justfuckingtryit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justfuckingtryit) wrote2019-03-27 08:19 pm
justfuckingtryit) wrote2019-03-27 08:19 pm
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Memory 2: A ride at night
The mist is thick; it blankets the air, killing visibility and dampening sound. There’s a whole world of nothing out past the exposed bed of a truck and the road rumbling by, asphalt half-visible in the faint glow from the headlights.
Cobalt, though – Cobalt’s clear. He’s less than two feet away, staring out into the night. The shirt he’s wearing, dark and sleeveless, is shredded; one of his arms is streaked with what looks like blood.
He’s ghastly pale, even in the dim light, and he looks like he could use a good meal or three – but he’s on his feet, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain.
“They should just set up a fucking waystation already,” says Thorn, and shifts from one foot to the other.
“Construction would be a nightmare,” Cobalt answers, tone light.
“So rig some floodlights,” says Thorn. “Roll out with enough people to do the work, stick us on guard duty, fix the power lines before we bite it. Easy.”
The truck begins to slow. Cobalt’s eyes flicker toward the road in front of them, mostly obscured by mist. “Right,” he says. “Easy.”
The horn blasts, shrill and insistent, three times in a row.
“About fucking time,” says Thorn, and reaches out toward the air.
Where his fingers touch, the misty darkness shimmers and then parts. Into his empty hand falls a spear, some strange dark metal, longer than he is tall. Beside him, Cobalt’s suddenly holding a shuriken with massive metal arms, the circular base where he grips it easily as big around as his head.
The driver leans on the horn again – sticks his head out the window to shout, “Hey! The fuck’s taking so long? I got a shipment to deliver!”
Thorn hauls back with the spear, like he’s throwing a javelin – lets it fly through the night, toward the road in front of the truck. When it’s reached the end of its arc, he probes after it, and the glimmer of magic swallows him up.
He slips into the between spaces of the world, just for an instant – knows a moment of blur and light and disorientation as he vanishes and then reappears again in the middle of the road, in time to catch the spear.
He makes an irritated ‘tch’ sound in the back of his throat. “You want something to rip your fucking scalp off? Get your head back in and roll up the godsdamn window.”
He's still scowling when Cobalt comes to land beside him, light on his feet, and peers out into the mist.
“We’ve got company,” he announces, and Thorn leaves off glaring long enough to squint out into the darkness. For a long couple of seconds he sees nothing, even as Cobalt begins to move.
Then he spots them: shadowy masses just beyond the glare of the headlights, the shapes of them solid and hulking, near as tall as he is and three times as big around.
He hauls back with the spear again – throws it right into the center of them, then follows after, a brief disorienting lurch until he’s standing among them. There are five of them, or maybe six, massive, rounded creatures with high backs and four legs, heavy armor coating their bodies and heads. Wicked claws grace their feet, and wicked spikes adorn their backs and shoulders. They look like a walking billboard that screams, “DO NOT TOUCH,” but, well, if they didn’t want someone fucking with them, they shouldn’t have parked it in the middle of the road.
Thorn doesn’t hesitate; he doesn’t even blink. He drops to one knee, and slams his fist into the asphalt of the road.
The knuckles split from the force; where he touches, ice explodes out along the road like winter’s decided it wants to do all its morning frost all at once, right the fuck now. The magic gleams white and silver; ice slicks the ground, and bursts outward.
The satisfying crack as the armor along the creature’s backs split open in the sudden, deadly cold rumbles through the air.
He catches sight of Cobalt, somewhere up above him; that massive shuriken comes whipping in, flying end over end, to strike one of the creatures, then vanishes and comes flying back again.
Thorn strikes the ground again, and the creature closest to him bellows its rage. It lowers it head like it means to charge, and Thorn climbs back to his feet, bracing.
The horns catch him in the side, but he doesn’t dodge – barely flinches. He brings the spear around and plants it through the crack in the armor the ice has forced open. The creature bellows again – twitches, and writhes, and goes down when Thorn leans his whole weight in and forces the blade deeper.
He doesn’t see the blow coming. It strikes him from behind, sends him staggering forward. He hits the concrete face first – feels the skin scrape away from his chin and tastes blood where he's bitten through his tongue.
Thorn doesn’t bother getting all the way up. He just slams his fist into the ground where he’s still down on his knees, and ice thunders through the earth, again and again, sharp and fast and killing-strong. The creature shrieks and goes down.
Most of them are down, now, caught in the blast range of his spell and under fire from Cobalt’s constant overhead hail of bladed metal.
He reaches for his magic again – feels that slow drag of exhaustion, the yawning emptiness of any reserve that means he’d probably better let up for a little while. He makes that irritated ‘tch,’ sound again, then hefts the spear and wades the fuck in to finish it the old-fashioned way.
When the last of them are lying motionless on the dark highway, the driver blasts his horn again, once. Then he starts to move, the wheels slow at first but then faster.
Thorn throws the spear – follows it to the bed of the truck, where he catches it and waits for Cobalt to join him.
It’s not long. He’s not even bleeding much, this time: only a trace of new blood from a wound on his shoulder. Thorn can feel the blood all down his own side, though, hot and sticky. He’s be worried for the shirt, but it’s a t-shirt, dark colors and heavy patterns, by design something hard to stain.
“Hold still,” says Thorn, and lifts his arms out to either side.
The magic is green this time, a soft glow that illuminates the night and casts Cobalt’s face in soft shimmers. Green motes of light dance in the air, transforming the truck bed into something from a fairy tale.
The wound in Cobalt’s shoulder, visible through the new tear in his shirt, knits itself closed. The pain in Thorn’s side and chin and tongue lessen, and then fades entirely.
He lets his arms fall back to his side.
“I’m telling you,” says Thorn. “A waystation would work.”
“If they could get enough guys to get the power lines up in time,” says Cobalt.
Behind them, the dead creatures on the road have been swallowed up by the mist.
Cobalt, though – Cobalt’s clear. He’s less than two feet away, staring out into the night. The shirt he’s wearing, dark and sleeveless, is shredded; one of his arms is streaked with what looks like blood.
He’s ghastly pale, even in the dim light, and he looks like he could use a good meal or three – but he’s on his feet, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain.
“They should just set up a fucking waystation already,” says Thorn, and shifts from one foot to the other.
“Construction would be a nightmare,” Cobalt answers, tone light.
“So rig some floodlights,” says Thorn. “Roll out with enough people to do the work, stick us on guard duty, fix the power lines before we bite it. Easy.”
The truck begins to slow. Cobalt’s eyes flicker toward the road in front of them, mostly obscured by mist. “Right,” he says. “Easy.”
The horn blasts, shrill and insistent, three times in a row.
“About fucking time,” says Thorn, and reaches out toward the air.
Where his fingers touch, the misty darkness shimmers and then parts. Into his empty hand falls a spear, some strange dark metal, longer than he is tall. Beside him, Cobalt’s suddenly holding a shuriken with massive metal arms, the circular base where he grips it easily as big around as his head.
The driver leans on the horn again – sticks his head out the window to shout, “Hey! The fuck’s taking so long? I got a shipment to deliver!”
Thorn hauls back with the spear, like he’s throwing a javelin – lets it fly through the night, toward the road in front of the truck. When it’s reached the end of its arc, he probes after it, and the glimmer of magic swallows him up.
He slips into the between spaces of the world, just for an instant – knows a moment of blur and light and disorientation as he vanishes and then reappears again in the middle of the road, in time to catch the spear.
He makes an irritated ‘tch’ sound in the back of his throat. “You want something to rip your fucking scalp off? Get your head back in and roll up the godsdamn window.”
He's still scowling when Cobalt comes to land beside him, light on his feet, and peers out into the mist.
“We’ve got company,” he announces, and Thorn leaves off glaring long enough to squint out into the darkness. For a long couple of seconds he sees nothing, even as Cobalt begins to move.
Then he spots them: shadowy masses just beyond the glare of the headlights, the shapes of them solid and hulking, near as tall as he is and three times as big around.
He hauls back with the spear again – throws it right into the center of them, then follows after, a brief disorienting lurch until he’s standing among them. There are five of them, or maybe six, massive, rounded creatures with high backs and four legs, heavy armor coating their bodies and heads. Wicked claws grace their feet, and wicked spikes adorn their backs and shoulders. They look like a walking billboard that screams, “DO NOT TOUCH,” but, well, if they didn’t want someone fucking with them, they shouldn’t have parked it in the middle of the road.
Thorn doesn’t hesitate; he doesn’t even blink. He drops to one knee, and slams his fist into the asphalt of the road.
The knuckles split from the force; where he touches, ice explodes out along the road like winter’s decided it wants to do all its morning frost all at once, right the fuck now. The magic gleams white and silver; ice slicks the ground, and bursts outward.
The satisfying crack as the armor along the creature’s backs split open in the sudden, deadly cold rumbles through the air.
He catches sight of Cobalt, somewhere up above him; that massive shuriken comes whipping in, flying end over end, to strike one of the creatures, then vanishes and comes flying back again.
Thorn strikes the ground again, and the creature closest to him bellows its rage. It lowers it head like it means to charge, and Thorn climbs back to his feet, bracing.
The horns catch him in the side, but he doesn’t dodge – barely flinches. He brings the spear around and plants it through the crack in the armor the ice has forced open. The creature bellows again – twitches, and writhes, and goes down when Thorn leans his whole weight in and forces the blade deeper.
He doesn’t see the blow coming. It strikes him from behind, sends him staggering forward. He hits the concrete face first – feels the skin scrape away from his chin and tastes blood where he's bitten through his tongue.
Thorn doesn’t bother getting all the way up. He just slams his fist into the ground where he’s still down on his knees, and ice thunders through the earth, again and again, sharp and fast and killing-strong. The creature shrieks and goes down.
Most of them are down, now, caught in the blast range of his spell and under fire from Cobalt’s constant overhead hail of bladed metal.
He reaches for his magic again – feels that slow drag of exhaustion, the yawning emptiness of any reserve that means he’d probably better let up for a little while. He makes that irritated ‘tch,’ sound again, then hefts the spear and wades the fuck in to finish it the old-fashioned way.
When the last of them are lying motionless on the dark highway, the driver blasts his horn again, once. Then he starts to move, the wheels slow at first but then faster.
Thorn throws the spear – follows it to the bed of the truck, where he catches it and waits for Cobalt to join him.
It’s not long. He’s not even bleeding much, this time: only a trace of new blood from a wound on his shoulder. Thorn can feel the blood all down his own side, though, hot and sticky. He’s be worried for the shirt, but it’s a t-shirt, dark colors and heavy patterns, by design something hard to stain.
“Hold still,” says Thorn, and lifts his arms out to either side.
The magic is green this time, a soft glow that illuminates the night and casts Cobalt’s face in soft shimmers. Green motes of light dance in the air, transforming the truck bed into something from a fairy tale.
The wound in Cobalt’s shoulder, visible through the new tear in his shirt, knits itself closed. The pain in Thorn’s side and chin and tongue lessen, and then fades entirely.
He lets his arms fall back to his side.
“I’m telling you,” says Thorn. “A waystation would work.”
“If they could get enough guys to get the power lines up in time,” says Cobalt.
Behind them, the dead creatures on the road have been swallowed up by the mist.