2020-02-11 - Ill Met By Moonlight

For once, the interminable precipitation has left off. It's not clear, but it's been a high, bright overcast that fills the edge of the forest with a shadowless gray light. Though now it's bending on towards night, the light starting to dim, and it's still in the way that only a snow-muffled forest can be. Only the occasional birdcall or fall of snow from a branch to disturb the peace.

And here, at the edge of the old sawmill complex, there's an odd sound. An erratic sss-thok - the sound of arrows biting deep into wood. For Joe's picked the side furthest from town and tacked up a paper target on the side of the building. He's got what can only be a longbow in his hand, made of some dark wood and glossy black laminate, and there are arrows ranged before him in a row, as well as a hip quiver. They've only got target-shooting heads, as opposed to razor-edge steel hunting heads, but they stick well enough, in the softened wood of the building's siding.

The snow's held off all afternoon, but there's no telling what the evening has in store; the air has that chill to it, that crisp scent, that stillness. Save for the steady thunk of arrows meeting siding. And then, a time later, the soft crackle of frost under hiking boots. This pair belongs to a darkly dressed fellow; black, worn jeans and a battered, padded vest zipped up over a black hoodie. Rifle in a sling that's worn slantwise across his sturdy frame. The steps pause some distance away, a hundred feet or so, and the interloper simply watches. Cigarette scissored between two fingers, the glowing cherry is like a pinprick of light in the gathering gloom.

He's got the bow drawn, fletching by his cheek, when Joe becomes aware he has company. A squint through the diffuse, lowering light....and then he slowly relaxes the pull, in a creak of wood. Smiling at Ruiz in genuine welcome, as he lowers the bow.

He's got his peacoat on, but hanging open, sleeves rucked up a bit; the black watch cap pulled down over the dark gold hair. Shooting with fingerless gloves, in deference to the cold. "Hey," he says, pleasantly. "What's up?"

No answering smile from the younger man. No frown, either. No nothing. Just those steady eyes, glossy and dark and a little.. unfocused. Like he sees Joe, without quite seeing him. Then the hey, and the what's up, like they're buddies that just happened across each other out here. Like everything's fucking fine. When everything is very much not.

He ashes his cigarette, exhales smoke from his mouth and nose, clouding his expression briefly. Then, "You shouldn't be here. Not after dark. El bosque tiene dientes y garras." The Spanish is murmured more softly, barely audible from the distance he's standing at. His eyes don't move from the other man.

How many times has Ruiz seen that little cant of the head, that raptor's gesture of puzzled focus. There it is, the blue eyes confused, even at this distance. Then he looks around, taking in the gathering dusk, the way the shadows don't lengthen sharp like they do with the sun, but merely....expand. Little by little.

A bob of his head to the first part, but the second he doesn't quite catch, and there's another cock of the head. Truth be told, he's a bit deaf, courtesy of hundreds of carrier traps and three launches. "Say again?" he requests, even as he ambles over to pull the arrows from the wall, drop them into the quiver. A knife at his other hip, of a kind Ruiz knows well - a Ka-bar. Body language still easy.

There would normally be an answering glint in the ex-Marine's eyes. A touch of that shrewdness, a dash of amusement. Tonight, his expression is empty, like something that was dark and full of life, become hollowed out and barren. He does not, however, say again. Instead, a step back and a glance at his watch, before he hooks the strap of his rifle with his thumb again. The arrows in their quiver are observed quietly, and then the glint of light off the knife at Joe's hip. Then back to those blue eyes.

"Tell you what. I'll give you a head start. Count to twenty." He smiles, slightly, but it's like a marionette with its strings being pulled; there's no mirth in it. None, even, of his habitual wolfishness. Just that stark emptiness.

He's already unstrung the bow, pressing his boot down, carefully, and then coiling the string away in a pocket. Picked up the remaining arrows, though he has a last one in his hand at that, held loose before the fletching. Brows drawn down, he asks, "What, 're we racin'? To where, your truck? I 'on't think so," A snort at that. "'m high as a kite, but I don't run in boots 'less I gotta." A glance around, back to Ruiz, confusion only growing. "An' I may be blond, but even I know that the only guys who win a game of hide an' seek with a Marine sniper are....maybe SEALs or SAS or Spetz, and I was never none of those."

To his truck? He should be snorting derisively at that implication, but there's nothing. Just the blank stare, the hollowed-out eyes, like he can pretend it doesn't pain him to hear those words.

Or maybe he feels it plenty. And it feeds whatever makes him look at Joe like he wants to take him apart a piece at a time. Slowly. Painfully, without a shred of hesitation.

"One." His voice has that low, scratchy-warm quality to it, dark eyes unrelenting. "Two." His rifle's unslung from his shoulder, safety disengaged. A round's dropped into the chamber with a dull clack. "Three."

How many times has he faced danger. Looked at it with that level blue stare, unflinching. But to be so wholly ignorant of its presence... Oh, he knows Ruiz is a dangerous man, even now. But his violence has always been quick, direct, the explosion of a temper known so well.

And with that click of a chambered round, his own temper's rousing. "That's not fuckin' funny, Javier," he says, tightly. "What is this about? Cruz? You got not a leg to stand on, there. You can't be that much of a hypocrite. C'mon, you son of a bitch, you wanna take it outta my hide, you c'n do it like you always did."

Cruz? He thinks this is about Cruz? The funny thing is, somewhere under all that impassive blankness, he might be seething with rage about that man. It's impossible to tell.

"Four." His rifle comes up finally, hoisted into that familiar shoulder-braced position. Pure muscle memory, nothing awkward at all about his grip on that mean motherfucker. Joe knows he knows how to use it, and use it well. The muzzle's nudged a little until he has a clear line of sight, right between the eyes. His breathing stutters, the first sign of anything at all in his mien. "Five."

Finally, finally, it sinks in. They were both all but raised with the importance of muzzle safety. Never aim at what you don't intend to kill. That blankness - Ruiz has always been someone volatile, that cold control reserved for the hunt. This is no joke, no taunt.

Somehow, he's prey. And in his confidence, he's disabled his own ranged weapon. Too far to get into Ruiz's space and use the knife, beyond that crucial twenty one feet.

There's a dart of his gaze. Right, to the dark bulk of the ruins, but there'll be no visibility there at all. All too easy to be trapped, to fall through a rotten floor. Then left, to the woods, thick with shadows. He'll still be at a terrible disadvantage - old wounds and new bruises, against a foe trained for years to do exactly this. To stalk and kill human prey.

A feint to the right, and then he's turning and fleeing into the woods, out of the clearing around the sawmill ruins. The unstrung bow in hand. God only knows if he'll even have a chance to string it. A few fleet steps and he's into the shelter of the trees.

Torment, the briefest flicker of it in de la Vega's eyes. A scream that makes no sound, borne out of the horror of what he's doing to this man. He strafes to the left as Joe flees, rifle trained on his retreating form, though he doesn't give chase. Not yet. There are rules to this game. His dark eyes, however, are tracing the man's progress carefully. Already making calculations; how far he can get, most likely route given the terrain and visibility as dark encroaches on the forest.

Finally, "Nineteen. Twenty." Tonguetip snaked along his teeth, he pushes off to a smooth prowl, making his way off in the direction Joe fled. To the treeline, and the hunt.

Fear, but not panic. Not yet. Night is coming, and it may be the friend he needs. The moon is near full, but there are still clouds to dim her light. Plenty of snow to betray his tracks, unfortunately. To make his steps loud in the darkening forest.

He has to get distance. A chance to string the bow, to regroup, to get oriented so he can head for town and not merely be driven further into the woods. But the skin between his shoulder blades crawls, all the fine hair at his nape bristling. Joe's seen what Ruiz can do with a rifle.

Once upon a time, as a boy, he was a hunter, too. Of nothing more fearsome than white tails and turkeys, but the old instinct is there, to move silently in the woods. And now he has mortal fear as his goad. For the pilot.....somehow disappears into the forest in earnest. No crunch of foot steps, no panting breath or attempts to call out to Ruiz.

The hunter follows, inexorable in his approach. Despite his self-destructiveness, he's still in good shape after all these years, and moves like a man a good decade and a half younger. The crackle of underbrush announcees his movement, as if he wants Joe to know where he is. As if some part of him, perhaps, seeks to even the odds. Because he has to know it isn't fair. And what fun is that?

A quick slosh through the stream that cuts alongside the trail, and then he stalks the darkening shadows spilled by close-knit trees, rifle held low as he keeps his eyes open for fresh tracks in the snow. And then he spots them, and sets off at an easy lope to make up for lost ground.

Not remotely fair, no more than a wolf cutting a cripple out of the herd. That moment's grace granted him has gone. Joe's trying to keep quiet, to keep evading the hunter's senses....and it isn't working. Not when he steps on snow crusted over a frozen puddle, the crunch of his foot distinct as it breaks the ice.

Worse yet, his attempts at stealth have slowed him. Ruiz is catching up, the pilot's dark form visible through the boles of the trees. Not an easy shot, but...not an impossible one.

He's a deceptively quick creature, de la Vega. Sturdy, yes, but not bulky. Not big enough for his weight to slow him down. The moment he has a clear shot, he braces the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, leads his quarry by a hair, and then fires.

And misses, shot slicing through the bark of a tree a foot to Joe's left, shredding it, and vectoring off out of sight. Then the sound of Ruiz moving again, on the hunt.

But relentless and tough. There's the crack of the shot, echoing. The flick of bark from that tree, near enough to land on his coat. A moment where Ruiz can see the pale gleam of his eyes, in the twilight, before he's trying again to dodge away among the brush.

Where can he get to? Where's safety to be found here? Ruiz is just as fast as he is, on foot, and while that's no Barrett he's carrying, the range is still far enough to take him down at hundreds of yards. Conscious that he's being driven. Herded.

Just as fast, though he does seem to be herding the man. Less interested in actually taking him down, as driving him away from safety, and cornering him. The ex-pilot's a worthy enough foe though; he too cut his teeth in the military, and was a hunter in his own right. So when the dark-eyed predator loses sight of him again, he tries a different tact.

For many people, the experience of linking mentally with someone else is like a knock on the door of the mind. A request to enter, which can be granted or refused. With de la Vega, it is a violent intrusion. There is a guttural snarl, almost deafening in its intensity, and then the sensation of Joe's mind being torn into with knife-sharp teeth and claws. Sexual, almost, that sleek, hot thrust that leave little room for anything but him.

Then a voice like bells sighing into the wind, <<You can run, but there's nowhere to hide. You hurt me, and now I'm going to hurt you, baby.>>

The miss was deliberate. He knew it. Still trying to move, quietly, in the darkness under the trees.

The mental attack, though, is utterly unexpected...and utterly new. It staggers him, both physically, and mentally.

And in the link, the sensation of wings beating, frantically. Of him trying to bring talons to bear. Voice echoing, metallic, nearly a scream. <<NO. NO. STOP.>>

The curious thing that Joe may notice, through the link, is the presence of emotion. Too much of it, where Ruiz appeared to feel nothing when they briefly spoke. Melancholy, a deep and jagged gouge of it. Terror, disappointment, and anger simmering at the surface of it all. The entreaty to stop does nothing of the sort; the flame-bright beast flays all it touches with teeth like knives and claws that sing the desire to tear the hunting hawk limb from limb.

He still can't spot him in the darkening treeline, but he follows those tracks faithfully, unfettered by the cold and by the craftiness of his quarry.

He's a roil of wings and eyes and flame, unshaped, unformed, like an infant cherubim....at least at first. But each moment that passes resolves it further, into something more definite. No raptor that ever soared Earth's skies, though he has the high-crested head of a harpy eagle, the hooked beak and cruel claws. But the tail streams long behind him, like a peacock's train. Feathers black, or nearly so, but the edge of every one of them laced with ember-glow, ....and each feather of the tail with a shimmering eye, like the coals of a dying campfire.

A firebird.

One that lies panting under the wolf's claws, beak open, eyes shining.

Rallying to it on the physical plane, too. Refusing to freeze, to let himself be brought down by mere shock. Body still moving, if even by rote memory, sheer force of will.

Relentless. Utterly relentless, like an animal pared to the bone, who hasn't hunted in weeks. Do or die, it's survival that compels him go on. And then he catches a flash of movement between the trees, and fires without breaking stride. Two shots to the right of Joe, this time; one cuts close enough to graze his thigh, while the other makes sure he veers off the trail, and into the dense underbrush that makes movement more cumbersome.

In their mindscape, the wolf toys with his prey. Lets it escape and scuffle its wings in a desperate bid to escape, before closing its teeth around the beast's throat and attempting to pin it once more.

Being herded. Being driven....and he does leave even the little game trail he was on, trying to all but swim into the undergrowth. As if he could hide there, like a rabbit crouched in a warren.

The bird's wings spread, each primary distinct as a finger, beating at that nonexistent air, laboring. The slash of talons, in turn. But this is the wolf's realm, his hunting ground, and the newly formed creature he has in his grip is feeble, by comparison.

<<Javier. Javier. What are you doing?>>

<<The question,>> echoes that silvery, bell-clear voice back across the link, <<is what are you doing, Joe? Why are you here? What are you running from?>> The ex-Marine can be heard from somewhere behind and to Joe's right, wading through the dense tangle of hemlock and fern. Steady, sleek, predatorial; his movement is efficient and spare, his eyes sharp as he hunts the shadows. <<You know you'd find me here. You knew. So why did you come?>>

It's a genuine question, and it poses him. The bird going still, beak open as it pants. <<Gray Harbor? I couldn't help myself. I couldn't rest where I was. Here, now....>>

This darkening forest, the last light almost gone, and the long, long night to come. <<I'm running from you.>> But is he?

And in the dimness, the flash of a pale face, turning.

He spots him then; that flash of eyes, the moonlight slid along the side of Joe's face. His rifle comes up, he has a perfect shot. He could end it, right there, but doesn't; the round blows wide, sails into a tree. I'm running from you. And it's like the spell is broken. His rifle's dropped, and tumbles to the ground. Followed by the man himself, crumpled forward onto his knees with his face in his hands. He doesn't pursue, doesn't move. Simply kneels there in the snow like a shattered thing; with a slavering growl, the wolf extracts its claws, tears itself loose, and is gone.

Then that moonlight shimmers on something impossible. Like a curtain of iridescent silk blowing, like the parachute rippling on the mountainside, all those years ago. Diaphanous, with the shifting colors of a soap bubble. Almost on the trail, at an angle.

And then there's the sound of running feet and a crash, like a buck lunging out of the underbrush, and the pilot's running hell bent for leather for it.

And then, in a heartbeat, he's gone. The tracks just stop...and there's only the glint of an arrowhead in the moonlight.