Run the Doldrums, 2/2
Masterpost // Part One
~~~
"Bob?" Surprise makes Gerard's voice raspy.
Bob slides forward, still balanced on Mikey's narrow thighs. Mikey's jacket slips across his skin, sending up scent. Rich and familiar, the smell of sweat and dust and faint bleach is grounding. Which is a good thing, since Bob’s all roiling emotion on the inside. He desperately wants to slide back into fur; it’s so much easier to deal with this sort of turmoil four-legged. He resists the urge.
"Hey Gee," he says instead, and is startled anew by the roughness of his own voice.
"Holy shit." Ray breathes the words, his eyes wide.
"You're naked. You're naked and you're sitting in Mikey's lap," Gerard says.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Mikey says, his voice pitched low.
Bob grins. The expression feels weird on his face, stretching disused muscles. "Well, fur and clothes don't really mix."
Frank’s still staring at him. "That was real. I didn't make that shit up."
Bob sighs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mikey quirk a smile.
"You'd better..."
"Yeah." It ‘s probably best to get all of this over with in one go.
He climbs to his feet, careful to not elbow Mikey. There’s a brief moment when he considers wrapping Mikey's jacket around his waist and retreating inside to find clothes.
In for a penny... he thinks, and shifts to mid-form as he straightens. There are gasps from the trio standing next to the Trans Am. Bob isn't quite ready to see their expressions, so he turns and offers Mikey a hand up.
Mikey grins, fierce and more than a little feral, and takes his hand. His hand's narrow, almost delicate compared to Bob's now, but there’s a new strength to it that sends anticipation shivering through him. Mikey flows to his feet - there’s no other way to describe how he moves - and tilts his head up to meet Bob's eye, those dark eyes gleaming with a hint of gold..
"Thanks."
"Thanks for the jacket," Bob replies and hands the jacket back to him, careful to not catch his claw tips in the leather.
At the sound of his voice, the gold in Mikey's eyes flares bright. Something in Bob coils tight, wanting to reach out. Soon, he thinks. Then he turns his attention onto the rest of his band.
If their eyes get any wider, they would pop right out of their collective heads.
"Bob..." Gerard stares at him. "What... what did they do to you?"
Frank flinches next to him and Bob’s overwhelmed by the stench of grief and guilt coming off of the three of them.
Yeah, that's not going to work. He snorts.
"They did a lot to me, Gee. But I've always been Fianin."
"Feean?" Ray asks.
Bob corrects his pronunciation and nods. "Yeah. My dad was an old school packless renegade who met my mom at one of the intercity gatherings, back before it got too dangerous to hold them inside Chicago."
"So... wait. You were born a werewolf?" Frank asks. He’s starting to get over his shock and looks fascinated in a way that only spells trouble.
"I'm not a werewolf," Bob replies, and points up.
The guys all look at the half moon. As if she’s suddenly aware of the attention, Bob feels the spill of moonlight on him keenly, a prickle-caress that has him shivering and rubbing the fur absently down on his forearms. He blinks in surprise as he sees the other four also shiver and rub at their arms, unconscious mirrors of one another.
All of them? Really? It takes a lot of will to not bear his teeth with fierce joy at the thought.
Mikey is the only one of them who even registers their response. He gives his brother a narrow-eyed stare before looking back at Bob expectantly.
Right. "Werewolves only change during the full moon, right Gee?" he asks.
Gerard is still staring up at the moon, a strange, dreamy expression on his face.
"Traditionally, yeah. At the most they transform for three days right around the full moon. And they generally don't remember transforming." Gerard turns to look at Bob, frowning. "But you aren't like that. Did old Hollywood and all those horror comics get it wrong?"
"Sort of. Some of it was... bad apples. Most of it was propaganda."
That word got all of their grim-faced attention. They are well aware of the power and damage propaganda can hold.
"But why?" Ray says. "Why did they need propaganda?"
Bob rakes one clawed hand behind his ear and swallows a sigh. "This conversation requires pants. And maybe booze. Definitely pants, though."
And he steps around Frank towards the shack.
"Bob, you have a tail," Frank says.
Bob freezes. He knows that tone. Growling, he turns to look at Frank over his shoulder. "If you touch my tail, Iero, I will tear off your hands."
Then he stalks into the building.
"Is it disturbing that I found that hot?" Mikey asks.
"I don't know about you, but I'm disturbed that you said that," Gerard grumps. It is a very reluctant sort of grumping though, if the mingled scent of pheromones was anything to go by.
Yeah, Bob thinks, this is definitely the sort of conversation that requires pants.
He lengthens his strides, skirting the guys' gear as he moves to the bookcase that hides the safe room. It’s much easier to move the shelves in mid-form; feeling off-kilter, he simply picks the whole unit up and sets it to one side. The safe room is small and windowless, meant only to be an antechamber for the fallout shelter hidden within. It's more than big enough for a single inhabitant, though. Hyper-aware of the others, Bob sees the room with fresh eyes. The gear Bob took from the prison wagon is stacked in haphazard piles against the walls. He makes his way over to the rickety cot, with its pile of clothing. The safe room looks like a wave head squat and smells of animal musk and mustiness. He's glad that he hasn't shifted yet - he just knows his complexion would betray his sudden embarrassment.
Bob takes a couple deep breaths and shifts to skin, shaking out clothes, looking for something to wear that isn't too bloodstained or doesn’t reek too badly. Not that there are very many options available.
He's buckling his belt when the rest of the guys walk into the room. Bob watches them look around, trying to not pay too much attention to their facial expressions as they take in his bolt hole. He finally turns his back to resist the temptation, pulling the standard issue prison t-shirt on. The acidic tang of fear and prison disinfectant still clings faintly to the fabric, but there's not anything he can do about that, so Bob ignores it.
"Interesting rug," Ray finally says.
Bob glances at the threadbare Mexican blanket in the middle of the floor. "I couldn't look at the fucking door anymore."
"Uh... door?" Gerard asks.
Bob walks over to the rug, flips it out of the way, and lifts the wooden trapdoor up. Beneath is a crawlspace, stocked with the last remnants of the zonerunner's stash. Bob points to the steel door sunk into the concrete of the far wall. He fights off the urge to snarl at it. "That door."
"What's behind the door?" Frank asks.
"It's a bomb shelter. A well-stocked bomb shelter."
"Supplies?" Mikey sounds cautiously not hopeful.
"Supplies and ammo."
"Fuck," Frank says.
Bob feels the frustration crest in him again. "I used to know the combination."
"Before..." Gerard gestures at Bob's pants. The Bli insignia is visible on the belt buckle. Bob grits his teeth and nods.
There's a beat of silence.
"I could look at it," Ray says. "I might be able to figure it out."
"Have at it, Toro. I'm not getting anywhere with it."
~~~
Bob really doesn't know as much about his history as the rest of the band thinks. Okay, he knows his own history - he hadn't been dropped on his head as a baby or anything, and he hadn't taken too many blows in his entire running in the scene. But as far as Fianin history goes, he's definitely missing pieces. It wasn't really something he worried about - so much of it was tied to instinct or the physical, he just rolled with it all. That attitude served him pretty well. Up to now, anyway. Now, Bob didn't know what to do and really didn't know where to begin.
Mikey sits right next to him, leaning a little into his space. A sudden sharp rush of relief floods through Bob at the touch, bringing up all the memories of other times they'd had to hole up and hide from Bli/nd.
"I... I'm really glad to see you guys." He tries not to wince as his voice cracks a little on the words.
"Bob," Gerard says. "We thought..." he glances at Mikey and falls silent.
"We thought you were dead," Ray says.
"I know. I knew that. I didn't..." Bob looks away. "I knew you had escaped. I didn't know how many, just that someone did. I didn't expect to ever know for sure."
He rubs his hands on his pants, leaving twin streaks of sweat on the fabric that evaporates quickly in the desert air. He reaches back into the clothing pile and fishes out a wrinkled bandana. Fuck. Bob has never had to have this conversation, not like this. Well, he's definitely had to talk about his nature - not to Brian, who had just known, but to Wentz, who is a nosy fucker and to Bert, a little. Mostly though, either people knew because they were Fianin themselves or they didn't ask, because they had their own secrets. Before, Mikey never really asked for details. But now... well, now Bob has to tell them all, and he has to tell them everything he possibly could scrape out of his memory - because this isn't just about him and his own secrets anymore. It's about them and how much life is going to change.
”I don't talk about this. Ever.”
“That makes sense,” Ray says cautiously. ”I mean, it would be pretty dangerous to, right?”
Bob twists the bandana in his hands around his fingers. “Yeah, as a rule, humans have never been very understanding. But that's not the most important reason these days.”
Frank frowns at him. “What's more important than dodging a mob with pitchforks and torches, dude?”
”Have you heard of the PreterNet?”
They trade looks. Mikey tilts his chin down and drums his fingers on his leg. “That sounds familiar. Pete has mentioned it, maybe. I don't know what it is, though.”
Bob takes a deep breath. “What it is, is a database. Bl/ind has been compiling a list of any and all preternaturals they come in contact with, for years now. From what I understand, it's a pretty comprehensive list. It used to be called the Registry.”
”Bl/ind has a registry list?” Mikey says. "Bob..." His hand clamps down on Bob's arm.
The other three stare at him with widening eyes.
”Oh fuck,” Gerard mutters.
Bob shakes his head. “I've never been on the list. Wentz and Bri... Brian had my back until they were sure that I could manage my own shit.” He clenches his fist, the cloth creaking as he tightens his grip. “At least I wasn't on the list before. But my break out wasn't clean - I blew up the prison transport before taking off, but the signs are there for those who know how to look. I laid trail up to a hot zone and hopefully they will think my scared ass is fried by radiation. But I have to work under the assumption that Bli/nd's added me to the PreterNet.” Ah man, Bri's going to be so pissed.
”What does being on the PreterNet mean?” Ray asks.
”It means that next time they won't bother with a jail cell when they catch me. It means do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go, go directly to the labs. It means a death sentence. A long, painful death full of fucking experiments and misery.” Bob takes another breath. “That's why I've kept hidden.”
”That... that's fucking crazy. What gives them the right...”
Gerard is working up a good head of steam, waving his hands around. Bob can smell how horrified and pissed he is.
“What gives them the right to do any of this, Gee? And it's not like this is the first time a list like this has existed.”
Gerard doesn’t have an answer for that.
"Fianin and humans have lived together, alongside one another for a long time. There's been a lot of intermingling between the two races, despite the best efforts of registry-makers. Many human families unknowingly carry a Fianin birthright. It can hide for generations, before revealing itself."
"You're talking about genetics, dominant and recessive genes," Ray says.
"Yeah, kind of. It's trickier than that, because there some, well, magic involved. We call it being eclipsed, when someone is blooded but doesn't or hasn't shifted. There are different levels of eclipsed, though the people that are close, they smell like Fianin, not humans."
"What tips the balance?" Mikey asks.
Bob looks at him. Mikey watches him patiently, though there's an eagerness swirling up into his scent. Gerard frowns at his brother.
'It varies. Sustained stress and trauma is most common. It's like blood kicks in as a survival mechanism," Bob says. He carefully looks round the room, making sure he meets each of them eye to eye, before adding. "I figure that's what's happening to all of you."
There's a long silence before the shouting begins.
Mikey just smiles.
~~~
He's spent so much time by himself that, even as much as Bob wants to spend time in his band's presence, he can't manage to stay around them for long. They settle him and make his skin twitch all at once. So he pilfers Frank's cigarettes and heads back outside.
It’s been a long time since he's had a cigarette. Burn and smoke on his tongue is a revelation, swirling the taste of the desert in on each inhale. The filter tastes like Frank - like the inside of his jacket - and that has Bob sucking greedily on it. If he can pull enough of their presence in, maybe it will be enough to drive out all of the crap and he won't have to think of any of it ever again. Bob snorts at his own thoughts. Way to live in denial, Bryar, Brian whispers. He sounds just as disgusted as Bob feels.
Bob sighs and goes over to the bikes. Cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, he disengages the kickstand and rolls Ray's bike around the corner of the building. The weight of the bike is satisfying in his hands. He guides it into the gap between the garage and the shack, turning it around for easy escape and leaving room for Mikey's bike and the Trans Am. His hair falls forward into his face, just missing the cigarette's cherry and he flips it back. The last thing he needs is a nose full of burnt hair.
He leans back against the corrugated metal of the shack’s wall, and closes his eyes. His fingers brush against the lighter that he snagged from Frank - it's a Zippo, with a skull wearing sunglasses emblazoned on one side. Bob is pissed all over again about losing Brian's lighter to Bli/nd. He stops that train of thought before it builds too much momentum. He can feel the wall between the past and now give, can feel the cracks in the protection he's built up over his months out in the desert. He hasn't found the courage to ask how long it's been. It doesn't matter in the end. He's back where he belongs.
There's a tap on his shoulder and Bob turns quickly, his heart hammering in his chest, preparing to shift. Mikey has leapt back out of reach, is holding his hands out and open. Bob takes a deep, shaky breath and drops the cigarette, snuffing it in the dust.
The stealth is not new; Mikey has always been quiet, his scent the only thing that gives him away. But all of their scents are so tangled and fresh in his nose; Bob hadn't even registered his presence. Safe, his instincts insist. Yeah, no shit, Bob thinks.
Mikey watches him steadily and moves forward into his personal space. Caution, concern and a tangle of other emotions that Bob's in no shape to tease free swirls through his scent. Mikey flicks his gaze down, lifting his chin to expose a long stretch of neck. It's too much; Bob pulls him close, biting down on his jaw. Mikey whimpers, relaxing into his hands. The addition of taste to scent and the differences in familiar remembered skin is heady. Bob nips along his jaw, relishes the drag of stubble on his lips and rubs his cheek against the damp skin. Mikey shudders, and then it's all hunger, lips meeting, fierce with teeth. Mikey's tangling his fingers in Bob's hair, tugging; the sharp, brief pain makes his skin hum. He pushes Mikey up against the side of the garage, rattling the steel. The boom of impact is loud, but Bob doesn't care. Mikey's guiding the kiss, fingers curling around the back of his head, nails scratch once against his neck. That gesture is so familiar. Bob doesn't whimper in sheer relief as Mikey pushes up against him, but it’s a near thing. He can't get close enough to this impossibility. Bob thought he'd lost this, lost Mikey, but he didn't and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, he wants to touch everything. Rucking up the back of Mikey's shirt, Bob slides fingers along warm skin, dipping down to trace his spine. Mikey whines and pulls back to look at Bob. Wild-eyed, pulling in deep shaky breaths and he is fucking beautiful, fucking beautiful. Bob growls, leaning in to bite his bottom lip.
"I need, Wait, Bob..." he's breathless and untangling one hand from Bob's hair. Bob rumbles his protest, but then Mikey's slipping Bob’s belt buckle free, fumbling the button on his pants and shoving his hand down to wrap around Bob's cock. Okay yeah, he can get behind this plan.
~~~
After, Mikey leans against him, face turned into Bob's neck. Breath heavy, panting really. Bob lets the wall hold him up, Mikey's weight pinning him in place. He hasn't felt this grounded on two legs for longer than he cares to remember. But that's what I have to do, remember, he thinks. His fingers tighten, pulling Mikey closer. Outside the wind picks up, blowing sand against the side of the shed. The dry hiss sounds ominous, like a rattlesnake warning.
Gerard and Frank are sitting on the couch, its broken springs spilling them into each other’s laps. Bob slants a glance at Mikey, who nods at the question. Bob takes in the postures, how red and black hair mingles, at the closeness of their bowed heads. Can't say that's unexpected, Bob thinks. The two of them have been dancing around the edges of one another for years.
”Where's Ray?” he asks.
The two of them look up. Neither looks surprised to see them. Frank's eyes drift up to Bob's neck and he smirks. Bob can feel the faint throb of the bite mark Mikey left just under his ear when he came, but ignores the look.
”Looking at the lock,” Gerard says. He’s careful to not meet either of their eyes. Mikey stills, features tightening.
Bob is just exhausted. "I'm to bed."
Mikey follows.
Bob had been sleeping in fur; there weren't that many blankets in the bolt hole and fur's just warmer. He feels uneasy about shifting in front of the guys right now. They are not comfortable with this, not really. Bob can smell their nervousness; it's making him itch and want to leave, but he can't.
”Go ahead,” Mikey says.
”Mikey...”
”They can deal. You'll be more comfortable, right?”
”Well...” He's honestly not sure how to answer that right now. Bob knows that he's been spending too much time in fur and he needs to remember how to be around other people.
”Come on,” Mikey says.
Bob spares one more glance for Gerard and Frank, and then sighs. He moves quickly, shedding his clothes and shifting. Mikey kicks off his boots, drops his jacket at the foot of the cot. It doesn't take him long to arrange his limbs. He pats the canvas next to him. Bob whines, but Mikey gives him his most unimpressed look. Bob huffs and climbs up next to him. The cot creaks ominously and he is careful to not put a claw through the canvas.
Bob settles with his head under Mikey's chin. He glances over at the couch. Gerard's back is to the room, but Frank is watching the two of them. Bob can't read his expression.
~~~
It's not easy, trying to fit back into his band. They've changed; the desert's made them hard in ways that they weren't before, honing them down. Bob knows that he's changed too, but it's much harder to gauge those changes. Mikey is the easiest - but that's no surprise. He and Mikey have always been close; the scouring away of his humanity helps.
Bob isn't sure if the scent of Fianin was always there, and he simply discounted it as wishful thinking. But Hurley had known My Chem before he had - he would have said something to Bob. There aren't many packs - family packs, anyway, not the looser large configurations of loners that comprised most of the community for Fianin in the scene. He'd heard of maybe three close-knit and working packs during his run as a sound guy.
Bob doesn't know what to do with any of this, even as part him rejoices in pack.
~~~
”How did you find this place?”
Gerard sets down his ray gun, but doesn’t look up. ”I remembered something Bert had said, a long time ago.”
”Ah.” Bob forgets sometimes that they'd known one another. ”That's kind of a long shot to follow...”
Even with the concealing curtain of red hair Bob can see his jaw clench. “We don't have many other options right now.”
”Gee... what's going on?”
”We're still running," he says, and there's a world of bitterness in those words.
”I'd say that's a good thing,” Bob says mildly.
Gerard laughs. “Yeah. Yeah I guess so.” He stares at the ray gun in his hands and with a sigh, sets it aside. “There's an exterminator who's made us his mission. Every time we fucking turn around, he's there.”
"Not the best way to get famous."
Gerard laughs again, but this time there's actual humor in the sound. “No kidding.”
Bob leans one shoulder against Gerard. He freezes for a moment before relaxing for the first time Bob's seen since they showed up on his doorstep.
“It's... it's gotten bad. We can't seem to do anything without him or his Drac squad showing up. We were romancing the cameras for a while, but that doesn't explain how he knows.”
Bob frowns. “No. There aren't that many cameras.” He watches the sunbeams slant through the windows. “You've checked gear for trackers.” It’s not a question.
”Of course.”
”Do you mind if I look?”
Gerard narrows his eyes at Bob.
Bob stares calmly back. “I have some experience dismantling their tech. Those bikes are Bli salvage, right?”
Gerard grins at that. He looks downright feral. “Fuck no. We stole them outright.”
Bob allows a small smile at that, but certainty curls like a lead weight in his gut. “Well, they're getting sneakier with their tracers. I found GPS bugs in the belt buckles of some of the guards.”
Gerard's eyes widen. “Shit, really?”
Bob holds back a sigh. “Maybe we should look at all the gear you've gotten from Bli/nd.”
”Yeah, that would be good. I'll go find Frank...”
”I'll go look at the bikes.”
He finds two trackers hidden along the wheel joints of Mikey's bike and a standard issue GPS transmitter that had been partially demolished, but still could send passive blips. Fuck. He’s lucky he didn't get ghosted.
Ray's bike isn't regulation, but some enterprising asshole had slapped a wafer transmitter under the edge of the seat. The Trans Am has clustered trackers stuck under the front bumper, like ticks picked up in tall grass.
Well fuck. Bob thinks as he looks at the three little piles of tech.
~~~
“Holy shit, Bob!” Ray said, his voice shrill.
“Yeah," Bob says.
”Fuck! Fuck!” Frank says and punches the wall.
”Broken hands won't help,” Mikey says. “How did you find them?”
Bob shrugs. “I've been trained to find them. And the circuits have a certain scent to them...”
Mikey frowns a little and picks up one of the transmitters. He holds it close to his nose and breathes in. “Oh! Yeah that's pretty obvious - sour, plasticy and a little metallic...”
”I think it's the solder they use.”
Ray is staring at the two of them. Mikey lifts an eyebrow and flips him one of the trackers. Bob busies himself with sorting out which trackers went with which person and watches out of the corner of his eye as Ray sniffs the tracker and got a look of intense concentration.
Mikey goes nosing through their gear again, smelling everything. He finds three more markers, one of them in his brother's ray gun. All four of them have something that's broadcasting to the City.
There's a long silence as they stare at the electronics.
”Well, if we don't want those assholes crawling down our throats, we need to get these away from here." Frank says.
"We should split up," Mikey says. "Go in three separate directions."
"I'm going to keep trying to crack that damn door,” Ray says. "We need those supplies for running."
"I'll take your trackers," Bob says." Can I borrow your bandana?” he asks Frank.
“Yeah.”
Gerard doesn't say anything, just sweeps the piles of his and Frank's trackers into his bandana and heads out the door.
Bob knots the bandana tight.
"Do you want a ride part way?" Mikey asks.
"No, but we should head out together and separate on the roads."
"Yeah. I'll pass the plan on to Gerard."
Bob checks the knot again, and leans over to untie his shoes.
~~~
He ends up catching a ride in the Trans Am. It's quicker, if bumpier. Bob’s reasonably sure he doesn't leave claw marks on the seat leather, but it's a near thing.
They separate at a crossroads fifteen minutes later.
Bob's not even gone a mile when the wind shifts direction and he hears the first high whine of a Bli/nd cycle engine. It's still some distance away, but he puts on an extra burst of speed. There's a long-abandoned mine he wants to stop at and bury a tracker. He hates giving away the mine - it's a good hiding spot - but hopefully it will buy him a little more time.
He waits until the Dracs are in the mine, before heading towards his actual destination.
Bob has scattered the trackers throughout the scrap heap behind the abandoned Dead Pegasus station and is a half a mile away before he hears the familiar whine approaching. He doesn't wait, instead starts to run.
~~~
Despite moving under his own power, Bob's still the first one back.
Ten minutes later, Mikey appears, windblown and dusty, but apparently unharmed. Bob resists the urge to check for injuries.
"I picked up a tail and it took some work to lose them." Mikey says. He sets his bike helmet on the bottom step, and sits beside it. "I'm fine."
"Didn't say you weren't."
Mikey doesn't reply, just gives him a side-long glance and smirks, before focusing on the drive.
When the Trans Am coasts over the rise, Bob watches tension bleed out of Mikey's posture. The car's barely stopped moving when Frank tumbles out the passenger side, clutching his shoulder.
Mikey took one look at his brother's face and straightened. "Korse?"
"Yeah. With a full Drac squad." Gerard says.
"Korse is your exterminator?" Bob asks.
Frank snorts. "Well, he certainly wants to be," he says, as he peels his scorched sleeve away from his skin with a grimace.
"We shook them off, but they know we're out here," Gerard says. "Ray have any luck?"
"No." Bob says.
"Maybe some fresh eyes will help."
~~~
The scent of frustration is thick around Ray, making the crawl space feels even smaller. Ray doesn't even look away from the lock when they clatter down the stairs, just keeps tapping out combinations.
Gerard drums his fingers against the door, a staccato patter against the steel, humming under his breath.
Ray stills, cocks his head. Bob expects him to snap at Gerard, but he instead he just stares at his fingers.
"Wait. Gee, do that again." Ray says.
"Do what?"
"That rhythm, with the humming."
Gerard shrugs and complies. Ray leans close, listening.
"It's just an earworm. Well, a fingerworm, I guess. It's been bugging me since..."
"Since when, Gee?"
"Since we got here," he says slowly. "I think know what it's from too. Bert used to tap on my arm, and sing about windows and doors..."
Bob grins. "Sneaky fucker."
"Tap it out again, but slower," Ray says, his fingers on the keypad.
~~~
In the end, the opened bomb shelter is anticlimactic. It holds enough - enough supplies for them to carry and pack quickly, but not much more. Gerard rubs at his neck and looks around.
"I thought you said that there was a lot more here," Ray said, sounding pissed.
"There was," Bob says, but he's not really listening to Ray. He's staring at the back of the door - specifically at the three vertical lines of characters painted on the steel. A memory surfaces of Brian and Jepha, murmuring low enough that even Bob couldn't figure out what they were saying. Looks Bert wasn't the only sneaky fucker here.
"It's more than we had before," Mikey says. He tilts his head, frowning at the paint. "What is that? It's not standard tag-slang and I don't recognize the base code."
"That's because it's old," Bob says. "Older than us."
"Is it just me, or do those letters buzz?" Frank says.
He reaches out, to touch the closest line of scarlet writing.
"No, don't touch it..." Bob says.
"Ow!" Frank said. "It burned me."
Bob swears he can hear Bert's high-pitched giggle.
'That's because it doesn't know you."
"It?"
"The magic."
Frank just looks at him, fanning his fingers to lessen the sting.
~~~
It’s getting late, which makes for even odds as to whether they can get away from Korse and his Dracs. It’s easier to go in the daytime - no headlights to give them away - so their best option is to run, as quick as they can.
"We should blow this place up," Frank says.
"Because that won't give our location away," Ray says.
"It would hide the fallout shelter..."
Bob shook his head. “They won't find it, once we're gone."
"But the trackers..."
"It's got its own protections," Bob says.
Frank rubs his fingers on his jeans and turns away.
~~~
The sun's dipping low, when they finally pass by the billboard and head out. Sunset's glare is almost their undoing. It blinds them, dropping them right in the middle of the ambush.
Luckily, an ambush is what they'd been expecting.
Bob's hanging out the passenger window, wind whipping his hair out of its tie and into his face. He'd forgotten about cutting it and is now paying the price. Narrowing his eyes, he fires. The wind might be at his back, but so was the sun; he squints against the glare off the black car's windshield and shoots at the nearest Drac. They make for easy targets on their bikes. Bob's used to handguns - he's had some experience with ray guns, but not as much as weapons with real bullets. It takes a few shots to adjust to the lack of kick and the low buzz of static along the top of his hand.
Frank crawls up out of the seat, braces himself between sunroof and seat back, and starts shooting. Bob hears him yelling at the pursuers, though the wind snatches away the actual words.
Gee takes a sharp spinning turn that rattles them two of them around in the car. There's an instant where Bob thinks they are going to lose Frank over the side. He dives back across the seat, and grabs Frank by the belt before he goes over. There's a loud thump against the side of the car. Frank's sliding back into his seat, rubbing his hand.
"Fucking lost my gun."
"Here." Bob says, passing his over.
Frank grins, wide and dangerous, and is hanging out the window in a flash.
~~~
The sun has slid down to a thin molten sliver on the horizon, when they hit another crossroads. Bob recognizes the road sign as they race by.
"Wait!" He says, reaching out to grab Gerard's shoulder. But it's too late.
The wind dies. When it goes, all scent goes with it - no dust, no smell of pack. Bob lifts his sleeve to his nose. There's nothing. All the hair on the back of Bob's neck prickles and stands on end.
Fuck.
He looks over his shoulder - Mikey and Ray are still behind them. Their pursuers have vanished. The fear in him doesn't ease at all.
They keep driving, engine loud in the lack of wind.
Frank thumps Gerard on the arm. "Pull over."
The sun sets, like a sullen eye closing. All natural light vanishes with it. The darkness is sudden and absolute. Bob can't see a single star.
It is utterly still. The only sounds come from them - the creak of leather, their breathing, the idling rumble of the Trans Am's engine.
Frank pushes up out of his seat and looks out of the sunroof. Sliding back down, he reaches for the door handle.
"Don't," Bob growls.
Gerard checks his mirrors. He slips his ray gun free.
It feels like the moment before a storm breaks. Bob looks up at the sky, straining to see in the darkness. He hopes that's what's coming, some acid rain or a dust storm they can outrun. The prickle of unease along his spine says otherwise.
The silence shatters in a roar of sound.
They are surrounded by a shrieking cacophony; countless voices moan and wail, mimicking wind. Streams and ribbons of milky light whirl around them, eddy into the car. But there are distinct shapes moving through the chaos; Bob sees a group of figures riding horses in single file in the far lane. They glimmer with faint luminescence, but he can't make out any details.
"Drive!"
"Go go go!" Frank shouts, and shouts again as a battered truck appears directly in their path.
Before Gerard can swerve, they hit it head on... and it passes right through them. Most of the people seated in the truck bed don't seem to notice the Trans Am. Only a little girl in a gingham dress and pigtails turns to look as they slide by. She reaches out, touches Bob's hand with icy fingers. He can feel the heat bleeding out of him, flowing into her. She smiles at him, a toothy, knowing grin. He bares his teeth at her and flinches back, afraid. Then they are through and away.
"What is this?!" Gerard asks.
"A ghost road," Bob says, his voice shaky. "The restless dead follow them."
"It's a one way ghost turnpike and we're going the wrong way," Frank says. "Do you think that's why they're so pissed?"
Bob looks at the spirits streaming by. Frank's right - the dead are all moving in the opposite direction. The long ribbons of fog and foxfire doesn’t seem to follow any obvious pattern, as it swirls and eddies around the car. But then he notices that streams move along in their wake, following the road.
And the road leads directly to Battery City.
"No, I don't think that's why they're pissed," he says. "Gee, we can't stay here."
"I fucking know that," Gerard snarls. He keeps flicking his gaze between the road and the rear view mirror. Bob refuses to look back. He figures Gerard can do the worrying for both of them.
Gerard tries to turn off the road or pull over. The steering wheel refuses to turn. Route Guano is a long straight track, which is why so many chases happen there. It's pedal to the metal, running flat out territory with little fear of ambush. And now they're stuck on it. Bob hears a triumphant note to the ghostly voices around them. As long as they keep moving they seem to be okay. He shivers little; the back of his hand still feels icy. Mostly okay, anyway. But they can 't drive forever.
"How long until the next crossroads?"
"Too long," Gerard says.
Bob sees the light dusting of dark fur on the back of his hands. Not now.
Squinting past the swirls of light, Bob watches the faded white line at the edge of the road. It continues on, unbroken, for miles. It's mesmerizing, but he doesn't look away.
"There."
Gerard sees it too, and the wheel slides through his hands. Frank overbalances, hits the door with a pained grunt.
The chorus of voices surrounding them changes in tone, from triumphant shrieks to howls of anger. The sound echoes and builds, it's worse than any feedback. Bob wants to cover his ears, but knows it will make no difference - the fury is vibrating in his bones.
Let us out. Let us OUT, the thought is desperate, snarling.
With the sound of wet tearing, the streams split.
Then they're through and a guardrail is reflected in the headlights. Gerard curses and gives the wheel another sharp turn.
"Stop the car," Frank says, his eyes focused across the road.
Gerard does, and leans forward, staring out that the silhouettes picked out by the headlights. "Are those trees?"
"It looks like it. Smells like it too." Frank hangs out the window, stares up. "Man, they're fucking huge."
The three of them get out of the car.
Out past the guardrail and cracked asphalt is the ocean. Waves pound relentlessly against the cliff below. Further back in the trees, Bob can hear the low drone of insects and leaves rustling. After the ghost road, it's too quiet. Trees dwarf the car and Bob can't smell the desert anymore.
The Trans Am is the only engine he can hear.
Bob looks at Gerard. He's watching the road, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The road's empty.
"What's taking them so long," Frank mutters. He sounds irritated, like Mikey and Ray are late on purpose. Bob has to stifle a bark of laughter at the tone.
Fog starts drifting across the asphalt, moving against the breeze. Milky light flickers within it, aimless sparks that multiply and flare, white and blinding. The night is again filled with the sound of squealing tires as the two motorcycles turn sharply away from a collision with the guardrail.
With a rumble of mismatched engines, Mikey and Ray pull up beside them. Mikey favors his right leg when he gets off the bike and limps carefully over to the car. There's a sooty blast mark across his left temple. The helmet had melted around the impact, making the visor stick shut. He pulls the helmet off and Bob frowns at his white-lipped expression.
"What the fuck?" Mikey says.
Ray wheels his bike over. Bob smells blood.
"What happened?" He says.
"Something grabbed my arm when we turned off the crossroads. Where are we?"
"Further up the coast."
Ray gives him an unimpressed glare. Bob shrugs.
"Is this our coast?" Mikey asks.
"I don't know."
"We can figure it out in the morning," Gerard says. "I'm not driving anywhere else tonight."
Bob eyes the road in front of them. Oceanside, part of the cliff has slid into the beach below, taking chunks of the road with it. In the moonlight, Bob can see a section of the guardrail's snagging over the gap, rooted only in air.
"Good plan."
They are nervous about building a fire in unknown territory, but all of them know that fire protects. Whatever had grabbed Ray on Route Guano had left behind claw marks. So a fire it is.
Bob glances around the fire, notices the way the flames reflect in their eyes. He breathes deep, tastes salt and green and pack.
They are safe for now. That's all that matters.
~~~
Back to the Masterpost
~~~
"Bob?" Surprise makes Gerard's voice raspy.
Bob slides forward, still balanced on Mikey's narrow thighs. Mikey's jacket slips across his skin, sending up scent. Rich and familiar, the smell of sweat and dust and faint bleach is grounding. Which is a good thing, since Bob’s all roiling emotion on the inside. He desperately wants to slide back into fur; it’s so much easier to deal with this sort of turmoil four-legged. He resists the urge.
"Hey Gee," he says instead, and is startled anew by the roughness of his own voice.
"Holy shit." Ray breathes the words, his eyes wide.
"You're naked. You're naked and you're sitting in Mikey's lap," Gerard says.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Mikey says, his voice pitched low.
Bob grins. The expression feels weird on his face, stretching disused muscles. "Well, fur and clothes don't really mix."
Frank’s still staring at him. "That was real. I didn't make that shit up."
Bob sighs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mikey quirk a smile.
"You'd better..."
"Yeah." It ‘s probably best to get all of this over with in one go.
He climbs to his feet, careful to not elbow Mikey. There’s a brief moment when he considers wrapping Mikey's jacket around his waist and retreating inside to find clothes.
In for a penny... he thinks, and shifts to mid-form as he straightens. There are gasps from the trio standing next to the Trans Am. Bob isn't quite ready to see their expressions, so he turns and offers Mikey a hand up.
Mikey grins, fierce and more than a little feral, and takes his hand. His hand's narrow, almost delicate compared to Bob's now, but there’s a new strength to it that sends anticipation shivering through him. Mikey flows to his feet - there’s no other way to describe how he moves - and tilts his head up to meet Bob's eye, those dark eyes gleaming with a hint of gold..
"Thanks."
"Thanks for the jacket," Bob replies and hands the jacket back to him, careful to not catch his claw tips in the leather.
At the sound of his voice, the gold in Mikey's eyes flares bright. Something in Bob coils tight, wanting to reach out. Soon, he thinks. Then he turns his attention onto the rest of his band.
If their eyes get any wider, they would pop right out of their collective heads.
"Bob..." Gerard stares at him. "What... what did they do to you?"
Frank flinches next to him and Bob’s overwhelmed by the stench of grief and guilt coming off of the three of them.
Yeah, that's not going to work. He snorts.
"They did a lot to me, Gee. But I've always been Fianin."
"Feean?" Ray asks.
Bob corrects his pronunciation and nods. "Yeah. My dad was an old school packless renegade who met my mom at one of the intercity gatherings, back before it got too dangerous to hold them inside Chicago."
"So... wait. You were born a werewolf?" Frank asks. He’s starting to get over his shock and looks fascinated in a way that only spells trouble.
"I'm not a werewolf," Bob replies, and points up.
The guys all look at the half moon. As if she’s suddenly aware of the attention, Bob feels the spill of moonlight on him keenly, a prickle-caress that has him shivering and rubbing the fur absently down on his forearms. He blinks in surprise as he sees the other four also shiver and rub at their arms, unconscious mirrors of one another.
All of them? Really? It takes a lot of will to not bear his teeth with fierce joy at the thought.
Mikey is the only one of them who even registers their response. He gives his brother a narrow-eyed stare before looking back at Bob expectantly.
Right. "Werewolves only change during the full moon, right Gee?" he asks.
Gerard is still staring up at the moon, a strange, dreamy expression on his face.
"Traditionally, yeah. At the most they transform for three days right around the full moon. And they generally don't remember transforming." Gerard turns to look at Bob, frowning. "But you aren't like that. Did old Hollywood and all those horror comics get it wrong?"
"Sort of. Some of it was... bad apples. Most of it was propaganda."
That word got all of their grim-faced attention. They are well aware of the power and damage propaganda can hold.
"But why?" Ray says. "Why did they need propaganda?"
Bob rakes one clawed hand behind his ear and swallows a sigh. "This conversation requires pants. And maybe booze. Definitely pants, though."
And he steps around Frank towards the shack.
"Bob, you have a tail," Frank says.
Bob freezes. He knows that tone. Growling, he turns to look at Frank over his shoulder. "If you touch my tail, Iero, I will tear off your hands."
Then he stalks into the building.
"Is it disturbing that I found that hot?" Mikey asks.
"I don't know about you, but I'm disturbed that you said that," Gerard grumps. It is a very reluctant sort of grumping though, if the mingled scent of pheromones was anything to go by.
Yeah, Bob thinks, this is definitely the sort of conversation that requires pants.
He lengthens his strides, skirting the guys' gear as he moves to the bookcase that hides the safe room. It’s much easier to move the shelves in mid-form; feeling off-kilter, he simply picks the whole unit up and sets it to one side. The safe room is small and windowless, meant only to be an antechamber for the fallout shelter hidden within. It's more than big enough for a single inhabitant, though. Hyper-aware of the others, Bob sees the room with fresh eyes. The gear Bob took from the prison wagon is stacked in haphazard piles against the walls. He makes his way over to the rickety cot, with its pile of clothing. The safe room looks like a wave head squat and smells of animal musk and mustiness. He's glad that he hasn't shifted yet - he just knows his complexion would betray his sudden embarrassment.
Bob takes a couple deep breaths and shifts to skin, shaking out clothes, looking for something to wear that isn't too bloodstained or doesn’t reek too badly. Not that there are very many options available.
He's buckling his belt when the rest of the guys walk into the room. Bob watches them look around, trying to not pay too much attention to their facial expressions as they take in his bolt hole. He finally turns his back to resist the temptation, pulling the standard issue prison t-shirt on. The acidic tang of fear and prison disinfectant still clings faintly to the fabric, but there's not anything he can do about that, so Bob ignores it.
"Interesting rug," Ray finally says.
Bob glances at the threadbare Mexican blanket in the middle of the floor. "I couldn't look at the fucking door anymore."
"Uh... door?" Gerard asks.
Bob walks over to the rug, flips it out of the way, and lifts the wooden trapdoor up. Beneath is a crawlspace, stocked with the last remnants of the zonerunner's stash. Bob points to the steel door sunk into the concrete of the far wall. He fights off the urge to snarl at it. "That door."
"What's behind the door?" Frank asks.
"It's a bomb shelter. A well-stocked bomb shelter."
"Supplies?" Mikey sounds cautiously not hopeful.
"Supplies and ammo."
"Fuck," Frank says.
Bob feels the frustration crest in him again. "I used to know the combination."
"Before..." Gerard gestures at Bob's pants. The Bli insignia is visible on the belt buckle. Bob grits his teeth and nods.
There's a beat of silence.
"I could look at it," Ray says. "I might be able to figure it out."
"Have at it, Toro. I'm not getting anywhere with it."
~~~
Bob really doesn't know as much about his history as the rest of the band thinks. Okay, he knows his own history - he hadn't been dropped on his head as a baby or anything, and he hadn't taken too many blows in his entire running in the scene. But as far as Fianin history goes, he's definitely missing pieces. It wasn't really something he worried about - so much of it was tied to instinct or the physical, he just rolled with it all. That attitude served him pretty well. Up to now, anyway. Now, Bob didn't know what to do and really didn't know where to begin.
Mikey sits right next to him, leaning a little into his space. A sudden sharp rush of relief floods through Bob at the touch, bringing up all the memories of other times they'd had to hole up and hide from Bli/nd.
"I... I'm really glad to see you guys." He tries not to wince as his voice cracks a little on the words.
"Bob," Gerard says. "We thought..." he glances at Mikey and falls silent.
"We thought you were dead," Ray says.
"I know. I knew that. I didn't..." Bob looks away. "I knew you had escaped. I didn't know how many, just that someone did. I didn't expect to ever know for sure."
He rubs his hands on his pants, leaving twin streaks of sweat on the fabric that evaporates quickly in the desert air. He reaches back into the clothing pile and fishes out a wrinkled bandana. Fuck. Bob has never had to have this conversation, not like this. Well, he's definitely had to talk about his nature - not to Brian, who had just known, but to Wentz, who is a nosy fucker and to Bert, a little. Mostly though, either people knew because they were Fianin themselves or they didn't ask, because they had their own secrets. Before, Mikey never really asked for details. But now... well, now Bob has to tell them all, and he has to tell them everything he possibly could scrape out of his memory - because this isn't just about him and his own secrets anymore. It's about them and how much life is going to change.
”I don't talk about this. Ever.”
“That makes sense,” Ray says cautiously. ”I mean, it would be pretty dangerous to, right?”
Bob twists the bandana in his hands around his fingers. “Yeah, as a rule, humans have never been very understanding. But that's not the most important reason these days.”
Frank frowns at him. “What's more important than dodging a mob with pitchforks and torches, dude?”
”Have you heard of the PreterNet?”
They trade looks. Mikey tilts his chin down and drums his fingers on his leg. “That sounds familiar. Pete has mentioned it, maybe. I don't know what it is, though.”
Bob takes a deep breath. “What it is, is a database. Bl/ind has been compiling a list of any and all preternaturals they come in contact with, for years now. From what I understand, it's a pretty comprehensive list. It used to be called the Registry.”
”Bl/ind has a registry list?” Mikey says. "Bob..." His hand clamps down on Bob's arm.
The other three stare at him with widening eyes.
”Oh fuck,” Gerard mutters.
Bob shakes his head. “I've never been on the list. Wentz and Bri... Brian had my back until they were sure that I could manage my own shit.” He clenches his fist, the cloth creaking as he tightens his grip. “At least I wasn't on the list before. But my break out wasn't clean - I blew up the prison transport before taking off, but the signs are there for those who know how to look. I laid trail up to a hot zone and hopefully they will think my scared ass is fried by radiation. But I have to work under the assumption that Bli/nd's added me to the PreterNet.” Ah man, Bri's going to be so pissed.
”What does being on the PreterNet mean?” Ray asks.
”It means that next time they won't bother with a jail cell when they catch me. It means do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go, go directly to the labs. It means a death sentence. A long, painful death full of fucking experiments and misery.” Bob takes another breath. “That's why I've kept hidden.”
”That... that's fucking crazy. What gives them the right...”
Gerard is working up a good head of steam, waving his hands around. Bob can smell how horrified and pissed he is.
“What gives them the right to do any of this, Gee? And it's not like this is the first time a list like this has existed.”
Gerard doesn’t have an answer for that.
"Fianin and humans have lived together, alongside one another for a long time. There's been a lot of intermingling between the two races, despite the best efforts of registry-makers. Many human families unknowingly carry a Fianin birthright. It can hide for generations, before revealing itself."
"You're talking about genetics, dominant and recessive genes," Ray says.
"Yeah, kind of. It's trickier than that, because there some, well, magic involved. We call it being eclipsed, when someone is blooded but doesn't or hasn't shifted. There are different levels of eclipsed, though the people that are close, they smell like Fianin, not humans."
"What tips the balance?" Mikey asks.
Bob looks at him. Mikey watches him patiently, though there's an eagerness swirling up into his scent. Gerard frowns at his brother.
'It varies. Sustained stress and trauma is most common. It's like blood kicks in as a survival mechanism," Bob says. He carefully looks round the room, making sure he meets each of them eye to eye, before adding. "I figure that's what's happening to all of you."
There's a long silence before the shouting begins.
Mikey just smiles.
~~~
He's spent so much time by himself that, even as much as Bob wants to spend time in his band's presence, he can't manage to stay around them for long. They settle him and make his skin twitch all at once. So he pilfers Frank's cigarettes and heads back outside.
It’s been a long time since he's had a cigarette. Burn and smoke on his tongue is a revelation, swirling the taste of the desert in on each inhale. The filter tastes like Frank - like the inside of his jacket - and that has Bob sucking greedily on it. If he can pull enough of their presence in, maybe it will be enough to drive out all of the crap and he won't have to think of any of it ever again. Bob snorts at his own thoughts. Way to live in denial, Bryar, Brian whispers. He sounds just as disgusted as Bob feels.
Bob sighs and goes over to the bikes. Cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth, he disengages the kickstand and rolls Ray's bike around the corner of the building. The weight of the bike is satisfying in his hands. He guides it into the gap between the garage and the shack, turning it around for easy escape and leaving room for Mikey's bike and the Trans Am. His hair falls forward into his face, just missing the cigarette's cherry and he flips it back. The last thing he needs is a nose full of burnt hair.
He leans back against the corrugated metal of the shack’s wall, and closes his eyes. His fingers brush against the lighter that he snagged from Frank - it's a Zippo, with a skull wearing sunglasses emblazoned on one side. Bob is pissed all over again about losing Brian's lighter to Bli/nd. He stops that train of thought before it builds too much momentum. He can feel the wall between the past and now give, can feel the cracks in the protection he's built up over his months out in the desert. He hasn't found the courage to ask how long it's been. It doesn't matter in the end. He's back where he belongs.
There's a tap on his shoulder and Bob turns quickly, his heart hammering in his chest, preparing to shift. Mikey has leapt back out of reach, is holding his hands out and open. Bob takes a deep, shaky breath and drops the cigarette, snuffing it in the dust.
The stealth is not new; Mikey has always been quiet, his scent the only thing that gives him away. But all of their scents are so tangled and fresh in his nose; Bob hadn't even registered his presence. Safe, his instincts insist. Yeah, no shit, Bob thinks.
Mikey watches him steadily and moves forward into his personal space. Caution, concern and a tangle of other emotions that Bob's in no shape to tease free swirls through his scent. Mikey flicks his gaze down, lifting his chin to expose a long stretch of neck. It's too much; Bob pulls him close, biting down on his jaw. Mikey whimpers, relaxing into his hands. The addition of taste to scent and the differences in familiar remembered skin is heady. Bob nips along his jaw, relishes the drag of stubble on his lips and rubs his cheek against the damp skin. Mikey shudders, and then it's all hunger, lips meeting, fierce with teeth. Mikey's tangling his fingers in Bob's hair, tugging; the sharp, brief pain makes his skin hum. He pushes Mikey up against the side of the garage, rattling the steel. The boom of impact is loud, but Bob doesn't care. Mikey's guiding the kiss, fingers curling around the back of his head, nails scratch once against his neck. That gesture is so familiar. Bob doesn't whimper in sheer relief as Mikey pushes up against him, but it’s a near thing. He can't get close enough to this impossibility. Bob thought he'd lost this, lost Mikey, but he didn't and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, he wants to touch everything. Rucking up the back of Mikey's shirt, Bob slides fingers along warm skin, dipping down to trace his spine. Mikey whines and pulls back to look at Bob. Wild-eyed, pulling in deep shaky breaths and he is fucking beautiful, fucking beautiful. Bob growls, leaning in to bite his bottom lip.
"I need, Wait, Bob..." he's breathless and untangling one hand from Bob's hair. Bob rumbles his protest, but then Mikey's slipping Bob’s belt buckle free, fumbling the button on his pants and shoving his hand down to wrap around Bob's cock. Okay yeah, he can get behind this plan.
~~~
After, Mikey leans against him, face turned into Bob's neck. Breath heavy, panting really. Bob lets the wall hold him up, Mikey's weight pinning him in place. He hasn't felt this grounded on two legs for longer than he cares to remember. But that's what I have to do, remember, he thinks. His fingers tighten, pulling Mikey closer. Outside the wind picks up, blowing sand against the side of the shed. The dry hiss sounds ominous, like a rattlesnake warning.
Gerard and Frank are sitting on the couch, its broken springs spilling them into each other’s laps. Bob slants a glance at Mikey, who nods at the question. Bob takes in the postures, how red and black hair mingles, at the closeness of their bowed heads. Can't say that's unexpected, Bob thinks. The two of them have been dancing around the edges of one another for years.
”Where's Ray?” he asks.
The two of them look up. Neither looks surprised to see them. Frank's eyes drift up to Bob's neck and he smirks. Bob can feel the faint throb of the bite mark Mikey left just under his ear when he came, but ignores the look.
”Looking at the lock,” Gerard says. He’s careful to not meet either of their eyes. Mikey stills, features tightening.
Bob is just exhausted. "I'm to bed."
Mikey follows.
Bob had been sleeping in fur; there weren't that many blankets in the bolt hole and fur's just warmer. He feels uneasy about shifting in front of the guys right now. They are not comfortable with this, not really. Bob can smell their nervousness; it's making him itch and want to leave, but he can't.
”Go ahead,” Mikey says.
”Mikey...”
”They can deal. You'll be more comfortable, right?”
”Well...” He's honestly not sure how to answer that right now. Bob knows that he's been spending too much time in fur and he needs to remember how to be around other people.
”Come on,” Mikey says.
Bob spares one more glance for Gerard and Frank, and then sighs. He moves quickly, shedding his clothes and shifting. Mikey kicks off his boots, drops his jacket at the foot of the cot. It doesn't take him long to arrange his limbs. He pats the canvas next to him. Bob whines, but Mikey gives him his most unimpressed look. Bob huffs and climbs up next to him. The cot creaks ominously and he is careful to not put a claw through the canvas.
Bob settles with his head under Mikey's chin. He glances over at the couch. Gerard's back is to the room, but Frank is watching the two of them. Bob can't read his expression.
~~~
It's not easy, trying to fit back into his band. They've changed; the desert's made them hard in ways that they weren't before, honing them down. Bob knows that he's changed too, but it's much harder to gauge those changes. Mikey is the easiest - but that's no surprise. He and Mikey have always been close; the scouring away of his humanity helps.
Bob isn't sure if the scent of Fianin was always there, and he simply discounted it as wishful thinking. But Hurley had known My Chem before he had - he would have said something to Bob. There aren't many packs - family packs, anyway, not the looser large configurations of loners that comprised most of the community for Fianin in the scene. He'd heard of maybe three close-knit and working packs during his run as a sound guy.
Bob doesn't know what to do with any of this, even as part him rejoices in pack.
~~~
”How did you find this place?”
Gerard sets down his ray gun, but doesn’t look up. ”I remembered something Bert had said, a long time ago.”
”Ah.” Bob forgets sometimes that they'd known one another. ”That's kind of a long shot to follow...”
Even with the concealing curtain of red hair Bob can see his jaw clench. “We don't have many other options right now.”
”Gee... what's going on?”
”We're still running," he says, and there's a world of bitterness in those words.
”I'd say that's a good thing,” Bob says mildly.
Gerard laughs. “Yeah. Yeah I guess so.” He stares at the ray gun in his hands and with a sigh, sets it aside. “There's an exterminator who's made us his mission. Every time we fucking turn around, he's there.”
"Not the best way to get famous."
Gerard laughs again, but this time there's actual humor in the sound. “No kidding.”
Bob leans one shoulder against Gerard. He freezes for a moment before relaxing for the first time Bob's seen since they showed up on his doorstep.
“It's... it's gotten bad. We can't seem to do anything without him or his Drac squad showing up. We were romancing the cameras for a while, but that doesn't explain how he knows.”
Bob frowns. “No. There aren't that many cameras.” He watches the sunbeams slant through the windows. “You've checked gear for trackers.” It’s not a question.
”Of course.”
”Do you mind if I look?”
Gerard narrows his eyes at Bob.
Bob stares calmly back. “I have some experience dismantling their tech. Those bikes are Bli salvage, right?”
Gerard grins at that. He looks downright feral. “Fuck no. We stole them outright.”
Bob allows a small smile at that, but certainty curls like a lead weight in his gut. “Well, they're getting sneakier with their tracers. I found GPS bugs in the belt buckles of some of the guards.”
Gerard's eyes widen. “Shit, really?”
Bob holds back a sigh. “Maybe we should look at all the gear you've gotten from Bli/nd.”
”Yeah, that would be good. I'll go find Frank...”
”I'll go look at the bikes.”
He finds two trackers hidden along the wheel joints of Mikey's bike and a standard issue GPS transmitter that had been partially demolished, but still could send passive blips. Fuck. He’s lucky he didn't get ghosted.
Ray's bike isn't regulation, but some enterprising asshole had slapped a wafer transmitter under the edge of the seat. The Trans Am has clustered trackers stuck under the front bumper, like ticks picked up in tall grass.
Well fuck. Bob thinks as he looks at the three little piles of tech.
~~~
“Holy shit, Bob!” Ray said, his voice shrill.
“Yeah," Bob says.
”Fuck! Fuck!” Frank says and punches the wall.
”Broken hands won't help,” Mikey says. “How did you find them?”
Bob shrugs. “I've been trained to find them. And the circuits have a certain scent to them...”
Mikey frowns a little and picks up one of the transmitters. He holds it close to his nose and breathes in. “Oh! Yeah that's pretty obvious - sour, plasticy and a little metallic...”
”I think it's the solder they use.”
Ray is staring at the two of them. Mikey lifts an eyebrow and flips him one of the trackers. Bob busies himself with sorting out which trackers went with which person and watches out of the corner of his eye as Ray sniffs the tracker and got a look of intense concentration.
Mikey goes nosing through their gear again, smelling everything. He finds three more markers, one of them in his brother's ray gun. All four of them have something that's broadcasting to the City.
There's a long silence as they stare at the electronics.
”Well, if we don't want those assholes crawling down our throats, we need to get these away from here." Frank says.
"We should split up," Mikey says. "Go in three separate directions."
"I'm going to keep trying to crack that damn door,” Ray says. "We need those supplies for running."
"I'll take your trackers," Bob says." Can I borrow your bandana?” he asks Frank.
“Yeah.”
Gerard doesn't say anything, just sweeps the piles of his and Frank's trackers into his bandana and heads out the door.
Bob knots the bandana tight.
"Do you want a ride part way?" Mikey asks.
"No, but we should head out together and separate on the roads."
"Yeah. I'll pass the plan on to Gerard."
Bob checks the knot again, and leans over to untie his shoes.
~~~
He ends up catching a ride in the Trans Am. It's quicker, if bumpier. Bob’s reasonably sure he doesn't leave claw marks on the seat leather, but it's a near thing.
They separate at a crossroads fifteen minutes later.
Bob's not even gone a mile when the wind shifts direction and he hears the first high whine of a Bli/nd cycle engine. It's still some distance away, but he puts on an extra burst of speed. There's a long-abandoned mine he wants to stop at and bury a tracker. He hates giving away the mine - it's a good hiding spot - but hopefully it will buy him a little more time.
He waits until the Dracs are in the mine, before heading towards his actual destination.
Bob has scattered the trackers throughout the scrap heap behind the abandoned Dead Pegasus station and is a half a mile away before he hears the familiar whine approaching. He doesn't wait, instead starts to run.
~~~
Despite moving under his own power, Bob's still the first one back.
Ten minutes later, Mikey appears, windblown and dusty, but apparently unharmed. Bob resists the urge to check for injuries.
"I picked up a tail and it took some work to lose them." Mikey says. He sets his bike helmet on the bottom step, and sits beside it. "I'm fine."
"Didn't say you weren't."
Mikey doesn't reply, just gives him a side-long glance and smirks, before focusing on the drive.
When the Trans Am coasts over the rise, Bob watches tension bleed out of Mikey's posture. The car's barely stopped moving when Frank tumbles out the passenger side, clutching his shoulder.
Mikey took one look at his brother's face and straightened. "Korse?"
"Yeah. With a full Drac squad." Gerard says.
"Korse is your exterminator?" Bob asks.
Frank snorts. "Well, he certainly wants to be," he says, as he peels his scorched sleeve away from his skin with a grimace.
"We shook them off, but they know we're out here," Gerard says. "Ray have any luck?"
"No." Bob says.
"Maybe some fresh eyes will help."
~~~
The scent of frustration is thick around Ray, making the crawl space feels even smaller. Ray doesn't even look away from the lock when they clatter down the stairs, just keeps tapping out combinations.
Gerard drums his fingers against the door, a staccato patter against the steel, humming under his breath.
Ray stills, cocks his head. Bob expects him to snap at Gerard, but he instead he just stares at his fingers.
"Wait. Gee, do that again." Ray says.
"Do what?"
"That rhythm, with the humming."
Gerard shrugs and complies. Ray leans close, listening.
"It's just an earworm. Well, a fingerworm, I guess. It's been bugging me since..."
"Since when, Gee?"
"Since we got here," he says slowly. "I think know what it's from too. Bert used to tap on my arm, and sing about windows and doors..."
Bob grins. "Sneaky fucker."
"Tap it out again, but slower," Ray says, his fingers on the keypad.
~~~
In the end, the opened bomb shelter is anticlimactic. It holds enough - enough supplies for them to carry and pack quickly, but not much more. Gerard rubs at his neck and looks around.
"I thought you said that there was a lot more here," Ray said, sounding pissed.
"There was," Bob says, but he's not really listening to Ray. He's staring at the back of the door - specifically at the three vertical lines of characters painted on the steel. A memory surfaces of Brian and Jepha, murmuring low enough that even Bob couldn't figure out what they were saying. Looks Bert wasn't the only sneaky fucker here.
"It's more than we had before," Mikey says. He tilts his head, frowning at the paint. "What is that? It's not standard tag-slang and I don't recognize the base code."
"That's because it's old," Bob says. "Older than us."
"Is it just me, or do those letters buzz?" Frank says.
He reaches out, to touch the closest line of scarlet writing.
"No, don't touch it..." Bob says.
"Ow!" Frank said. "It burned me."
Bob swears he can hear Bert's high-pitched giggle.
'That's because it doesn't know you."
"It?"
"The magic."
Frank just looks at him, fanning his fingers to lessen the sting.
~~~
It’s getting late, which makes for even odds as to whether they can get away from Korse and his Dracs. It’s easier to go in the daytime - no headlights to give them away - so their best option is to run, as quick as they can.
"We should blow this place up," Frank says.
"Because that won't give our location away," Ray says.
"It would hide the fallout shelter..."
Bob shook his head. “They won't find it, once we're gone."
"But the trackers..."
"It's got its own protections," Bob says.
Frank rubs his fingers on his jeans and turns away.
~~~
The sun's dipping low, when they finally pass by the billboard and head out. Sunset's glare is almost their undoing. It blinds them, dropping them right in the middle of the ambush.
Luckily, an ambush is what they'd been expecting.
Bob's hanging out the passenger window, wind whipping his hair out of its tie and into his face. He'd forgotten about cutting it and is now paying the price. Narrowing his eyes, he fires. The wind might be at his back, but so was the sun; he squints against the glare off the black car's windshield and shoots at the nearest Drac. They make for easy targets on their bikes. Bob's used to handguns - he's had some experience with ray guns, but not as much as weapons with real bullets. It takes a few shots to adjust to the lack of kick and the low buzz of static along the top of his hand.
Frank crawls up out of the seat, braces himself between sunroof and seat back, and starts shooting. Bob hears him yelling at the pursuers, though the wind snatches away the actual words.
Gee takes a sharp spinning turn that rattles them two of them around in the car. There's an instant where Bob thinks they are going to lose Frank over the side. He dives back across the seat, and grabs Frank by the belt before he goes over. There's a loud thump against the side of the car. Frank's sliding back into his seat, rubbing his hand.
"Fucking lost my gun."
"Here." Bob says, passing his over.
Frank grins, wide and dangerous, and is hanging out the window in a flash.
~~~
The sun has slid down to a thin molten sliver on the horizon, when they hit another crossroads. Bob recognizes the road sign as they race by.
"Wait!" He says, reaching out to grab Gerard's shoulder. But it's too late.
The wind dies. When it goes, all scent goes with it - no dust, no smell of pack. Bob lifts his sleeve to his nose. There's nothing. All the hair on the back of Bob's neck prickles and stands on end.
Fuck.
He looks over his shoulder - Mikey and Ray are still behind them. Their pursuers have vanished. The fear in him doesn't ease at all.
They keep driving, engine loud in the lack of wind.
Frank thumps Gerard on the arm. "Pull over."
The sun sets, like a sullen eye closing. All natural light vanishes with it. The darkness is sudden and absolute. Bob can't see a single star.
It is utterly still. The only sounds come from them - the creak of leather, their breathing, the idling rumble of the Trans Am's engine.
Frank pushes up out of his seat and looks out of the sunroof. Sliding back down, he reaches for the door handle.
"Don't," Bob growls.
Gerard checks his mirrors. He slips his ray gun free.
It feels like the moment before a storm breaks. Bob looks up at the sky, straining to see in the darkness. He hopes that's what's coming, some acid rain or a dust storm they can outrun. The prickle of unease along his spine says otherwise.
The silence shatters in a roar of sound.
They are surrounded by a shrieking cacophony; countless voices moan and wail, mimicking wind. Streams and ribbons of milky light whirl around them, eddy into the car. But there are distinct shapes moving through the chaos; Bob sees a group of figures riding horses in single file in the far lane. They glimmer with faint luminescence, but he can't make out any details.
"Drive!"
"Go go go!" Frank shouts, and shouts again as a battered truck appears directly in their path.
Before Gerard can swerve, they hit it head on... and it passes right through them. Most of the people seated in the truck bed don't seem to notice the Trans Am. Only a little girl in a gingham dress and pigtails turns to look as they slide by. She reaches out, touches Bob's hand with icy fingers. He can feel the heat bleeding out of him, flowing into her. She smiles at him, a toothy, knowing grin. He bares his teeth at her and flinches back, afraid. Then they are through and away.
"What is this?!" Gerard asks.
"A ghost road," Bob says, his voice shaky. "The restless dead follow them."
"It's a one way ghost turnpike and we're going the wrong way," Frank says. "Do you think that's why they're so pissed?"
Bob looks at the spirits streaming by. Frank's right - the dead are all moving in the opposite direction. The long ribbons of fog and foxfire doesn’t seem to follow any obvious pattern, as it swirls and eddies around the car. But then he notices that streams move along in their wake, following the road.
And the road leads directly to Battery City.
"No, I don't think that's why they're pissed," he says. "Gee, we can't stay here."
"I fucking know that," Gerard snarls. He keeps flicking his gaze between the road and the rear view mirror. Bob refuses to look back. He figures Gerard can do the worrying for both of them.
Gerard tries to turn off the road or pull over. The steering wheel refuses to turn. Route Guano is a long straight track, which is why so many chases happen there. It's pedal to the metal, running flat out territory with little fear of ambush. And now they're stuck on it. Bob hears a triumphant note to the ghostly voices around them. As long as they keep moving they seem to be okay. He shivers little; the back of his hand still feels icy. Mostly okay, anyway. But they can 't drive forever.
"How long until the next crossroads?"
"Too long," Gerard says.
Bob sees the light dusting of dark fur on the back of his hands. Not now.
Squinting past the swirls of light, Bob watches the faded white line at the edge of the road. It continues on, unbroken, for miles. It's mesmerizing, but he doesn't look away.
"There."
Gerard sees it too, and the wheel slides through his hands. Frank overbalances, hits the door with a pained grunt.
The chorus of voices surrounding them changes in tone, from triumphant shrieks to howls of anger. The sound echoes and builds, it's worse than any feedback. Bob wants to cover his ears, but knows it will make no difference - the fury is vibrating in his bones.
Let us out. Let us OUT, the thought is desperate, snarling.
With the sound of wet tearing, the streams split.
Then they're through and a guardrail is reflected in the headlights. Gerard curses and gives the wheel another sharp turn.
"Stop the car," Frank says, his eyes focused across the road.
Gerard does, and leans forward, staring out that the silhouettes picked out by the headlights. "Are those trees?"
"It looks like it. Smells like it too." Frank hangs out the window, stares up. "Man, they're fucking huge."
The three of them get out of the car.
Out past the guardrail and cracked asphalt is the ocean. Waves pound relentlessly against the cliff below. Further back in the trees, Bob can hear the low drone of insects and leaves rustling. After the ghost road, it's too quiet. Trees dwarf the car and Bob can't smell the desert anymore.
The Trans Am is the only engine he can hear.
Bob looks at Gerard. He's watching the road, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The road's empty.
"What's taking them so long," Frank mutters. He sounds irritated, like Mikey and Ray are late on purpose. Bob has to stifle a bark of laughter at the tone.
Fog starts drifting across the asphalt, moving against the breeze. Milky light flickers within it, aimless sparks that multiply and flare, white and blinding. The night is again filled with the sound of squealing tires as the two motorcycles turn sharply away from a collision with the guardrail.
With a rumble of mismatched engines, Mikey and Ray pull up beside them. Mikey favors his right leg when he gets off the bike and limps carefully over to the car. There's a sooty blast mark across his left temple. The helmet had melted around the impact, making the visor stick shut. He pulls the helmet off and Bob frowns at his white-lipped expression.
"What the fuck?" Mikey says.
Ray wheels his bike over. Bob smells blood.
"What happened?" He says.
"Something grabbed my arm when we turned off the crossroads. Where are we?"
"Further up the coast."
Ray gives him an unimpressed glare. Bob shrugs.
"Is this our coast?" Mikey asks.
"I don't know."
"We can figure it out in the morning," Gerard says. "I'm not driving anywhere else tonight."
Bob eyes the road in front of them. Oceanside, part of the cliff has slid into the beach below, taking chunks of the road with it. In the moonlight, Bob can see a section of the guardrail's snagging over the gap, rooted only in air.
"Good plan."
They are nervous about building a fire in unknown territory, but all of them know that fire protects. Whatever had grabbed Ray on Route Guano had left behind claw marks. So a fire it is.
Bob glances around the fire, notices the way the flames reflect in their eyes. He breathes deep, tastes salt and green and pack.
They are safe for now. That's all that matters.
~~~
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