TS: Interlude: Somewhere in Iowa
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Somewhere in Iowa
Though the moon is only half full, the night’s beautiful, perfect in the way only mid-June can manage. Bob has happily taken advantage of the nearby stream and screening stand of trees to stretch his legs. It’s not the same as true wilderness of course, but finding any scrap of nature close to a venue is a blessing. The stream is lively, burbling happily to itself, the surrounding trees bright with young leaves. Bob has no complaints - it’s a relief to feel river mud under his paws after a full day of baking on asphalt. As much as he loves touring, and Bob fucking loves being on the road, the summer heat becomes overwhelming when paired with the jostling crowds.
His thoughts are still wrapped ‘round with frogsong and the warm scent of young rabbits, so Bob’s surprised by the monster's initial lunge. But his reflexes are good, and his blood’s still singing of moon and green - which probably saves his life. Flinching back, he avoids razor-sharp talons and an equally sharp beak. Beak? What the fuck?, Bob thinks as the creature darts forward, shrieking at him. This time he reacts, shifting back into fur to catching the outstretched talons in one clawed hand, and then pushes the creature back.
He doesn't know what this thing is - for an instant Bob thinks it's a costume, somebody's fucked up idea of a prank. This creature, with its pebbled, burnt-orange hide and raptor’s face, is too wrong to be real. But the scent tells him otherwise. It smells... hot, coppery though not like blood, with a dusty upper note that makes Bob think of mummies. The scent is complex, like nothing he's ever smelled before. What Bob does know is it's not even remotely human.
He dodges back as the creature lashes out again, feeling talon tips brush the fur on his throat as his ducks away.
Shit. Too close.
It circles him, head swaying from side to side, watching him out of yellow eyes. Bob realizes that the whatever-the-fuck is stalking him. He growls, afraid and angry. Another lunge and Bob steps back, tripping over a concrete parking barrier and falls hard on his ass. He lands badly, wrenching left just in time to miss another swipe from talons. The creature also overbalances and Bob snarls, rolling to pin it to the ground. It shrieks again -the cry is piercing, high-pitched and painful enough to make him want to cover his ears. Bob holds on as it bucks under him, and tries to use his greater bulk to keep it down. It twists its head free and takes a chunk out of his forearm. He yelps in pain, his arms spasming around the creature's throat. A sharp crack cuts through the night air and the creature goes limp, heavy against his arms.
Bob pants, fumbling away from his assailant. His arm is throbbing with pain. He shifts back to skin and grimaces at the blood spilling down his wrist, dripping sticky across his knuckles. It’s still better than blood-matted fur. He can feel the moonlight on his skin; its touch is tentative, eager but slow to act. Bob grabs the shreds of his shirt - at least he'd worn an old one - and binds the wound tight. As he’s knotting the cotton, there’s a loud pop and Bob sneezes as the air is filled with the reek of pure sulfur. He rubs tears out of his eyes and stares as his attacker's body collapses in on itself, leaving behind a vague outline of reddish dust.
"What. The. FUCK," he mutters.
A shiver walks up his spine. The wind shifts, carrying laughter from one of the nearby bus parties to him. Bob feels a sharp stab of gratitude that the ambush had happened this far out, away from the buses, but he knows better to trust that luck will hold. Grabbing the remaining shreds of his shirt, Bob hightails it back to his bus.
He manages to evade the people still lingering, by sticking close to the shadows. For the thousandth time, Bob wishes he were less pale, less of a contrast in the darkness. (In his memories, his mother chides him, calls him moon-kissed, and Bob rolls his eyes at the often-repeated endearment.) When he climbs the steps, the bus is quiet, possibly empty. At this point in the tour it’s difficult separating out live scent from the accumulated den-reek, especially since Jepha can be a quiet bastard. But he meets no one on his way to the bathroom.
Door firmly shut, Bob turns on the water and unwraps his arm. Luna has started her work - the bleeding’s mostly stopped, the wound’s edges beginning to knit closed. He washes away the grit and dried blood, stares at the wedge-shaped gash in his arm. This happened. He thinks, as his hand moves automatically, cupping water from the tiny sink and spilling it down his arm. Bob forgets how stubborn blood can be; it always wants to cling, to leave a stain. Bob’s not afraid to scrub. This happened… but what the hell is this?
He spends the rest of the night curled up in his bunk, grateful for its closeness - it feels like a den. It’s not as reassuring as the warmth of another body nearby, but it’s what he’s got, what Bob knows is safe and sane. The pins and needles prickle of his arm healing keeps him awake. Any number of things about touring make sudden, horrible sense to Bob.
It’s not like he's ignorant - despite their solitary natures, Bob’s parents made sure to educate him about the rest of the Contrary tribes. And he was part of the Chicago scene, before he started touring. He’s met a couple of other Fianin, a handful of shifters from other tribes, even some fey. Hell, he’d even bumped into a vampire once, back when he was working at the House of Blues. But Bob’s never seen, never heard of anything like that creature.
His thoughts keep looping back to Chicago.
When dawn finally shines through the curtain of his bunk, Bob’s come to a decision. He has to find Andy Hurley.
~
But that wound is one of Bob’s first injuries that scars. He’s glad it stays. Bob never thought a scar could steady him, but it does. No matter how crazy or confusing his life gets, he has this to remind him. Even now, he can glance down at his forearm and remember: Bob’s known the truth for a long time.
~~~~
Somewhere in Iowa
Though the moon is only half full, the night’s beautiful, perfect in the way only mid-June can manage. Bob has happily taken advantage of the nearby stream and screening stand of trees to stretch his legs. It’s not the same as true wilderness of course, but finding any scrap of nature close to a venue is a blessing. The stream is lively, burbling happily to itself, the surrounding trees bright with young leaves. Bob has no complaints - it’s a relief to feel river mud under his paws after a full day of baking on asphalt. As much as he loves touring, and Bob fucking loves being on the road, the summer heat becomes overwhelming when paired with the jostling crowds.
His thoughts are still wrapped ‘round with frogsong and the warm scent of young rabbits, so Bob’s surprised by the monster's initial lunge. But his reflexes are good, and his blood’s still singing of moon and green - which probably saves his life. Flinching back, he avoids razor-sharp talons and an equally sharp beak. Beak? What the fuck?, Bob thinks as the creature darts forward, shrieking at him. This time he reacts, shifting back into fur to catching the outstretched talons in one clawed hand, and then pushes the creature back.
He doesn't know what this thing is - for an instant Bob thinks it's a costume, somebody's fucked up idea of a prank. This creature, with its pebbled, burnt-orange hide and raptor’s face, is too wrong to be real. But the scent tells him otherwise. It smells... hot, coppery though not like blood, with a dusty upper note that makes Bob think of mummies. The scent is complex, like nothing he's ever smelled before. What Bob does know is it's not even remotely human.
He dodges back as the creature lashes out again, feeling talon tips brush the fur on his throat as his ducks away.
Shit. Too close.
It circles him, head swaying from side to side, watching him out of yellow eyes. Bob realizes that the whatever-the-fuck is stalking him. He growls, afraid and angry. Another lunge and Bob steps back, tripping over a concrete parking barrier and falls hard on his ass. He lands badly, wrenching left just in time to miss another swipe from talons. The creature also overbalances and Bob snarls, rolling to pin it to the ground. It shrieks again -the cry is piercing, high-pitched and painful enough to make him want to cover his ears. Bob holds on as it bucks under him, and tries to use his greater bulk to keep it down. It twists its head free and takes a chunk out of his forearm. He yelps in pain, his arms spasming around the creature's throat. A sharp crack cuts through the night air and the creature goes limp, heavy against his arms.
Bob pants, fumbling away from his assailant. His arm is throbbing with pain. He shifts back to skin and grimaces at the blood spilling down his wrist, dripping sticky across his knuckles. It’s still better than blood-matted fur. He can feel the moonlight on his skin; its touch is tentative, eager but slow to act. Bob grabs the shreds of his shirt - at least he'd worn an old one - and binds the wound tight. As he’s knotting the cotton, there’s a loud pop and Bob sneezes as the air is filled with the reek of pure sulfur. He rubs tears out of his eyes and stares as his attacker's body collapses in on itself, leaving behind a vague outline of reddish dust.
"What. The. FUCK," he mutters.
A shiver walks up his spine. The wind shifts, carrying laughter from one of the nearby bus parties to him. Bob feels a sharp stab of gratitude that the ambush had happened this far out, away from the buses, but he knows better to trust that luck will hold. Grabbing the remaining shreds of his shirt, Bob hightails it back to his bus.
He manages to evade the people still lingering, by sticking close to the shadows. For the thousandth time, Bob wishes he were less pale, less of a contrast in the darkness. (In his memories, his mother chides him, calls him moon-kissed, and Bob rolls his eyes at the often-repeated endearment.) When he climbs the steps, the bus is quiet, possibly empty. At this point in the tour it’s difficult separating out live scent from the accumulated den-reek, especially since Jepha can be a quiet bastard. But he meets no one on his way to the bathroom.
Door firmly shut, Bob turns on the water and unwraps his arm. Luna has started her work - the bleeding’s mostly stopped, the wound’s edges beginning to knit closed. He washes away the grit and dried blood, stares at the wedge-shaped gash in his arm. This happened. He thinks, as his hand moves automatically, cupping water from the tiny sink and spilling it down his arm. Bob forgets how stubborn blood can be; it always wants to cling, to leave a stain. Bob’s not afraid to scrub. This happened… but what the hell is this?
He spends the rest of the night curled up in his bunk, grateful for its closeness - it feels like a den. It’s not as reassuring as the warmth of another body nearby, but it’s what he’s got, what Bob knows is safe and sane. The pins and needles prickle of his arm healing keeps him awake. Any number of things about touring make sudden, horrible sense to Bob.
It’s not like he's ignorant - despite their solitary natures, Bob’s parents made sure to educate him about the rest of the Contrary tribes. And he was part of the Chicago scene, before he started touring. He’s met a couple of other Fianin, a handful of shifters from other tribes, even some fey. Hell, he’d even bumped into a vampire once, back when he was working at the House of Blues. But Bob’s never seen, never heard of anything like that creature.
His thoughts keep looping back to Chicago.
When dawn finally shines through the curtain of his bunk, Bob’s come to a decision. He has to find Andy Hurley.
~
But that wound is one of Bob’s first injuries that scars. He’s glad it stays. Bob never thought a scar could steady him, but it does. No matter how crazy or confusing his life gets, he has this to remind him. Even now, he can glance down at his forearm and remember: Bob’s known the truth for a long time.