She's fast and strong and young and Marcus feels older than he has in a long time when he falls the last few feet onto the ground outside and realises he has no idea where she's gone.
"Fuck," he hisses, staggering up and casting around. He picks a direction at random because at least then he's moving, at least then he can ask, it's not like Joan's not distinctive: tall girl with red hair, have you seen her? But no one wants to talk to him and no wonder. He hasn't showered in a while, there's a smear of greenish bile on his shirt, and he's still sporting bruises. A bump at his temple is starting to swell where Joan smacked her head into his.
Another person backs away from him before he can even finish describing Joan and he hisses, "Alright, sodding run then, you piece of shit," and the stranger actually does, breaks into a flinchy little half-jog to get away from him. Marcus sags against the nearest wall, then smacks the heel of his hand into it. "Shit," he says, and turns to slide down it, back to the wall. Eyes closed. "Shit, shit, shit."
Joan shouldn't have been there. It's his fault she was. It's his fault: he drew her in, he ignored all the good reasons to leave her behind, all because he wanted a little bit of companionship. He sniffs, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and tries to think. This isn't the first time a possessed person has escaped. He knows what to do in situations like this. There's a mental checklist he can run down: set up a method of listening into police scanners, watch for disturbances in wildlife, alert Bennett. He should focus on that.
It feels counter-intuitive to head back to the motel, so he puts it off as long as he can: picks up four five-hour energy drinks discount because they're nearly past their shelf life, picks up the radio he needs to tap into police chatter. Then there's nothing else he can do but go back, so he makes himself do it. He needs a base, and he also needs to eat. There's a box of protein bars squirrelled jealously away under his bed. And there are Joan's guns, too. It won't come to that, of course. But if he was Joan, and he was possessed, and he got control — even for a moment — he'd head towards the car and the guns and the safe place with a lockable door.
So he's been in the motel for a while, listening into police radio and waiting for Bennett to call him back with more information, feeling sick with guilt and caffeine, when he hears the thud outside the door. His head snaps up, and he pulls the cheap earbuds out of his ears, throws them aside.
Nails on wood.
There's a spyhole: he swallows his urge to throw open the door and looks through it, and hisses his breath out. Does a quick assessment of the room. The windows are bolted but could easily be broken. The door can be double-locked but again, could be smashed through with enough force. The beds have headboards that will work with restraints. Joan's guns are in the corner of the room, but unloaded, her ammo now hidden in Marcus' bag. On the list of people Marcus doesn't trust with loaded firearms right now, himself, Joan and the demon inside Joan are right at the top.
He opens the door and scoops her up pieta-style, wincing hard as his back protests. She looks like hell, but a strange bit of vindictive, vindicated pride in her stirs: of course she managed to get back here. The demon in her has no idea what it's taken on.
"Back for your engine?" he says, kicking the door shut behind them both. "Talk to me, Joan."
no subject
"Fuck," he hisses, staggering up and casting around. He picks a direction at random because at least then he's moving, at least then he can ask, it's not like Joan's not distinctive: tall girl with red hair, have you seen her? But no one wants to talk to him and no wonder. He hasn't showered in a while, there's a smear of greenish bile on his shirt, and he's still sporting bruises. A bump at his temple is starting to swell where Joan smacked her head into his.
Another person backs away from him before he can even finish describing Joan and he hisses, "Alright, sodding run then, you piece of shit," and the stranger actually does, breaks into a flinchy little half-jog to get away from him. Marcus sags against the nearest wall, then smacks the heel of his hand into it. "Shit," he says, and turns to slide down it, back to the wall. Eyes closed. "Shit, shit, shit."
Joan shouldn't have been there. It's his fault she was. It's his fault: he drew her in, he ignored all the good reasons to leave her behind, all because he wanted a little bit of companionship. He sniffs, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and tries to think. This isn't the first time a possessed person has escaped. He knows what to do in situations like this. There's a mental checklist he can run down: set up a method of listening into police scanners, watch for disturbances in wildlife, alert Bennett. He should focus on that.
It feels counter-intuitive to head back to the motel, so he puts it off as long as he can: picks up four five-hour energy drinks discount because they're nearly past their shelf life, picks up the radio he needs to tap into police chatter. Then there's nothing else he can do but go back, so he makes himself do it. He needs a base, and he also needs to eat. There's a box of protein bars squirrelled jealously away under his bed. And there are Joan's guns, too. It won't come to that, of course. But if he was Joan, and he was possessed, and he got control — even for a moment — he'd head towards the car and the guns and the safe place with a lockable door.
So he's been in the motel for a while, listening into police radio and waiting for Bennett to call him back with more information, feeling sick with guilt and caffeine, when he hears the thud outside the door. His head snaps up, and he pulls the cheap earbuds out of his ears, throws them aside.
Nails on wood.
There's a spyhole: he swallows his urge to throw open the door and looks through it, and hisses his breath out. Does a quick assessment of the room. The windows are bolted but could easily be broken. The door can be double-locked but again, could be smashed through with enough force. The beds have headboards that will work with restraints. Joan's guns are in the corner of the room, but unloaded, her ammo now hidden in Marcus' bag. On the list of people Marcus doesn't trust with loaded firearms right now, himself, Joan and the demon inside Joan are right at the top.
He opens the door and scoops her up pieta-style, wincing hard as his back protests. She looks like hell, but a strange bit of vindictive, vindicated pride in her stirs: of course she managed to get back here. The demon in her has no idea what it's taken on.
"Back for your engine?" he says, kicking the door shut behind them both. "Talk to me, Joan."