(Untitled)

[zeitsein]

There are -

There are ways this is supposed to work. An order to things. A fucking -

She isn't the one who gets snatched, not anymore. She isn't supposed to be. This is wrong. All wrong, like goody-two-shoes and a smile wrongThe tension spidercracks up her arms until she has to shake her shoulders to shake it off; she hisses in misspent

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[zeitsein]

With a lick of her lips, Tara fires. The wolves scatter, but she wings one in the leg and it limps, which is good enough for her purposes. She moves, almost as fast as the wolves do, and fires - again. Again. Again. And she is good, because she hits each wolf she was aiming at. (Four.)

Her next shot misses - three - but the next one connects - two - and then she has one bullet left.

They can probably smell it on her, judging by the way they regroup slowly, leisurely, like they have all the time in the world (and maybe they have, this place is befucked enough in just the short glimpse she's had of it).

Dust swirls at her feet and the trickle-down glow peeks out from under the cuffs of her jacket. Tara sets herself, licks her lips, and waits for the wolves to come.

And come they do, looking like an onrush of inevitability and rage, right for her, right for her throat -

That's it, you bastards, that's it, come right fucking at me, the scared little girl you'll tear apart, that's it, runHer forehead feels light with sweat, and

[zeitsein]

"Yeah. Pity."

Funny how Tara doesn't feel that way. (Funny how the werewolf comes second to the fork in that girl's thought processes. That's slightly unnerving.)

"Have any ideas how to get to what passes for civilization around here without repeating this every two minutes? Because I'm all ears."

[has_its_poetry]

She kicks at the ground, a little petulantly.

"My seven-league boots would do it, but they're not here."

By way of explanation: "Not that they ever are. They're kind of a metaphor."

[zeitsein]

"I just killed a werewolf with a table fork. Do not start spouting amateur philosophy at me." Tara stands there watching Stranger for a second, then turns back, thinking better of it, and yanks the fork out of the wolf's lolling head. Little flecks of greyish goop and blood spurt from the wound when the fork comes loose. Some of them stick to the fork, too.

"These seven-league boots, or whatever the fuck they are - can they take other people with you?"

[has_its_poetry]

"When I have them. But I don't. They left when I got here."

Okay, bits of werewolf brain on your shiny fork are a good incentive to be practical.

"If you stay really close I'll tell you when they come back."

[zeitsein]

"Don't worry. I'm not letting you out of my sight if you can get me to somewhere there's actual people."

... somehow, that's less comforting when it's said while wiping wolf brain off on your jeans for lack of a napkin.

"We'd better find our way to a back entrance or something before those wolves get a clue and beat us there."

[has_its_poetry]

"Okay."

She points.

"Try that way."

...it's not like they have a better plan.

[zeitsein]

Tara stares.

"I think that way might actually be the right way."

She keeps kicking little tremors underground to see what she can feel in reply; it may not be the most direct route to the exit, but it's as close as they're going to get today.

So that way they go.

It occurs to Tara, as they climb over a mass of rubble halfway up to the ceiling, that if anything happens to her cargo, people will wonder why she doesn't know the girl's name. She'd like to minimize those sorts of questions, if she can. "So," she says, clearing her throat, "what's your name?"

Does the special snowflake even have a name? That's a good question.

[has_its_poetry]

"Stranger!"

As in 'more strange than', usually.

"What's yours?"

[zeitsein]

Tara hops down from the rubble, having finally reached the end of that particular bottleneck, and looks around for the next step they'll have to take.

"Tara. Call me Tara."

It can't be much farther. She only hopes the wolves haven't made it there first.

[has_its_poetry]

Stranger is not much help in the matter.

She's busy playing with a lighter.

...

It's possible Tara will recognize the lighter in question.

[zeitsein]

Tara is momentarily distracted from her examination of the pathway they've been taking versus the exterior shape of the hotel and what that could tell her about how much further they might have to go by the flicker of light in Stranger's hands; she stops to get a better look at what might be causing it, and then she stops completely.

"Hey!" She glares at Stranger while she pats her own pockets down in case anything else has gone missing (and also to verify that her lighter is, indeed, missing). "That's my lighter. How'd you get that?"

Thief! Filthy thief! After all Tara's done to save her sorry neck.

[has_its_poetry]

"Huh?" Stranger blinks. "I dunno."

It isn't a lie.

"You want it back?"

She flicks it shut and holds it out. Tara is cool! She can totally have her stuff back.

[zeitsein]

Tara wants off this fucking ride, thanks.

"Thanks," she says, the word sounding only half as false as it really is.

After pocketing the lighter she turns her head to look back down the hall, kicking at the side of the hallway irritably.

Fractures don't usually break at right angles.

"We can't be much farther from an exit. Come on."

They're so close.

[has_its_poetry]

Stranger bounces from wall to wall, following behind Tara in a haphazard sprawl of a walk.

[zeitsein]

Please say she isn't literally bouncing. That would just be kind of the icing on the ridiculous cake of ridiculous, after everything.

(It's like she's trapped in a horror show revamp of one of those bad '80s cartoons and the annoying mascot forgot to get the memo.)

There. There's the door. Tara goes straight for it. Her hand is on the knob and turning when she hears the low growl from the other side.

And then something shoves itself against the door. Two somethings.

Wolves.

Tara plants her hand on the side of the door and shoves back as hard as she can until she can feel her own teeth grinding together from the pressure.

How long have they been waiting there? Since she trapped them on the outside looking in?

Four wolves is four too many to handle with only a door between her and them. "If those boots of yours work," she yells, because that is the only way she can force the words through the lock of her jaw, "now would be a really fucking good time for them to fucking work."

Really.