[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]Red’s safehouse was rather empty, at the moment, but he’d done well to make it a home. For the most part, he’d pushed a few crates around, and emptied the excess of their contents outside. The main room now had a makeshift table, a few old newspapers spread out across its surface to keep things tidy; a pile of old clothes, likely unused hazmat suits, were bunched together for a seat. A few scattered lanterns kept the room aglow, as he had yet to get any of the light fixtures working - until then, he made do with his poor night vision and a menagerie of bruises on his shins from bumping into one thing or another. Garbage was haphazardly cast aside under the metal staircase.
On the table, a small plant stretched its open maw towards the nearest source of light. It grew pale in the absence of sunlight, but its tendrils and tiny, budding flowers were coming in strong. Laurie, Beck had called it, Laurie Strode. Red thought Strode was a better nickname. Beck had sworn him in as the tiny fly trap’s parent, hissing that he’d do something along the lines of throw his belongings to the gators if he killed it. Now, Strode snapped at the cockroaches that Red was desperately trying to drive out of his new home.
It’s late now, and the narrow space he calls his bedroom is hardly a place to sleep. Bunk beds run down the length of the room, their frames rusted and bent; only a few were left with stiff, thin sleeping mats. If he stacked a few together, he was half as likely to wake up with a world-ending backache - but it still felt like a prison cell. He’d started collecting things: dogeared comic books from the library, plus older, leatherbound texts from the higher shelves, and a shoebox full of goods he’d been keeping on his tool belt. A box of half eaten Twinkies from Beck’s kitchen sat on the adjacent empty bed. It was a weak attempt to make things feel like home.
Red has folded himself neatly on a mattress, and in spite of his delicacy he can’t really stop the frame from sagging towards the ground. (He’s a big guy. These bunk beds weren’t meant for four hundred-something pounds of demon.) And from there, he sleeps, at least until the door creaks and he realizes he’s not alone.
A shiver runs down his back, and as he reaches blindly for the nearest object he recognizes that he left his knife on the table, just outside his room. For a second, he doesn’t move. He was prone to many a nightmare as a child - this could be another dream. If he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, it would fade like all the rest. Red tenses and holds his careful silence.
There’s a whisper of breath coming from the open door. Careful, padding footsteps sound familiar, but unidentifiable. It’s not a dream. Red bolts upright in the dark.
Of course, he thumps his head against the upper bunk. He gives a frustrated groan, reaching up to rub the sore spot.
Slurring his gestures through his half-awake state, Red squints and makes out the outline of an all-too-familiar face in the pitch blackness. The creature that had attempted to murder Perseus stares back at him, beady eyes reflecting the slightest hints of light that filter into the room. Part of him screams to get up, to fight, because Mikolaj would kill him in an instant if only for the sake of bloodlust - but another part of him reads a plaintiveness in the wolf's relaxed posture. Something's up, and it has nothing to do with the vampire's hunger for blood. Nonetheless, he feels a pull towards his only weapon, and a portion of his brain that was trained for moments like these considers all the possible exits. He sighs. It's too early for this.
Red rubs at his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, and suppresses a yawn. “...Miko, s’that you? What th’hell are you doing here?”
On the table, a small plant stretched its open maw towards the nearest source of light. It grew pale in the absence of sunlight, but its tendrils and tiny, budding flowers were coming in strong. Laurie, Beck had called it, Laurie Strode. Red thought Strode was a better nickname. Beck had sworn him in as the tiny fly trap’s parent, hissing that he’d do something along the lines of throw his belongings to the gators if he killed it. Now, Strode snapped at the cockroaches that Red was desperately trying to drive out of his new home.
It’s late now, and the narrow space he calls his bedroom is hardly a place to sleep. Bunk beds run down the length of the room, their frames rusted and bent; only a few were left with stiff, thin sleeping mats. If he stacked a few together, he was half as likely to wake up with a world-ending backache - but it still felt like a prison cell. He’d started collecting things: dogeared comic books from the library, plus older, leatherbound texts from the higher shelves, and a shoebox full of goods he’d been keeping on his tool belt. A box of half eaten Twinkies from Beck’s kitchen sat on the adjacent empty bed. It was a weak attempt to make things feel like home.
Red has folded himself neatly on a mattress, and in spite of his delicacy he can’t really stop the frame from sagging towards the ground. (He’s a big guy. These bunk beds weren’t meant for four hundred-something pounds of demon.) And from there, he sleeps, at least until the door creaks and he realizes he’s not alone.
A shiver runs down his back, and as he reaches blindly for the nearest object he recognizes that he left his knife on the table, just outside his room. For a second, he doesn’t move. He was prone to many a nightmare as a child - this could be another dream. If he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, it would fade like all the rest. Red tenses and holds his careful silence.
There’s a whisper of breath coming from the open door. Careful, padding footsteps sound familiar, but unidentifiable. It’s not a dream. Red bolts upright in the dark.
Of course, he thumps his head against the upper bunk. He gives a frustrated groan, reaching up to rub the sore spot.
Slurring his gestures through his half-awake state, Red squints and makes out the outline of an all-too-familiar face in the pitch blackness. The creature that had attempted to murder Perseus stares back at him, beady eyes reflecting the slightest hints of light that filter into the room. Part of him screams to get up, to fight, because Mikolaj would kill him in an instant if only for the sake of bloodlust - but another part of him reads a plaintiveness in the wolf's relaxed posture. Something's up, and it has nothing to do with the vampire's hunger for blood. Nonetheless, he feels a pull towards his only weapon, and a portion of his brain that was trained for moments like these considers all the possible exits. He sighs. It's too early for this.
Red rubs at his eyes, waiting for them to adjust, and suppresses a yawn. “...Miko, s’that you? What th’hell are you doing here?”
[div style="text-align:center;font-size:10pt;line-height:9pt;color:black;font-weight:bold;font-family:verdana;"]IF YOUR FORTRESS IS UNDER SIEGE,
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME
YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN TO ME