| Logs |
2009-06-29
| Dreams |
| Realms |
Retired
| Reality Fault |
General Info
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When You're A Stranger
The sun is well risen; it's clear Jason slept rather late. It beats down with indifferent power, baking everything below and causing heat devils and mirages to shimmer and dance on the distant ends of the highway Jason camped nearby. The cars are infrequent, and their occupants seem completely closed into their little air-conditioned shells of glass and high-impact plastics -- that, or they simply ignore the small figure trudging alongside the road. Jason bears it with equanimity. He was surprised as many people stopped for him as they had, in this day and age. He tries to keep a steady pace, not working himself too hard. He gets too tired, he may stop for a break more frequently... and if he rests too frequently, he may not get back up. He finds himself questioning Phyx's vision... but he also realizes he wouldn't have had any of the encounters he did in a car. So he keeps going. Thank goodness he's in better shape.
Time stretches out like an elastic. Jason spends the better part of an hour talking with an old Indian woman about how nature is willing to provide when you are in need and respectful, but that She doesn't appreciate gluttony, or the taking of any life -- plant or animal -- for superficial or greedy desires. Jason agrees with her, but between one moment and the next she disappears, and only a vulture is nearby, eyeing him as the bird feasts on roadkill. Jason quickly decides he should take a break, after giving the vulture space.
Jason trudges all the way to the shade of a small butte close to the highway. He eats sparingly: some jerky, but more trailmix and granola. He needs energy, not salty foods, which will make him drink more of his spare supply of water. He makes a mental note to pick up another canteen once he reaches civilization. He doesn't want to get up, to leave the cool shade of the rock. But the only thing that will help him now is forward movement. He can't depend on, or even expect the help of others; it's nice when you get it, but most of the time folks are too wrapped up in their own problems.
How ironic: that his problems have gotten all wrapped up with other, larger issues. He theoretically had a life that some might kill for -- affectionate lovers, all material and physical needs met, time to spare, to learn, to indulge one's fancy -- and he gave it all up on the say so of Phyx, to walk in the desert and face down scary men with guns, and bikers that ride Nightmares. While he was never an overly selfish man, it amazes him that he gave up Paradise. Why did he do it? Guilt? Curiosity? Compassion, duty? Was it pride? He doesn't even know what actually happened, only that Phyx said he had to go, that it was important -- and he accepted it on faith. Or maybe not faith. Love. Not love of Diana, or Mike, or Phyx. Love of the world She had welcomed him into. Love of Her, that he could not deny this adventure, this experience.
The desert, though, gave him no further answers. So he got up and kept walking. The highway was his life, and he had to keep going rather than stay in once place. Life would not reward him for stagnation, any more than the desert would reward him for staying in the shadow of the butte. Eventually he'd run out of food and water, after all.
High above him he can see a few circling turkey vultures. Closer to him, on a rock outcropping, there's a heavy flapping of wings as one of the vultures lands. It bobs its naked red-skinned head at him, croaking mournfully a few times as the black wings ruffle and it settles in place. Jason looks at the vulture warily. He has no intention of being a meal for the bird, but there's no reason to be unfriendly. "Hot enough for you?" he queries, absently wondering how the bird does keep cool in the desert.
The big, dusty-black bird tilts its head at him so it can examine him more closely with one round eye, then the other. At Jason's question it ruffles its wings again, shuffling a bit in place... then its curved beak parts and Jason hears a dry, calm, almost hissing voice, "We are Her people too, mortal, no less than you. Our job is to free the souls from their bodies after death. Both natural, desired death... and violent murder." It spreads its big wings -- they must be over 6 foot from wing tip to tip -- and takes a few hopping steps as it starts flapping. Over its shoulder the big bird adds, "It is not our job to stop the murders of Her Children... it is yours." The bird soars away, and once more Jason hears only the soft whisper of the wind, and the faint hum of some on-coming vehicle.
The horizon of the desert shimmers with the heat in seductive mirages. The land is still and silent but for the silently circling vultures high above. Far in the distance there's the dot of the on-coming vehicle starting to be visible through the dancing heat devils. Aside from that, Jason is apparently completely alone. Jason stares after the bird, feeling disturbed, scared, intrigued, and humbled. Now things start to fall in place. There have been murders. Plural -- and now many little things jump out at him, and his mind plays with them like little puzzle pieces. Is there one supernatural, like Fenris, that has been killing others? Or is it men like Father Bermudo and that deputy that have been doing it? All of a sudden he can't get to Flagstaff soon enough.
Jason hefts his pack and sets out... he has to struggle to keep at the pace he has set, in his urgency, hating to think that while he's out here, people are dying. As he starts to move towards the razor-sharp edge of the butte's shadow, to emerge into the near blinding sunlight, several things register all at once. First, the on-coming vehicle is a very large, white pickup truck; second, the engine is revving down as the truck slows abruptly. It looks like it will pull to the side of the road a long stone's throw from where Jason is. Standing in the butte's dark shadow like he is, Jason is suddenly aware whomever is in the truck will not be able to spot him whatsoever, due to the sharp delineation between shadow and light caused by the sun.
Jason at first thought maybe the truck was pulling over for him. But as he realizes the driver couldn't possibly see him from this angle, something else clicks: the vultures are circling. He thought maybe they were expecting him to keel over. But when the vulture spoke to him, and told him they were, in fact, psychopomps... Jason freezes in place, a chill washing over him even in this heat -- and he knows that truck.
The truck comes to a halt, and the passenger door flies open even before it's completely stopped, followed by a small figure rolling or falling out of the truck. There's a thin screaming sound coming from the figure as it scrambles to its feet and starts running with desperate effort away from the truck. The heavy heat feels oppressive, like a huge hand slowly flattening everything beneath it -- even sound, even the hoarse panting of the slight figure.
Sliding deliberately out of the same door is a very different figure -- one Jason recognizes. Tall, blonde, well muscled, the almost militarily precisely dressed man is cradling a rifle in his arms. He raises it in one smooth motion and the sharp, flat crack of a shot echoes almost painfully off the rocky butte behind Jason. A puff of dust leaps up from just in front of the smaller figure, and it shies violently to one side with preternatural grace, whirling and screaming at the man, "What do you want?!" Jason is amazed he doesn't move, even as he jerks in place when the shot is fired. Perhaps it's because if Joe really wanted to hit her, he wouldn't have missed. Perhaps because this might be an opportunity to learn something he would not otherwise be told.
As Jason stands hidden in the enveloping shadow, there's a soft, tiny rustle of sound behind him. He's hyper-aware just now, and turns slightly, looking out of the corner of his eye. There's a tiny bit of rockfall slithering down the butte just behind Jason. It would appear the shock of the echoing shot loosened the debris there enough that it slides gently down the rock slope to the pebble-littered ground. Interestingly, as it does so it reveals a few white-gleaming things as well. At the same time, Jason can hear Joe's deep, rumbling voice. The man appears quite calm as he lowers the rifle, "Want all you creepy unnatural things to be gone. Earth belongs to humans, not you monsters. Now head on over towards that butte there, girl."
Off in the distance there's the faint hum of on-coming traffic again. Jason worries about splitting his attention. He's curious, but the threat of a crazy bigot with a gun takes priority. He breathes slow, staying still, and then chances a careful look back at the butte.
The girl's voice is harsh and screechy with fright, "They don't want to be here, dammit! We're trying to leave! Leave us alone!" As Jason listens, his eyes travel over the whitish things he spotted previously, noticing how they seem to stand out, color-wise, from the reddish butte. It's almost a physical shock through his body as the small details register: the little roundish skull shape with the high forehead of a human -- but with a short, blunt bone protrusion for the muzzle's upper jaw; the tiny bones of one little hand still lying intact from where the rock fell away from them -- a hand with a thumb and three fingers.
Jason feels like one of those boney hands just reached up and clutched his heart -- and then it speeds up again. This is a preferred killing field, like those stories he's heard about truckers that pick up women hitchhikers, rape and kill them, and leave the bodies in the desert. The bones belong to another whom Joe killed and buried in a shallow grave.
Joe's voice is calm, almost startlingly soothing sounding as he calls back, "That's fine, girl. Now, just head on over to th' butte. There's a nice patch a' shade there." The roar of motorcycle engines is getting closer and louder, and in his current hypersensitive state Jason can tell they too are slowing as they approach. Hope flares up in the girl's voice as she shouts defiantly, "No! I -- I'll escape with these guys who're coming! Whoever they are, they can't be crazier than you -- and y-you can't kill all of us!" Joe just chuckles, "Yeah, right. I'm a deputy sheriff and you're an escaped prisoner. They won't help you." He slides the rifle into the truck and emerges with a wide black leather belt with a holster on it. He buckles it on as the three motorcycles come to a slow, wary halt some distance away.
Jason is very confused now. The bikers? The ones Joe was supposedly hunting? Why are they here? Are they with Joe? That sounds completely wrong: they're what he'd be trying to kill -- and then Jason gets it: Joe doesn't recognize them. But who knows if the bikers will actually help. They've stopped. For all Jason knows, they're the Four Horsemen, minus one. Maybe they're just here to watch. Jason finally steps into the light. "You're a deputy sheriff that's about to commit murder, Joe," he chides the man grimly.
Several things happen all at once then. The girl, already on a hair-trigger, screams at Jason's sudden emergence and whirls to run towards the bikers, waving her arms and shouting incoherently about crazy men and guns. The bikers react with startlement, one of them starting to yank the bike around while another reaches out for his arm, to stop him. Joe notices the bikers and swears, grabbing for his rifle -- and then his head whips around in shock to stare at Jason. He looks back and forth between the little cluster of bikers a short distance away down the highway... and Jason, in the opposite direction by the butte. He's clearly torn, but finally he nods, straightening, and calls calmingly to Jason, "It's all right, son -- they're all a' them monsters, and I can prove it to you. Just trust me for a little bit longer, and I'll keep us both safe."
The girl has almost reached the motorcycles by now, still shrieking in terror, and one of the bikers -- a gigantic, red-bearded man -- simply roars and yanks away from the other one, charging his bike forwards towards Joe with a scream of tortured rubber. Jason doesn't know if he's trying to save Joe or save the biker. But he's dropped his pack and is charging Joe from the side, aiming to tackle the sheriff as the biker darts across gravel on his hog, driving quite recklessly in his rage.
All hell breaks loose: the other two bikers flip up their face-plates and roar angry words after the charging biker -- the girl screams and throws herself away from all of them -- Joe reacts smoothly, like a professional: he swings the rifle around and aims it at the on-rushing giant hunched down over his motorcycle -- one of the bikers abruptly goes silent and simply follows the other's charge, but along the highway -- and then, in the midst of all the noise and roaring and screaming... that same flat, oppressive crack! of a shot rings out.
There's a sharp, echoing pwinnng! of something ricocheting off metal, and the charging biker's motorcycle screams, abruptly going up on its back tire like a looming black shadow. The engine is still roaring, but for a second Jason sees clearly a huge black stallion, foam flecking from its bit as it rears up and interposes its body between Joe and its rider -- and then both motorcycle and biker crash resoundingly to the shuddering ground. Joe is already whirling, rifle up towards the second approaching biker -- but he doesn't get a chance to get another shot off. Jason pounces the deputy... not as gracefully as Phyx might, but enough to bring the big man to the ground successfully, never having expected being tackled by the young man.
Joe swears, keeping his hold on the rifle as he goes down. His voice is rough with indignant anger, "Dammit, boy, yer gonna get us both killed at this rate!" The big man reaches down to rap his knuckles almost stunningly against Jason's temple, rolling to break free of the smaller man's hold and to bring up the rifle again. It's at that point Jason groggily catches sight of a fleeting shadow over his head -- then with a hard impact and a grunt of effort, another body abruptly lands on them! Jason can't possibly outwrestle either of these men. He tries to roll free of the struggle.
As Jason rolls away, the grunts and snarls of effort from the other two men abruptly shift in tone, and Joe surges to his feet, flinging off the slighter form of the biker wrestling with him. There's a flat, cold, "Fuck you, demon!" from Joe, followed by the sickening crunch of breaking bone as the scrambling biker is kicked in the face. The sharp, enraged scream from the third biker (who was running up even then with a pistol in hand) is abruptly cut off as Joe swings the rifle around to aim it at the fallen biker's body, where he writhes in agony on the dusty, pebble-strewn ground. Joe's voice is weirdly cold as he snaps, "Drop th' pistol, asshole, or your friend is daid!" More quietly, and without looking around, Joe adds, "Good job, boy. Jes' stay still 'n quiet outta th' way, and we'll both git outta this safe 'n sound, promise."
The third biker hesitates, starting to swing the pistol around, and Joe snarls, "Bless't bullets -- drop it!" The biker freezes... then slowly and carefully holds up both hands, the pistol loose in one of them, and starts to gradually kneel to lay the pistol down. Jason is pulling himself to his feet, groaning. He doesn't respond: that would give Joe warning. He grabs for the gun in Joe's holster.
Apparently the groan was enough to alert Joe -- and as Jason lunges for him, several things happen simultaneously: Joe sidesteps and simply pushes Jason hard so the young man goes stumbling forward past him; the biker with the pistol shouts something in a hoarse voice and pops off a snapshot from the hip; the rifle roars as Joe pulls the trigger -- and the blinded biker on the ground rolls abruptly away from Joe.
Jason can't hear squat. His ears are ringing, he's off balance, and feeling about as confident as a drunken moose. He goes to his knees, picking up a handful of pebbles... and flings them back towards Joe. He heroically throws gravel at... nothing at all. He misjudged the angle when he went down.
For a few heartbeats Jason can't hear or see much of anything -- the dust kicked up in the air by all the activity is choking and blinding him. He can vaguely tell there are bodies moving around him in that time, by the thrumming of the ground under him -- and then... quiet. A heartbeat after that, however, he can tell someone is next to him, and hands grasp his shoulder and hip, starting to roll him over. Jason goes over. He's in no position to fight back, no matter who it is. I tried. She knows; I tried. Wasn't good enough.
Jason winces at the pain... the pebbles bit into his face and hands, and he can feel the presents they left behind even as he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He feels fingers pressing gently at his throat, and the sunlight is obscured by someone or something leaning over him. Seen through the gritty slits of his eyes, the shape is black and weirdly misshapen, haloed by brilliant golden light. As he moves his hand, though, he can faintly catch a relieved call, and the touch at his throat goes away. Jason relaxes his squint, trying to get a better look at whoever it is that's over him. At least they're not trying to shoot him or beat him up.
For a moment Jason sees clearly what's looming over him: a burst of flame that seems, oddly, to be rotating next to him like a wheel, and the blunt-pointed head of a very large, almost iridescent snake. Wings shimmer behind it like a halo... and then, as Jason blinks and tries to get his eyes to work right, he realizes it's worse than he thought: the face of the biker looking down at him is a hellish mix of horribly damaged eyes with, just below them, a blood-soaked bandanna with filth stuck to it and the dusty hair, which covers the entire lower face. Hovering over the man's shoulder is the smaller, worried face of the girl Jason last saw with Father Bermudo -- the one trying to hitch a ride at the rest stop. Her voice is awed, "Are you sure he's a mortal? He helped!" She too is damaged -- she's sporting a real beauty of a black eye.
Jason doesn't speak at first, stunned by what he sees. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Finally he finds his voice. "Not your average mortal," he croaks. "Her emissaries warned me there was about to be a murder. I'm sorry I couldn't do more. Is everyone okay?"
The girl jerks back in shock when Jason speaks, but the biker simply chuckles quietly, glancing to one side and then back at Jason's face. He's holding a bit of white cloth and a canteen, and his voice is curiously melodious, "You did fine, mortal -- you saved two, maybe four lives by your fortuitous interference. Now close your eyes and hold still, please; this may sting a little."
Jason just lays back and tries to relax. "I've had worse. " He pauses. "No, actually I haven't. This is my first fight."
The man chuckles quietly again, his voice soothing, "You did fine then. Rest, relax; you are safe for now." Jason can feel a cool liquid being poured on his face as the man carefully swabs clean all the myriad little cuts and abrasions on Jason's face. The girl breathes a quietly wondering, "Who's she?" as the crunch of approaching boots foretells someone else's approach. A sharply cool voice -- oddly, it sounds almost female to Jason -- says, "Guthrum's mount will recover. Remi, you take compassion to a fault! You are hurt worse than the mortal." There is an odd, lilting accent to the voice.
Jason groans. "Please, if someone else is hurt, just let me up. I appreciate the concern, but..." He tries to sit up. He looks at the girl, assuming she was asking him. "She. Capital S," he explains, pointing at the sky. "Grandmother." The newly arrived biker says nothing, simply watching silently. The girl stares at Jason with wide, emerald eyes, and the biker identified as Remi -- the one Jason saw get kicked in the face, who is wearing the blood-soaked bandana over the lower half of his face -- simply chuckles again and keeps carefully wiping Jason's face clean.
Jason blinks as he realizes the bandanna is soaked in blood. "Good god, you're swabbing my cuts, and you're bleeding for real... I should be helping you..." he replies, reaching out.
Remi chuckles good-naturedly as he finishes wiping down Jason's face, "Thank you for your concern, mortal, but... well, I do not think you will want to see my face."
Jason pauses in mid-reach. "Really? Your other form is so beautiful. But I suppose it's books and covers, and all that."
That comment causes all three entities to turn their sudden focus on Jason! Remi says cautiously, "You... can see us? Really see?"
Jason smiles. "Not clearly. It's odd, because I usually see a person's true form all the time. I can't turn it off. But with you it's like I only get a hint every now and then." He tilts his head. "I'm a Seer. I was sent by Phyx."
The small girl looks nervous, glancing back and forth around her before she slips quietly away towards the truck. The new biker crouches, the black leather making faint creaking noises, and studies Jason with intense, piercingly blue eyes from under a shock of wild golden hair. Remi closes his eyes, whispering softly, "So it's still there? Hallelujah. I haven't lost it!" The other biker turns that sharp gaze on Remi, snapping, "Who and what you are is not up to that jealous asshole you called lord, Remiel! Just because you didn't agree with institutionalized cruelty doesn't unmake you!"
Jason looks utterly perplexed. So he did see clearly. "Wait, you're angels? You actually exist? " He only had to be hit over the head twice before it kicked in. "Riding bikes, one would think you'd be Hell's Angels..." He takes a sudden breath. "Wait... are you Fallen?" he queries. Unable to resist his curiosity, he gently tugs the bandanna down.