That mangy mutt doesn’t love anyone or anything.


It was strange. Freyja had never mentioned anything about loving the Hellhound, or Kerry for that matter. As far as she was aware anything north of ‘tolerate’ hadn’t even entered the conversation. And yet ‘love’ was the word they’d used. Not ‘like’. Not ‘care about’. Not ‘give a shit’.

The Hound doth protest too much, shethinks.

Eventually, the silence of her own thoughts grew to be damn near maddening. Freyja started to hum to fill the silence. What started as idle tunes and rambling melodies turned toward the familiar, towards songs from her childhood and beyond. After that, it was only a matter of time before words were added, Freyja’s voice low and soft, slipping between languages as one song’s conclusion merely fueled another’s beginning.

The curtains of rain finally parted, and the sun crept back below the horizon. Kerry slept fitfully in the passenger’s seat, and Freyja drove them both towards gods-knew-what. And even though she knew that they had done nothing to earn her loyalty, and in fact had done several things to earn her distrust instead, Freyja somehow knew that she would keep driving as long as she had to, until the cabin was bathed in a soft crimson glow and lit up by a crooked grin once more.

Until then, all she had was the road and her own muttered singing. It would have to be enough.
 
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Darkness stretches outwards in every direction. Gradually, though nothing seems to change, they become aware that they are walking. There is a path beneath their feet, indiscernible from the inky black except for how the cold radiates up through the thin soles of their shoes. It is smooth to the point of slipperiness, but their steps are sure, unfaltering.

Somehow, this is familiar; they think they have walked this path before. Many times, even.

Enough times that they are quite certain there is no need for the hands at their elbows to grip them so tightly.

Dread rises like a crimson stain through the flat dark around them, but still they walk. They walk, and the hands steer them ever onwards, clamping down and dragging them along when they falter.

And falter they do - the cold from the floor creeps further and further up their legs with every step, locking up their muscles and stiffening their joints until straightening their leg feels like prying open a rusted hinge.

Then, with one final push, the hands abruptly release them. They stagger forward, and the floor fails to catch them.

They fall.

The path is gone. The hands are gone. Thus unmoored, they tumble, weightless, into the blood-red void.

The dark is no longer quiet. It roars in their ears, flashing with lights, shapes, colors, sounds - so many - fucking - sounds - whispers, screams, threats, pleas - tearing at them, ripping through clothes and skin and - coherence - dragging them down, always down - clips them, sends them spinning off in a - faces and lips and teeth and - hands - and -

- and -

Singing.

Someone is singing.

Dazed, they take a hand off their ear and reach for the sound, for the single spot of coherence drifting through the chaos. It flutters into their palm, glistening starkly against the bloodied, burnished metal.

…

…

The Hound stares at the snowflake for a moment longer before carefully curling their fingers inwards, bringing their hand to their mouth, and blowing it away. It drifts off, disappearing into the flurry that now surrounds them.

Laying back, they fold their hands behind their head and settle in to watch the dark clouds roll by.



Typically, The Hound does not have the luxury of a slow awakening. It usually happens like this: one moment they are asleep, and the next they are awake, alert, and ready to face whatever fresh dangers have appeared in their brief absence.

It is novel, then, that when they wake this time, they wake with stiff joints and a mouth stuffed with cotton, blearily clawing their way out of slumber and struggling for a long moment to remember how the whole existence thing works.

Groggy and not quite awake enough to bother with all the mental dials and knobs that they’ll have to fiddle with to turn off power-conserving mode, they blink tiredly at the empty seat beside them. The low-battery alert has finally left them, at least. That’s good.

Blinking again, they look down, squinting for a few seconds before remembering how to manually refocus their eyes. Hm. There is a coat covering them. It is not their coat, but it is vaguely familiar. They raise a hand to paw at the silky inner lining, pushing it into their lap and freeing themself from its sweltering embrace.

Ah, that’s better. Rolling their neck to crack it, they languidly stretch, eyes unfocusing briefly as they take the time to move a few functions back to automatic.

They pause mid-stretch, vision snapping into sharp focus as they turn to their right. Specifically, to the empty seat beside them.

“Verdammt.” Suddenly wide awake, they scan the cab and what they can see of the surrounding area. It’s mostly grass and rock, but when they turn to look out the back window -

There’s Freyja, sitting in the bed of the truck. She has her back against the glass, wings free and loosely curled around her, and past her all they can see is sky.

Kicking the jacket off, The Hound throws themself at the door. It opens easily. Too easily - it practically spits them out, and they nearly slip on the dew-damp grass, catching themself on the frame of the car at the last second. Swearing and kicking again at the jacket that seems determined to wrap itself around their ankles, they finally wrestle it away and toss it back in the cabin, slamming the door a moment later and storming around the side of the truck.

For reasons unknown, Freyja has parked them on top of a cliff. They give the drop a considering glance, eying the crashing waves far below, but quickly dismiss it, turning their attention towards the not-so-delicate process of hoisting themself into the truck bed via the back tire.

“Thought I said to keep moving,” they mutter, the barest tinge of annoyance coloring their voice. Once in the bed, they sit with a huff on the wheel cover, the salt-wind tossing their hair into a new kind of disarray despite how they turn their back and flip their collar up against it.

Behind their shades, scarlet eyes scan their companion from head to toe to wing-tip, searching for any fresh injuries. After determining that there are none, they sit back a little, some of the tense wariness easing from their demeanor. “What happened?”

 


After the dark of the night and the days of pounding rain, the sun felt nice on Freyja’s face. She exhaled, letting her wings stretch after hours of being cooped up and cramped. The fragrant smoke lingered for a moment before the sea breeze swept it away. She rarely smoked (fire in any form tended to set Veljara on edge) but on certain occasions she enjoyed a clove cigarette. The warm, faintly nutty spice mixed with smoke and cinnamon reminded her of the pastries she’d had in her childhood, chubby hands and face sticky with honey, giggles and crumbs scattering everywhere.

She’d been thinking of home too much lately. Some would call it homesickness, but could you truly yearn for a place that no longer existed? Freyja took another drag from her cigarette, muttering in a language that had been considered dead for more than half a millenia. She hadn’t been in Ireland long, but perhaps it was time for her to move, see some different sights.

Maybe a trip home would be good for her. Spend a few years roaming through the half-dozen or so countries that made up the area, root out any artifacts that had turned up in the last century or so. A small vacation. Another thought sparked in the back of her mind.

Would Kerry join her if she asked? They’d stick out like a sore thumb, but then again so would she. There would be no lack of entertainment, that was for sure. Slipping across borders undetected, locating hidden strongholds, and enough violence to dent their mechanical hand. Hells, it would also probably help the two of them put some distance between them and the Höllenhundführers. Yes, Freyja thought that was an excellent idea. She’d ask Kerry when they woke up, whenever that may be.

As if on cue, the dog in question burst out of the truck, an explosion of movement and swears that had Freyja shooting to her feet. She may have parked a little too close to the cliff’s edge, and she wasn’t sure if even they could survive the fall into the water below.

Concern turned to amusement as she watched Kerry wrestle their sworn foe, manhandling the garment before unceremoniously chucking it back into the truck. Freyja sat back down, pulling out a lighter once she realized her cigarette had gone out in the commotion. She raised it in greeting as Kerry clambered up to join her, the movement causing the truck to shift and squeak before settling once more on its axles.

“Good morning to you, too.” Freyja responded, letting the last bit of sweetness from the smoke linger in her mouth before stubbing it out. She flicked the butt over her shoulder, feeling the wind almost pluck it from her hand. She reached down to the thermos that lay at her feet, filling her mug with coffee sweetened within an inch of its life, naturally. The aroma wafted over the two of them as she took a sip, sighing as the sweet warmth filled her.

"Breakfast?" She asked, nudging a nearby wicker basket with her foot. She'd transferred her haul of gas station goodies, plus a few other items she'd had tucked away for a rainy day. A seemingly innocuous oven mitt laid at her side, an explanation for the still-warm baked goods that lay within that raised more questions than it did answers.

“Nothing happened, we’re just waiting.” Kerry seemed to be fully charged, which Freyja was glad for. Even through the mirrored glasses she could feel their laserlike gaze on her, scanning every inch of her. Perhaps to see if she was setting them up? Betrayal probably would be the first thought they’d go to, in their line of work.

“Not exactly a ton of Ireland to drive around, even less considering the current tensions going on up north. And sooner or later your buddies are probably gonna catch up to us or start blocking roads.” Freyja set her coffee to the side, lighting up another clove cigarette and taking a breath, enjoying the way the spiced smoke mixed with the lingering coffee. She turned her attention back to Kerry, using her cigarette as a pointer to help accentuate her argument.

“So, I say we hop across the Irish Sea. I’ve got a couple places to lie low in England, then we can just go over the Channel and head into Europe. Lot more places to hide there, and a lot more people who owe me favors. Ferry leaves in 45, opens in 15.” She flashed a smile at Kerry that had just a bit of sharpness to it.

“I believe this is where you say ‘Thank you, Freya.’.”
 
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The Hound only sighs in response to her pointed pleasantries, cutting their gaze to the side and keeping it fixed there for a long moment. Their hands, one gloved and one not, hang loosely in the air between their knees, thumb pressing down on each of their fingers in sequence before they finally turn back to her.

“Hm.” The sound is toneless, their face unreadable, but they stand and plod over to sit on the other side of the basket nonetheless, digging through it and procuring a pastry and a stick of jerky. Peeling the plastic off, they bite into the stick, remaining largely silent while they chew on it, a torn-off bite of strawberry danish, and her words.

“...The ferry, huh?” they say eventually. They pop one last chunk of jam-coated pastry into their mouth, then reach around the basket to swipe her mug. “Mm, yes. Thank you, Freyja. You’ve done a great job walking into their trap.”

They don’t bother to even glance at the contents of the stolen drink - their gaze stays fixed on the basket, picking pieces off of each of the remaining sweets even as they raise the mug to their lips and take a generous sip, eyebrows raising slightly in response to the unexpected sweetness. After a moment’s consideration, they take another, slower sip, glancing at her face only as they set the mostly-empty mug at her side once more.

Whatever they see there, they pause, a minute hesitation stilling their hand before they sigh and finish setting metal to metal, moving with more care than they normally reserve for such actions. “Oh, angel, don’t give me that look. The ferry’s the only way off this fucking rock. Of course they’re going to set up checkpoints at the choke-points. Wouldn’t make sense to do anything else.”

Their voice is as rough as always, words blunt and to the point. They have no need for sugar-coating, and, indeed, despite their handful of collected scraps they find that they’ve lost their appetite for sweets. Uncurling their fingers, they let the morsels fall, tumbling from their palm and into the basket. Their hand feels sticky, and they scrub their fingers together as they lean back against the side of the truck-bed.

Lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, they smile. It is a grim, joyless thing, and doesn’t touch their eyes, cherry and void occupied with scanning the bluffs.

Something catches their attention, and they pause once more, angling their head towards something out of sight. Despite this, their tone stays casual, their movements unhurried as they pluck a cigarette from their jacket pocket. “Well. ‘Least it was a good run.”

A lighter follows, and with a few practiced motions they light it up, smoke drifting lazily from between their lips. Finally tearing their eyes away from the fast-approaching vehicles, they look at Freyja, and quirk their mouth into another smile. “I don’t think you’ll wanna stick around for this next part.”

 
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The amount of time it took Kerry to respond caused a pit to open in Freyja’s stomach. It wasn’t a
‘I’d rather remain silent than say thank you so I’m not going to say shit’
type of silence, which would be in character for them. No, it was a silence filled by mulling over words, carefully picking out which ones to use and throwing away the ones that didn’t quite fit.

When she did finally get her ‘thank you’, it was a drop of poison breaking the pond’s surface that had grown still as Kerry foraged themself breakfast. She couldn’t help but tilt her head slightly to the side in confusion, even as her mind rushed to fill in the blanks.

Kerry’s words almost made her flinch, each sentence an arrow burying itself in Freyja’s chest. They weren’t overly harsh, the same rough, neutral tone that they always used. It was the realization of her mistake, of her inadvertent betrayal, that pierced her flesh and dug its barbs in, the weight of it completely negating any acknowledgement of the nickname she pretended not to love.

Freyja wasn’t sure what expression she was making. A mask of something half-pleading, half-apologetic was plastered across her face as she tried to make sense of their words, their motions, their expression. Kerry always had a sort of lackadaisical nature about them even in more serious situations, but they were just lounging against the bed of the truck, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance. They were relaxed, calm, unbothered. Almost like-

Almost like they had accepted it.

“No!” Their final words crashed into her like a wave, and something ripped out of her throat, two voices melded into one, one of warmth, one of frost, each with their own steel. Her wings flared out, eyes melting into black ice. She lingered that way for a moment before Freyja shook her head, eyes returning to normal as she pulled her wings back in.

“No.” She repeated in a single voice, the note of desperation once more buried beneath the ice. “We’re getting out of here.”

She stood, brushing the crumbs off her and throwing the basket into the trunk she’d been sitting on.

“The truck’s warded, we have plenty of gas, and I’ve got some earplugs.” Freyja tucked her wings tighter against her body as she leapt over the side of the truck, shoes hitting the ground with a heavy thud. “Pretty sure I’ve got some illusory artifacts that can help cover our tracks and confuse them.”

She’d already reached the driver’s side door and flung it open before she realized that Kerry hadn’t moved. Glancing back, Freyja watched as they almost lazily blew a plume of smoke into the air, finishing their cigarette with a sigh before flicking the butt away. They made no attempt to move from their spot, simply staring off into the distance, presumably gauging the approach of their killers.

“Hey!” She shouted, stomping back over to them. “Come on, we need to go!” That note of desperation began to creep back into her voice, even as a trickle of frost matched it. A plea from both parties, perhaps, that they somehow knew would fall on deaf ears. But they had to try. She wasn’t going to lose them that easily.
 
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