2021-01-11 - Shiny and Chrome

The winter in Gray Harbor is cold and rainy. Forbidding and unpleasant....and today is no exception. Not a day for walking, not with the wind a knife off the water and clouds building up in the west like an army massing for the attack. A day rendered in monochrome.

Which makes the scatter of red sand that blows across their windshields more startling. Vivid as a carnival, first a thread, and then a splash, as if scattered by a contemptuous hand. It doesn't matter what road they're on or how fast they're going - it's there. And then more and more, skeins that crawl up the glass of the windscreen and multiply until they weave a veil as opaque as cloth.

A few heartbeats and they're all running blind.....until it parts again to reveal a different world entirely. Red stone, red sand, a cracked road unspooling before them to an impossible horizon. But they aren't alone. Before them rattles a
tanker semi, battered and scarred and altered, with men riding atop like sailors on a pitching deck.

Alexander was just going for a drive. He was thinking about some things, and usually that meant walking, but it was a yucky day and there was the car right there, so why not?

This is why not.

He flinches from the sudden scatter of sand, and is starting to pull carefully off the road...except there is no road, only sand, and darkness, and then burning light. "...the fuck." His heart starts to beat in his chest. He realizes what must have happened immediately...and Alexander? Doesn't watch movies or read much fiction. But what he does do, is shout, "THIS IS WHY I DON'T OWN A FUCKING CAR!"

He's on his way home, after giving Moretti a ride to his girlfriend's place and getting coerced inside for dinner. Rosencrantz won't be happy to hear that he'll be missing out on the kugel he spent all day making, but they can fight about it later. With that text message sent, he tosses his phone into the passenger seat, looks up at the sound of something blowing across his windshield, and..

..red sand. What the fuck? The intersection's gone. The horizon stretches out into dust and mirage, and his eyes cut to a massive semi trailer being hauled up the road a short distance ahead. Men atop it; men like none he's seen around here before. Squinting for a moment, he reaches for his sidearm in the glovebox, and eases onto the gas to roll the Charger forward.

Joey almost has the fucker!!! Now should Joey be driving like a bat out of hell up highway 12? No but if he can just get close and put that asshole off the road he will finally get some answers he wants and (ironically) get payback against the asshole working for Reyes who ruined his car... likely causing more damage to it, in an effort to get his money, his shit back, and an opportunity to yell "I want my two dollars!". Anger is an irrational thing sometimes. A hard turn will bring him out of the Firefly forest and right into... the desert? Right. As planned. That's how dreams and shit work right? We accept them as truth.

Itzhak is strapped to the grill of his big orange pickup, Marigold. He's fucking mounted there like a trophy animal on a big steel rack, while his pickup itself has been turned into a bizarre war machine driven by some white-painted war boy. Itzhak starts struggling as the Dream fades in, trying to move or do anything but he's chained in place,. And he's got a muzzle hammered out of a garden rake strapped to his face. And his mane of curls has been shaved off. He's shaved down to the scalp.

Marigold's engine (the hood cut out, pipes spewing smoke) thunders behind him, revving as the War Boy driver slams the gas. Itzhak, who would really like to be thinking more about kugel right now and fighting with Ruiz over it than what is currently happening, screams in Yiddish. "Vos hot ir ton tsu meyn hor!?"

There's knowledge in this Dream, whispered into their ears. The women determined to be free of captivity as mere brood mares, the ice-eyed Imperator at the wheel of the big rig.....and that they're with her, outriders and warriors on this quest. Allies....

....as is poor Itz. But the drivers of the truck are not numbered among them. No, there's a pair of manic faces behind Itz's windshield, eyes wide and bright. Even as he struggles, one's clambering up on to the roof, balancing neatly, and poised to throw something that looks like an unholy cross between an RPG and a harpoon, aimed for the rig. Not in range, yet.....and the roar of the truck's engine brings it nearly level with the others. It's a good thing no one's in a Honda Civic.

Alexander has no idea what's going on, but apparently there are people who need to be helped, and - although he's aware in his BRAIN that these 'people' are just figments of Dream stuff - his ridiculously self-destructive urge towards trying to help people kicks in, and he starts trying to size up the situation. That Charger looks familiar. And so does one of those other cars. He swerves towards those, rolls down the windows. "Captain? Kelly? What the fuck is going on?" he yells. And looks back. "And is that fucking Itzhak on the hood of that truck?" He reaches out a hand to the man climbing up, and tries to zap him with lightning. "Don't touch this car!"

Understanding hits him like a sledgehammer to the head. That's Itzhak chained to the grille of that truck charging ahead beside him, and the Dream's put them to a task. And the sooner they fulfil it.. the sooner they get the fuck out of here. Digging a clean handkerchief (why does he have this? who the hell knows) out of the glovebox, tying it as best he can around his face, the cop rolls down the passenger side window and slams on the gas with a glorious snarl of the car's eight cylinders vociferously responding.

Safety off, he drops a round into the chamber, and yells back at Alexander, "All I know is we've got to stop that rig!" Then he's aiming at the guy clambering onto Marigold's roof.. and squeezing the trigger.

Joey's Black 1969 GTO with the red leather interior that looks like he skinned the devil himself for the leather is in and of itself shiny and chrome enough to reach Valhalla on that merit alone. And yet...Here we are. The window goes down and pulls out... a repeater crossbow with flames painted on the side. It was never meant to be an actual weapon and in fact looks like the modified remains of a sawed off shotgun and a hacksaw (teeth down) as the brace, and who knows what for the bow string. Knowing Joey likely catgut made from real delinquent that didn't pay up. Here that's possible.

Leaning out the window to take a shot at the guy atop the war rig he barks back "No, it's Coach Kelly! And yeah he's fucking around right now. Shit to do and he's having a good time." (Hint: Itz is not confirmed that he's at all having a good time!)

Itzhak rolls a furious hazel eye Joey's way. "I am NOT FUCKING AROUND and I am NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME!" Total lack of hair really enhances his expressions, makes that maddened look come across like the crack of a rifle. "Oh no you don't!" and the harpoon wriggles and jerks in the war boy's grasp, leaping free to land in the sand as everyone goes streaking past. BOOM goes the payload and an explosion billows up behind the racing cars.

If the purpose of a Dream is to force the Dreamers to use their powers, their shine, their song....well. It's there for them, eager as a dog dancing at the door for a walk. Itz yanks the harpoon from the grasp of the warboy, whose last moments are spent staring at his hand in bemusement. Joey's bullet goes wide and wild - hey, it was a big bump - but then both Alexander and Ruiz strike, nearly simultaneously. The lightning makes him convulse, jerking like a puppet....and he turns just in time to take that bullet from Ruiz. A spray of blood, and he topples to the roadside, left nearly instantly behind at their breakneck pace.

The rig is on ahead - their goal is ahead in the distance, a set of high hoodoos, towers in stone, water and sanctuary and safety.....and behind them, in their rearviews, still an armada of monstrous vehicles. The roar of many trailing engines is a rumble like distant thunder. They're gaining.....and separating out from the general roar is the hornet whine of motorcycles. Four of them.

What can only be a Harley is in Joey's driver's side mirror, its rider bent low, some sort of rifle in hand. Pulling up alongside Alexander is a sidecar rig. It's weirdly reminiscent of Joe's Ural, except that this one has harkened even further back to its military roots.....and mounted on the sidecar is a machine gun, the passenger grinning a metallic grin and turning the gun on the Mentalist. Javier's got a pair on a big chopper behind him, the man riding pilliion already levering up to stand so he can aim a harpoon.....and there's another pair on a Japanese racing bike pulling alongside Itz's truck, as if to transfer its passenger to the truck itself.

"I don't think any of us are having fun, Kelly," Alexander shouts back. He grunts with satisfaction as the man is pegged by Ruiz's bullet and falls to the sands. "We have to get Itzhak off that damn hood," he says, and is looking around for a way to do that, when the motorcycles come up. He eyes the one pulling up beside him with that big, nasty machine gun, and grabs the wheel, trying to weave to stay out of a clear line of fire. He weaves!

Too well. One wheel hits a rock or some other piece of detritus hidden in a heap of sand, and the car swerves into a spin, doughnutting across the dune. "FUCK! FUCK FUCKFUCK!" can be heard from inside as Alexander tries desperately to course correct. He yanks the wheel to one side...and the car flips, with Alexander screaming inside. It rolls over once, twice, then lands back on its wheels, smoking, the hood smashed in, bits of glass like pebbles from all the broken windows. Alexander, himself, looks reasonably uninjured, although pale as a sheet and his hair sticking up in wild tufts. "Holy shit!"

Javier, meanwhile, is driving his Charger - nearly unrecognisable by now in its layer of reddish dust - like he stole it. This might not be the first time he's tried to run someone down in that beast of a car, though; the engine roars her delight as the machine hurtles along the causeway, and he manages to swerve out of the way of the imminent wreck that Alexander's out of control driving nearly triggers. Barely.

A quick check of his rearview mirror, a hissed curse between his teeth. But it's the racing bike he lines up a shot on. Slide racked, bullet in the chamber, two shots to try to take out the front tire and send it out of control.

Joey is not the driving twin! That's Jaime! He's the Nice one, withhte easy grin like sunshine on a lazy ass Saturday afternoon with fuck all to do that will baja this shit like it's a kiddie kart track. WRONG TWIN, DREAM! Still he answers Alexander, green eyes locked on the sideview mirror noting where Itzhak is and ... Ruiz rolling up? He can have the 'just pick a name' argument with him later. Right now there's a point to prove.

"Ridiculous I'm having a good-" Right hand braces wheel. Foot hits brake, left hand throws the door open bracing the door so it's not torn off as the bike + driver hit and the asshole on it cartwheels spectacularly over the top like a rag doll. "-fucking time!" Looking up he squints as he kicks the bike out of the way and slams the door shut making to run over the other driver scanning for target. "You want me to go for Itz or the ...thing?"

Itzhak's snarling incomprehensibly and then Marigold's steering wheel and gas pedal take on lives of their own, obeying their true Maestro. Itzhak laughs like a madman. "WHADDAYA GONNA DO NOW, HUH?!" The gas revs and the e-brake yanks itself (hot) and Marigold slews around, red sand spraying under her tires, racing to Cristobal's wrecked car. "Sandushka c'mon!" Itzhak yells at Alexander. Oops, a nickname got out!

It's only the motorcycle outriders they're tangling with....but it's a swirl of combat in moments. Itzhak keeps control of the truck, to the utter bewilderment of the Warboy driving, who's yanking on the wheel to no effect - weirdly reminiscent of a toddler in one of those fancy shopping carts with the toy wheels. It hasn't occurred to him that his bloodbag is in control now. Itzhak sends the truck arcing across the sands to where Alexander's clambered out of the wreck, swift enough to give him time to snatch him up....but not fast enough to prevent a few rounds from the sidecar gunner striking home.

Ruiz's shot is perfect. The tire of the racing bike pops, the bike goes skidding, sending both driver and passenger tumbling over the sand. Neither shows any signs of getting up. The pair on the chopper behind him fails to land a grenade harpoon, but they're still in the fight, angling up in his blindspot for a try with what can only be an Uzi.

Joey clotheslines the biker coming up on his left, and he's gone. The coach/yard boss is free to pick his next opponent.

And out ahead of them, the big rig is pulling ahead. Watching the outriders deal so handily with the motorcycle riders earns them a raucous cheer from the white-painted figures leading them.

Alexander doesn't have to be asked twice. He slams his shoulder into the car door, and it wails as he forces it open enough to roll out. There's a moment spent looking at the Fairlane. "...sorry, Cruz," he says, with a sigh, then dives for the car, one of his hands going for the knife he carries at the small of his back. As he moves, those bullets whine through the air, and the investigator staggers, goes to one knee with a cry of pain, before staggering forward to climb into the car and plunge his knife at the face of the warboy who thinks he's driving.

"Quédate a la mierda," snarls de la Vega, watching as his shots rip through that wheel with laser precision, and the bike cartwheels end over end to an untimely demise somewhere off in a billow of dust and broken bodies. The sidearm is safetied and tossed onto the passenger seat, and a flick of his eyes to the rearview mirror once again finds that chopper still hot on his tail - and something else. His modified AR-15 locked into the rifle rack behind his seat. He doesn't remember bringing it; why would he? But here it is, maybe just some other way for the Dream to fuck with him.

A breath, two. And then he unfastens his seatbelt, shoves the laptop in the centre console out of the way, and reaches around for it. Finds it loaded, of course, and steps on the gas to put some distance between he and the bike before he'll try to get it propped up against the back window.

This is where things get tricky. Everyone's situation sicks. Mostly the warbump he's driving over to pull the car around to circle back for Alexander. Yeah yeah yeah this is why the Veil hates him today. Joey never plays by the rules right. People better pray they miss him while shooting. As not the world's strongest driver his goal is to not run over Alexander so he has a place to fall back to. One shot goes off as wide as he can to make sure it'll hit sidecar guy and not Alexander.

The Warboy's fighting with the wheel, trying the brakes, to no effect. Then Alexander's clambering aboard, wounded, and he looks up, reaching for a big kukri - only to take the knife to the face. He lets out an unholy screech, clapping his other hand to the wound, even as he slashes at Alexander. Itz's still driving, if in the most unorthodox way, steering the truck towards the back of the big rig.

Javier manages to keep a steady course even as he aims back at the pair on the chopper pursuing them. The shot is solid, and the driver slumps over. But the skid isn't entirely uncontrolled, and his passenger/gunner tries to leap free.

Joey's shot on the sidecar gunner lands, but it's not an immediately fatal wound....and now he's earned himself some unwelcome attention. Now the pair in the sidecar are coming for him.

"Oh, shut up. You're not even fucking real," Alexander snarls at the howling warboy, his voice rough with pain. He lunges forward, and now he and the Warboy are knife-fighting in the car, with Alexander raising one arm to try and force the warboy's arm up while he stabs him again, ducking and scrambling while his shoulder bleeds all over the place.

Marigold's gas pedal flattens to the floorboards and the big truck surges forward, racing for the military bike with the sidecar duelling with Joey. Itzhak, fury twisting his mobile face, races the truck up alongside the bike and WHAM rams it full speed. CRUNCH and splat as one of the war boys gets caught in the middle. Itzhak barks a laugh. "NOW I'm havin' a good time!" he yells at Joey.

The rifle round cracks the back window of his cruiser, splintering glass across the seat and going right through his target's shoulder. But when the guy shooting at him doesn't break off, like would be good for him, Javier growls his irritation. Eyes on the road ahead, then eyes on the rearview mirror. But instead of returning fire, it's his sidearm he snatches up, and maneuvers his car in closer to where Joey's struggling with one of the warboys. Three rounds, the moment he has a clear shot. Right as another vehicle appears in his peripheral vision. Soccer moms. GREAT.

Joey isn't grinning. Again, not his brother. Wrong twin. The look is more than a bit annoyed in classic 'You've got to be shitting me' Joey vision. "Yeah..." he calls back to Itzhak trying to keep Ruiz in the periphery not knowing how this is going to go. The swipe comes in and it's not the first time he's had to drop his seat back to avoid a bullet, or now a knife. Springing back up he reaches out tot that asshole gunner on the bike who is thankfully too close.

3...2...1...

That arm shoots out of the window like an iron bar with a clamp attached, grabs the warboy's harness and pulls him HARD into the frame of the GTO's door through the open window ringing the shit out of his bell. KA-TAAAAAANG! "CLAYTON, GET IN! VEGA, GETTUM!"

The fight's taken them away from the Chopper's gunner - he's only on foot, and he's turned away to try and right the bike, struggling to get it up. Outdistanced - he can't make the shot, and he knows it.

Ruiz snaps off another shot, and Joey feels the man in his grip give one last convulsive struggle, and go limp. The coach is holding a corpse, or someone soon to be one.

But the vanload of newcomers makes itself felt. The scowling woman behind the wheel can't get close enough for any of her warboy passengers to leap onto Marigold. Nor can her gunner hit.

The same, however, is not true for the others. More of the warboys open up on Ruiz and Joey. In Joey's case, there's a hailstone rattle of bullets chewing up his car, but he's got enough Physical to make sure that he doesn't get struck, himself. Ruiz's Charger takes only glancing blows.

And Alexander finally subdues his opponent. The interior of Marigold is spattered with blood. So much for Itzhak's upholstery. Now it's only a pallid corpse draped across the driver's seat.

Alexander is gasping and covered in blood from the struggle and his earlier gunshot wound. But when the warboy stops moving, he grabs him and tosses him out the window so he can slide into the driver's seat. He doesn't even try to drive - Itzhak's got that covered. "Kelly, don't get fucking shot," he bellows out the window, then starts looking at how Itzhak is strapped to the hood. "Itzhak! I'm gonna try to get you out of this! Brace!" And he leans out of the window to see if he can start cutting the mechanic free, looking about as ghoulish as a warboy, himself. The minivan is noticed, of course, but not commented on - he's pretty sure everyone's seen it.

Itzhak laughs like a maniac at War-Mom and crew as their attempts have zero effect; he swerves and skids and slides all over the road, forcing Marigold to maneuver like a dressage horse that weighs three tons. All while he's chained to the steel support bolted on the grill. He's coated in dust and spattered in blood. "You come for the queen, ya bettah not miss!" Then Alexander's leaning out to help him and he shouts to him, "Bolt cutters! Under the seat! Hang the fuck ON!"

With warboys dropping like flies, and Alexander working to cut his boyfriend free, de la Vega turns his attention to that goddamned minivan. His sidearm's clip is checked, two remaining rounds confirmed. More glass shatters, bullets skreeeeking furrows through his car's paint job; something takes out one of his side mirrors, but so far, nobody's been able to land a solid shot on him. He leaves his rifle pointed out the back, and makes the call.

The Charger's swung in on a collision course with the minivan, engine surging through the gears like butter with a roar of all eight cylinders coming to life. Fortunately for him, he's got that push bar on the front of his cruiser that's made for this job. Snaring recalcitrant drivers; running things off the road. Where did those fang-like spikes come from? Who the fuck knows. But they're coming for soccer mom's minivan.

Joey slams the gunner he's holding into the doorframe again. "I'm gonna fold you in half liek a forged doctor's note, asshole!" Though he doens't have to thanks to a sharp hit from the Captain into Joey's assailant. As for the hail of incoming gunfire? Well Joey must be listening to Alexander because he ducks low and tries to block with the now Dead body he's holding onto and bracing with the other arm as if holding an invisible shield. If he was only actually aware that it isn't in vain he might plotz. WELL, that windshield is gone in a hail of movie glass that sprinkles on him at high speed as he tries in vain to steer with his knee. The dead weight is not jettisoned until Joey steals his goggles off his head. That's going to be super badass and important with no windshield right now. "Gracias!" For now? Yeah, he and Future Self Ruiz have the same idea: that van's gotta go. While he has their attention? Yeah he's just gonna try to ram it.

Alexander doesn't fall off - Itz is doing a good job of keeping it steady. There's the clank of the cutters, freeing the mechanic from his bonds - they fall to the roadside in puffs of dust, bit by bit.

Ruiz's attempt to ram works beautifully, and he takes it right in the driver's side door. She's stunned, head lolling against the wheel, pale brow painted with blood. The guys in the back nearly all go tumbling, one clearly knocked out. One of them has presence of mind enough to snap off a shot at Marigold, as it speeds on, but it goes wild.

Joey's attempt to ram would hit, save that the impact of the Charger sends the van slewing across the plain. It keeps the van from being more or less sandwiched between two cars.

And in the distance, the big semi has nearly reached the lengthening shadows of the stone towers. The race is nearly done, at least for them.

Alexander ducks back into the car just long enough to grope under the seat for the cutters, and then he's out again, cutting through the chains. He notices Joey and Ruiz's ramming runs, and curses under his breath. "You assholes! Don't die!" But they're doing a pretty good job so far, so he concentrates on cutting Itzhak free. "Hang on! When this last one goes!" And then he reaches out to cut it. Hopefully Itzhak doesn't go flying away like a t-shirt on Spring Break.

Joey is fighting to hold the minivan pinned between the GTO and the Charger. Glorious. And then he just... kidna knows Itzhak is moving and just sort of knows where he is and what the plan is. Boy, this is awkward. Is is reaching deep down into his pants right now? Sorta. It's the inside pocket of his coat. The warmom can't drive and one of those lil assholes is out of commission. It's now Kelly throws something through the window- better than a grenade in fact.

"Danger Noodle I fuckin choose you or what-fucking-ever." Coiled around his forearm and launching at the warboy about to shoot Itz is a sabertoothed fucking basilisk with inky black wings. It's only a baby still but while it' can't turn the dude to stone it can paralyze him good so he can't shoot. Yelling back for Clayton's sake he calls out, "I'm ok!"

"Got it!" Itzhak holds 'er steady while Alexander clips him free. The chains fall away but he catches quite a length of it up, a look in his eye that strongly suggests he has a very bad idea. "I could kiss you," he informs the bloodied-up Alexander, grinning at him over his shoulder, while hanging on the support with one arm, boots braced on Marigold's bumper as they race along at holy-god-miles-per-hour. "Good fuckin' job! I'm gonna take this bitch out. Be right back."

But is he in fact planning on being right back? He turns towards the van, teeth bared in a lunatic grin. If only he had silver frosting spray! Joey and his little friend clear the way, and Itzhak mutters under his breath, "Witness me." Then he makes the engine scream, forcing Marigold at the limit of her power right up alongside the minivan--and he leaps across to it, sticking the landing, armed with a living length of chain. SMASH into the windshield goes the chain!

"What the fuck are you doing, Kelly," de la Vega grouses under his breath, seeing his frenemy go for.. something under his coat. And come out with a basilisk? He doesn't have time to contemplate it; he's too busy slamming into that goddamned minivan that's trying to get between him and the GTO. It's snared on his pushbar with a horrific sound of shredding metal and splintering glass, and he slams the steering wheel in the other direction, breaking off as the other vehicle slews away in a cascade of hot red dust.

The Charger's lights punch through the haze as he swerves back in again, sidearm up and cocked; a round's put through the open window, and hopefully into one of the warboys that's still standing.

The Warboy drawing down on Itz is paralyzed by the snake, going as rigid as if he had been turned to stone. Alexander cuts the last link, and Itz is freed. Itz lashes in with that length of chain, and there's a spray of blood - someone just had an artery severed. Warmom by the way her head lolls limply.....and then Ruiz has the Charger crunched into the van, and a shot takes out the last of the warboys capable of fighting.

It's all stillness, now. The tick of cooling metal, the sound of the wind, and the engines in the distance. Lengthening shadows.

But it's enough, for the breeze that blows across them is cold and heavy with rain and the scent of the sea and the forest. A chill breath, and the saturated color of the desert is fading to gray. Back to the real world, with the sweat of desert heat drying on their skin.

Just a Dream. But then, enough of one that poor Cris's car is going to need a tow....and Itzhak is still left shorn like a new recruit at bootcamp.