(no subject)

[27_53]

[Following this post.]

They had been so kind (the shopkeepers) to send all of the purchases ahead to the hotel that they had recommended by the staff (and the citizens who had been drafted into the search-for-all-things-Russian army) that there was very little Skellig and Katya actually had to do, other than arrive at the hotel and ask for a room.

Skellig offers over a credit card (the plastic things can be useful it seems, especially when people neglect to shred their trash before putting it in the bin - this one is from three countries and two times over, so nobody will bother to check the details for a long time, if ever) and a winning smile to the clerk, who happily offers his congratulations and a pair of keycards.

(There's also a glance, he's sure of it - because it has been days since he's bathed and it's so not normal for this hotel, but they had the money so it does not matter what the clerk thinks.)

The elevator ride to the top floor is slightly dizzying; once Skellig slides the card into the lock (practice from Milliways - it only takes two tries before the light turns green) and opens the door into the room.

Their grocery bags are neatly stacked on the counter. He wonders how they knew which room, but perhaps it is better not to question fate.

"...wow," is all he manages.

Comments

[katyafeline]

That gets another bemused look, but she knows their focuses are a bit different. She generally doesn't deal with humans, as an Other. And the Dark Others that she does have to corral don't so much get a lot of talk time before she resorts to more... abrupt methods of communication.

"So long." She agrees. Five minutes is an age.

[27_53]

"I try to move quicker. It is easier. Longer jobs...are draining."

He nearly died after his last two major ones. As much as a creature like him can truly die.

[katyafeline]

She looks slightly pensive at that. She still doesn't know what she'd do in this world, and she is a creature of doing things, and...

Yes.

More bread and caviar. It is therapeutic.

[27_53]

"You are going to become a fish, if you eat all of that."

[katyafeline]

"Cats eat fish." She retorts, because caviar and black bread is the best ever, and she's not making him eat it.

[27_53]

"And birds eat bread," he agrees.

It is good bread.

Skellig looks into the bag, pulling out a container.

"...what is this?"

[katyafeline]

"Studen." She blinks at him innocently (because it is tasty). "There should be some horseradish to go with it."

And of course, more bread.

[27_53]

"What is 'studen'?"

For the record: HIs accent is still horrible.

[katyafeline]

Yes. Yes it is. But she kindly doesn't snicker.

"It's a... meat jelly." Her answer is a bit vague because she isn't sure which meat made it into that particular jar - she didn't examine it much in the store.

[27_53]

"Hmm."

He likes meat, so.

Skellig is able to unscrew the lid easily enough, sniffs it, and then goes hunting for a spoon. This smells much better than caviar - he approves already.

[katyafeline]

She rolls her eyes at him - honestly, he'll eat the preserved meat, but not the nice fresh fish roe? Loony. But the vodka is probably cold enough by now, so she goes to rescue it. The freezer is efficient, and the bottles are icy and slippery as she replaces the tiny wines carefully. One of the vodka bottles slips from her fingers and she chases after it, cursing volubly, creatively, and about as mildly as a Puritan at her fumble-fingered self.

[27_53]

The studen requires a cigarette, but Skellig feels the urge to step out onto the balcony (perhaps to avoid her curses, as mild as they may be, or perhaps for another reason entirely) to partake in his smoke.

He has barely put one to his lips and reached for his lighter, when it hits him, like the slap of an icy wave hitting him in the face.

(She will be able to feel the sting that surges across his senses, as strong as it is, as well as the pull the aftershock places on him.)



"That," he grumble-growls at the darkness below. "Is impolite."

And then he clears the railing of the balcony, disappearing without any further preamble.

[katyafeline]

And that was a real curse, a snapping snarl that's meant as a weapon. She looks, and he's already gone - she looks, through the haze of the gloom, and bites back another snarl - she's not going to catch him on this level. The stairs, the elevator - that'd be entirely too slow.

And she has no intention of being left behind (even if that'd give her all the vodka).

There isn't even a thought of whether she'd actually be capable before, impossibly, there's a siberian tiger in the room.

And then there isn't.

She's going for the stairs, taking a landing at a bound.

And later, she's going to teach him Quite A Lot of Russian. Loudly.

[27_53]

If he had actually had time to think before he'd taken a flying dive off of the balcony, he'd have suggested she join him on the more direct route to the ground.

(But there was no thought involved, not with a taunt like that. It is not a snake, no, not this time. No poison, as far as he can tell. Something different - colder.)

Tracking it is not the issue.

Neither is tracking Skellig, with the handle she has on him - no matter the head start he has into the dirty and dark side of the city.

[katyafeline]

She aims for following him - the it is odd, she doesn't know what exactly she's chasing there (and that's a feeling she doesn't like at all). Him she can follow like a beacon on a dark night, the gravel and rough asphalt ripping into her paws.

"Featherduster!" She flings it through the Gloom at him, furiously, "I will chain your downy hide to the railing, see if I don't!"

[27_53]

He laughs.

(he is not laughing at her, not entirely - it is the half-crazed laugh of a predator getting closer to the prey that was stupid enough to provoke him in such a manner to lead him to leap off of a twenty-first story balcony in the first place)

And it is bright and shining through the grit and the gray-black-gray haze.

It is definitely not a snake. And it is not like Them, though it also is like Them, in the way that it is different.

(Almost there. Almost.)

[katyafeline]

She can feel him close with his prey and snarls impatiently. She was too slow to start, and now she's having to make up time. The city block she's running through is suddenly a depressive place - happy couples suddenly find a reason to fight, peaceful children suddenly become fractious, laughter turns to tears.

And the tiger goes faster, her rumble a low constant litany of promises of what she's going to do to lunatics who go hunting without making sure she's following.

[27_53]

To his credit, he does not attack until he knows she is close enough to help him, in case things go badly.

And even then, he doesn't outright attack, in this alley behind an abandoned brick building with an iron fire escape that has rusted through the rungs of the ladder. It is a stereotypical scene for such a thing, but it is how these things work.

And when he does attack, the beacon that she was following flares bright for a half-second, before he has to throw up his defenses to ward off an overwhelming sense of coldicedespair that threatens to bring him to his knees.

(It looks like a man, but it is not.)

[katyafeline]

Katya yelps, catching the tail end of the blow and re-appearing from the Gloom in a splintering shower of the ice cold air.

Right now, she wishes like hell she'd had time to charge at least one of her usual amulets - if this was an Other of her world, she'd know how to fight. If this were utterly unlike, she'd know she'd be able to catch this creature unawares and drag it into the shadows behind the world, there to leave it to freeze.

This... is just enough like. Just enough, like a good horror movie. Drat.

"All well?" One thing she knows well enough is to not throw names around.

[27_53]

"Enough."

It's both an answer to her question and an order to this thing that is sending out the ripples of negative energy.

(He's getting sour and cranky, and when he's in a bad mood he is a lot less inclined to play nice or fight fair.)

Skellig narrows his eyes, studying the not-man-creature in front of them, and it's plain, emotionless expression.

"What do you want," it snaps.

"You to go away," Skellig replies.

"I was here first."

"You are impolite."

"Don't care."

"I do."

"Don't care about you."

Skellig grins. "You should."

[katyafeline]

Her hands out in front of her in a defensive gesture she steps closer, closer, twining like an inquisitive cat into Skellig's stance.

And, as consequence, letting him share in the strength she has pulled.

She doesn't know how to fight this thing.

But he does.

And she wants it gone.

[27_53]

He is not entirely sure how to fight this thing, not yet.

(He is figuring it out, though. One fragmented hint at a time.)

"And you," it continues. "Should be worried about me."

"Why is that?"

"Because."

"That is not an answer."

"Enough of an answer for a freak, bird."

not a freak, not like them but not a freak

Skellig's fingers come to rest against the curve of her waist, using her in front of him as a block for his urge to lash out and snap the creature's neck here and now.

[katyafeline]

Oh it's like that, is it? He is the only ally she has in this world - the only person familiar, the only person friendly, the only person who is like home.

And this popsicle just insulted all of that.

"Nyet." She purrs, her grin all sharp angles. "He is of this world - I am not. In this, I am the freak, and that will be the last mistake, mmm?" With a shout of Russian that refuses to become coherent she flashes her hands outward, shattering the shadows between her and it, turning the very darkness into knives.

Dodge that, Frosty.

[27_53]

'Frosty' doesn't dodge the attack - it's nothing like he has ever been faced with before - but the response is nearly deafening (internally - no sound actually leaves the creature's mouth, but the echo across the icy chop is fragmented and it ripples awkwardly) before it turns and runs for the doorway.

Gritted between clenched teeth, Skellig speaks:

"You wounded him. There is a trail."

It will help.

And then, he steps around her, wings folded tightly against his back, and he too disappears into the pitch-black darkness of the empty building, stalking after whatever this thing is.

There will be little space to hide from them, here, even with the darkness.

[katyafeline]

She stumbles a half-step to the side, icy feathers trailing along exposed skin and making her scrunch her nose in annoyance.

Cold is not awesome. And here she doesn't have a nice warm coat. Irked, she stalks after him, muttering things about the idiotic Dark that cannot even appreciate a place that's warm, that they have to be a snitty little icicle.

Wounded him. Bah. That was just a preview. She left tasty bread for this.