Darsby is reminded of the youth before him by her immediate and emotional reactions. Anora is young, prodigiously young. She is in fact so inconveniently young, in comparison to himself, she may as well have been a fly on its second day of living set to accompany a sixty-year-old retiree who decided that working another day is well worth it by the long run. This metaphor may be found to apply in many respects.

In his defense, Darsby is set into physical and emotional action by severe injuries sustained during his unspeakable captivity in this weak body. He is actually, by recent natures, a quiet homebody of sorts. His days of dutifully milling about with his as of yet unseen familiar in tasks of constructing greater magics were treasured days indeed. Now, the enormity of annoyance set to accompany his present task had begun setting in after witnessing our girl dash quickly from left to right in both physicality and perspective. Her lack of knowledge allowed her to be propelled from taking on the guardianship of an entire hospital to abandoning all of its residents in less than a minute of thought. Under the sight of tremendously aged eyes, she was momentarily likened to an infant rodent in its early days of self-discovery.

'This helps no one' Thought Darsby to himself, pulling his mind from its dust-caked labyrinths of contemplation. He must continue to emulate Anora's youngness in himself for his present tools were comparable to her own. He must not be fully discovered unless absolutely necessary, lest heat greater than hellfire potentially consume all Earth.

"The Men in Black were killed centuries ago. Also, the Secondary Ministries cleaning crew doesn't even operate on Earth. Otherwise... Never mind." Darsby replied in frank frustration after initial confusion over her question. Her pop references had somehow struck upon facts entirely unrelated to their present situation. His feet had spun him into walking towards and entering the car shortly after she yelled at him to join.

"I'm not an agent. Plus,-" Darsby looks over to Anora with another wave of frustrated confusion overtaking him, his door now shutting with an insulated *thud!* "- how do you have anywhere to be? What else could possibly seem important to you right now?" Stress painted a response which took Anora's words far too seriously as sirens closed proximity on our pairs present location. Darsby opened his palms to hopelessly gesture towards this ebon-clad girl near him, his revolver held loosely by a thin finger. Eventually, he scoffed, sighed, and tightened his hands whilst curling into his seat with a gesture of someone who's given up on figuring out whatever it was they were once trying to resolve.

"What is your deal?" Darsby would say more to himself than anyone else after the question of an invisibility spell is raised. People who were both new to magic and younger than five centuries were not a category of individuals he'd associated with for quite some time now for reasons of his own. Obviously, this personal dilemma was catching up to him.

Darsby snapped his fingers to perform what he would deem more immediately important magic than invisibility regardless as to whether or not Anora had begun speaking, in fact, Darsby may have waited until Anora began speaking simply to interrupt her. He would have done so without looking directly at her as to not be suspected of childish spite. Someone of his unrevealed rank could hardly be caught being needlessly spiteful. Regretfully, it's a mild habit of his.

The moment Darsby snaps an entirely foreign set of sensations will overtake Anora. Her skin would feel as if it had liquefied, this tingling maelstrom of nerve-based calamity creeping into her muscles then shortly into her skeletal structure. All sensation is folded into itself, her once whole body is melted to take the shape of a curdling wave of chaotic colds and hots. Light and heat splinter her innards whilst rivulets of ice pierce the entirety of what may have once been called her spine. She swirls and bobs as her vision follows suit to this chaotic existence. Roads wrap around the sky and buildings tumble like laundry inside a lazily swirling washer. Anora's perceived world had spun violently again and again as all rules pertaining to balance and gravity are eaten up by liquid dismay. Then all at once, as if her body were a cup and the entirety of her consciousness is a tall drink, she'd be reassembled via 'filling up' the allotted space in her freshly stolen vehicle. Her body and our encapsulating van remained exactly as they were before hell had overtaken them, except, their location had changed after being harshly put back together. Somehow she'd been moved quite a distance during that vivid conundrum. They were on some vaguely familiar country road miles from the city. County road 15 stretched in meandering streaks far into the gently rolling distance ahead. Darsby sits next to Anora, only now he is painted an even paler shade than before. His now truly ivory skin shakes and stretches against an emaciated exterior, that body of his curling into the seat it occupies as if it were but a small creature in a world of menacing giants.

*Hurp!* A hand reflexively grasps at Darsby's mouth as the other feverishly clamors for the nearest door handle. He leaps from the unmoving vehicle to vomit as a pitiful mess of hospital robes and ragged pink hair amidst tall tan weeds. His shoulders heave around an overly curved spine whilst either hand braces a cold hard earth. Fluids spill into waxen roots with each primitive howl of intestinal dismay.

Eventually, the sickness subsides and our callous escort slumps back upon his sprawling legs. His hunched form holds little pride as either eye remains closed above panting lips. He takes deep and labored breaths, feeling waves of sharp heat stick needles into his stomach and chest.

"How do you...-" Darsby pauses to breath and lick his lips before continuing. "-I think I've... I've forgotten what it's like to be weak.." For once, his emotional walls were markedly broken beneath closed eyes. His lack of magic reserves and physical stamina had tapped into a voice he hadn't used for a thousand years. This sight, in all its natural calamity, was something of a novelty. Centuries had passed in awaiting this lack of self-restraint.
"I'm not-.." He'd continue, pausing to take several short breaths in expectation of either tears or another wave of regurgitation. "-..I'm not a god Anora... I'm not-I promise...-" He heaves as if nearing another rough spell. He sounds more like a drunk than anything else. "-.. Your planet is small; it's so small... I'm so far awa-*BLEAUughghUHGHu!*" That thin frame topples forward again, bile and dry heaves wrack him about trembling bones. There's nothing left to spit up despite all best efforts. He's ice cold to the touch and looking more human than he has since properly meeting Anora.

The revolver never leaves his hand. Should Anora touch the weapon, she'd be lightly shocked as if by static and met with a gentle and weak "..stop, please.." from Darsby.

Anora blinked at Darsby as he got in, his answer to her references catching her off-guard. “It… was… a movie reference,” she explained, debating on whether or not he was messing with her. He did not strike her as the kind of person to make jokes.
The Men in Black were actually a thing? she thought incredulously. With a shake of her head, she shut the door then placed her hands on the steering wheel. She returned his gaze, her brows raised when he missed even the name reference. Do people with magic live under rocks or something?
She shook her head slightly, then reached to put the car to drive. Hand on the shifter, her attention returned to Darsby when he gestured to her.
Her gaze flicked to his revolver, reminding herself of which of them had the quicker reacting weapon. Though he had shown no indication of using it against her, even when trying to stop him, the last thing she wanted was for it to be used on one of the police officers. The sooner they got out of there, the better.
“My deal?” She thrust the shift into drive, ready to go. Sarcasm dripped from her voice as she continued. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe getting—”
Darsby interrupted her with a familiar snap of his fingers. She had spent enough time with her siblings to suspect his timing was on purpose, but she did not have the chance to dwell on it.
She gasped when an unnerving sensation crawled over her. At least, she tried to. The action caught in her throat, the recoil that tensed her muscles freezing in place as her world exploded into pain and swirls of colors. Colors she could only just make out shapes in as they swirled in a dizzying, nauseating blur. Spinning buildings interlaced impossibly with twisted taffy roads as if someone had turned the world into a moving abstract painting. Worse of all, it felt as if her now non-existent body could not decide if it had been plunged into a fire pit, or shoved into an ice hole.
But as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Everything reformed like molten steel being poured into its proper mold. Instead of a parking lot swarming with police and maybe even SWAT, a sprawling country road waited ahead of the windshield, fields of growing crops stretching out as far as she could see. A few patches of trees lined the road, standing tall in the summer’s afternoon sunlight.
For a second, she could not move, body and lungs frozen from shock. Gathering her senses, she released both the steering wheel and gear shift and wiggled her fingers, making sure they still worked.
“What… was… that?” she breathed, looking to Darsby with wide eyes, glad to see he was at least still in the passenger seat.
The sight of him, looking small as he trembled, made her shake out of her stupor. He looked like he was going to be—
Darsby leapt into action with a retching sound, tumbling from the van.
“Darsby!” She quickly returned the car to park, got out, and rushed to his side of the vehicle. She stopped a decent distance from his frail form, careful to avoid the foul-smelling puddle soiling the earth in front of him.
His bout of sickness did not last long. As it subsided, Anora crouched just off to his side, her face scrunched in sympathy.
Her brows rose when he commented on being weak. How's that something you could forget? She gave pause, eyeing him, for the first time thinking that maybe he wasn't just a human with powers. Maybe he was not human at all. Which only added yet another question and set of worries to her ever-growing list.
She watched him with concern as he continued to speak between pauses, the man apparently humbled by his physical fragility. Human or not, he was in worse shape than she had thought.
“Well, that’s good,” she gave a small, amused smile at his statement of not being a god. Though it had not been on her list of possibilities, at least that was something to mark off. “I’d feel sorry for humanity if you were,” she quipped as he seemed about ready to vomit again, trying to add a bit of humor to the dismal situation.
She grimaced and stood as another round of heaves wracked his body. She bit her lower lip and took a deep breath. Her questions would have to wait. Not wanting to create a one-woman audience—nothing like having someone watch you throw up—she took a good look around, trying to get her bearings.
We could be in China for all I know, she thought with a sigh. But thankfully, they were not. She recognized this strip of road, a sign further down confirming her thoughts on where they were.
“That’s lucky,” she muttered to herself. “Right,” she said a bit louder, still more voicing her thoughts than addressing Darsby. “We need to get somewhere you can recover. Preferably without being attacked by some mad scientist’s experiment gone wrong.” She decisively slid the side door of the van open. She untied the hoodie around her waist and tossed it atop her backpack.
“My grandparents’ old farm isn’t far from here.” She leaned into the back, looking to see what kinds of supplies the owner of the van had left inside. “One, maybe two hours' drive. Maybe less, depending on exactly where we're at.”
Old newspapers, shopping bags, and a couple children’s toys and coloring books littered the seats. It smelled a mix of melted crayons, sour milk, and baby wipes. She silently promised herself she would make sure the van—and everything in it—got returned. Minus a couple small things she thought they would not miss.
“Grandpa Jack abandoned it for the city when my grandma died,” she continued as she grabbed one of the discarded plastic bags. To her dismay, her hands shook slightly.
She did not much care if Darsby listened or not. Talking helped keep her slowly rising panic and doubt in check, and her focus on the task at hand. She could decide whether or not Darsby was one of the good guys or bad ones once he looked less like he was about to pass out. And once she was sure she would not be the one to pass out.
She swallowed and focused on checking the bag for holes. Deeming it capable of holding liquid if Darsby had another bout of vomiting while on the road, she climbed further inside, kneeling on the seat.
“But he’s held onto it. In case one of us kids wants it somewhere down the line.” She rummaged around in the mess, hoping she would not run into any unpleasant surprises. Finding the source of the baby wipe scent, she grabbed a closed tub of wipes. “It’s secluded on a good hunk of land.”
Plus, they would be in place familiar to her, be on her turf, not his. She knew the place from top to bottom.
Though quite the drive from her city home, she had spent many weekends there. It was the perfect place to practice using her powers, to see how far she could push her limits. Being the eldest, she had been entrusted with a set of keys to the place. Keys, if she remembered right, that were still in her backpack from her last visit.
If not, YouTube had at least taught her how to pick a lock, and she was fairly certain she could form the tools by solidifying her powers if she could not find anything that would work. Or just make the lock explode. One of the two.
Desperate times and all that.
She placed the bag between the front seat, then hopped nimbly back out of the van. Better freed of the hoodie, the layered silver chains adorning the side of her shirt and matching black jeans clinked together pleasantly as she moved. She shut the door then stood in front of Darsby.
She glanced to his gun again, wondering if there was a way to get it away from him without endangering herself. It unnerved her how, even in his sickness, he had not relinquished his hold on it.
She stepped to the side nearest the revolver, hoping to find the right moment to reach for it without him noticing. She doubted he could fight her for it, but it would be a risk to try using her magic on him after he easily brushed it away the last time. All he had to do was pull the trigger faster than she could shield herself and it would be over.
The thought made her stomach churn and a shudder run down her spine. She did her best to quell the question of whether she had made the right choice to go with him, and to not give away her thoughts.
“Probably couldn't stay long before someone figured out I’d go there,” she admitted, thinking about all the cop shows she had watched with her mom and younger sister, Madelyn, “but it’s better than nothing. It’s still kinda furnished, just in case.” She opened the tub of wipes to offer him one. “I'd say you could do with resting in bed for a while. You look like Death's trying to remember your name.”
She paused, shifting her weight. “You know, I doubt you need that right now,” she nodded nervously to the revolver, hoping maybe the easiest way to make him ditch the gun was to ask. It was worth a try. “We're in the middle of nowhere. And I doubt even an Alpha could survive being ran over if it got in the way.”

Anora's figure looked as a specter of interlaced color. As a dense cloud of mist may shift its location, so did she shift her own. Blacks collided against soft shades of peach, flowing brown rivulets cascade from the bulbous oval likely to be her head. His exterior may look ragged, more than several steps into some nondescript illness; still, it maintained blatant signs of composure. His back was rigid and straight regardless as to frequent retching. His chest was flexed above gently interlaced legs. His form was of someone still in relative control of their primary faculties. His body operated on a profound depth of muscle memory. His mind began losing any grip it may have once had. The only two signs of his actual state were those drained eyes. To be a gateway of the soul is an understatement by our current circumstance.

Those pink spheres of ocular engagement were far from present, one having been nearly closed whilst the other twitched and pulsed in weak rhythm — their faint and unique coloration shown with alien luminance in a world of once average human perception. Anora may not have looked into Darsby's eyes, having focused on his revolver for entirely sensible reasons, yet, should she have chanced upon them for even a moment something rather strange would have happened. In their weakness, an ethereal call emanates. Something beyond words wishing to be in the company of another tugs gently at any who stare. This isn't a universal longing for emotional saturation as humans often seek without realizing. This is something far colder like a book read from the lips of a mathematician.

Howls and strong gusts of wind, gunfire and rattling walls, screams and cold hands. All of these slip as a single breath into Anora should she have met Darsby's eyes. An artist who feels another should look upon their depressing work. A mason gazing upon finished brickwork he may never be close to again. An unappreciated moment of cleaning up after another. These feelings are only the beginning of an expression going far deeper into the heart than any author could describe through just words. It seeks to strike for a brief moment at Anora's psyche. Then, all at once, these things are over. Like air forced from the body they leave with Darsby's shifting gaze, it's twitching figure staring into some presently unknown abyss.

His mind was being pulled into some other place as this woman he'd come here with moved to and fro in attempting to assist him. His naked backside loosened, it's many indentations of firm muscle giving way to smooth hills oiled over by the deep valleys which tug at them in the form of jagged, shadowy rivers. Pits of memory he'd wished firmly to avoid in his typical strengths washed as capricious waves over him. One moment he's crawling down a dark passage, flickering lights shaking against explosive-born tremors. Another moment he's pressed against a wall, smarting over a sharp pain in his leg and a lack of combative resources. And finally, he's sitting next to someone rather familiar, their gentle voice slipping as soulful hymns into his hungering ears.

*Hupf!* Darsby takes a sharp breath in, his lips resisting the sudden show of force with one faint flopping sound of protest. His eyes split open as if similarly gasping for air. Darsby's free hand reaches with a faintly practiced motion for Anora's collar. Should she dodge, which certainly wouldn't be too difficult, he'd still likely get at some other random area farther down her shirt as he isn't the slowest man. He'd use her shirt as leverage to lurch upwards, bringing his face uncomfortably close to hers. Everything about this effort likely won't seem even remotely hostile, if perhaps, mildly aggressive. If anything, he'd appear desperate and pressed for time.

"Earth girl..-" Darsby would sputter from between dry lips, his breath smelling surprisingly of freshly cut grass instead of bile. ".-I-.. I need two hours to recover, give me two quiet hours and you may ask two questions which I'll answer by complete honesty. Please, get us out of here, something in the wind wants our heads." He wouldn't have stopped himself from speaking if she had pushed him off of her, though, the urgency in his eyes and face may have disarmed her. Rarely do modernized people experience genuine life and death scenario's, the exceptional results these events breed in an expression would riddle his own. Darsby would then sputter with several hard-fought breaths, his body going limp shortly after.

Darsby's body would become cold, unresponsive, and lacking in the natural movement of breathing. By all accounts, he would appear dead. He'd be chilled, without a pulse, and entirely limp in the grass beneath him. He's not the heaviest of individuals, weighing in presently at a surprisingly low amount of one hundred pounds despite his height and physique. Perhaps his organic composition has something to do with this? Either way, Anora has been left with a dead body and a request to safeguard it for two hours. Luckily, no one was on this typically deserted road to witness what has just happened. Despite all these things, his hand remains dead-locked around the hilt of the revolver, some superhuman strength keeping that durable skin firm against its surface. Anora would have to use a crowbar and a large metal hammer even to begin to pry it from him. If she'd inspect it, she'd find the chamber emptied of usable rounds.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Bang-Bang! Thwop!....Bang!... Thwop!Thwop!* Inside the hospital, a man in a dapper suit was at work disposing of whatever horrid beasts had remained after Darsby and Anora's escape. He utilized himself and his tools with deadly efficiency. He would strike them down, then use small canisters of stored incantations to transport said abominations to a research/disposal facility. Everything would be resolved by the time the police arrived. He'd even magically transport the artificially shot and murdered corpses of an active shooter and police officer for whatever loose ends may follow. This was rehearsed, practiced as drills run again and again in countless simulated environments by the agents of whatever force this man belonged to. He'd cast one final spell once having finished his 'clean-up', a faint radiance which invades the minds of its recipients and alters their memory's to match whatever your typical police officer may expect to hear or find.

His partner had also assumed her duty as the tracker of their team. She had an unnaturally striking physique, massive fissures of shadow the likes of which you could lose your house key's in acting as the lines between each respective muscle adorning her thick skeletal structure. Crooked, thick horns propelled themselves valiantly from her forehead, clumpy tufts of red hair falling between them. Violent features set out to slam themselves into each other over what may have once been a beautiful face had it not been crowded continuously by fierce anger and hard-fought pleasure.

She'd stalked by swift steps across the entirety of whatever carnage presented itself. With many provocative scents caking her flared nostrils she finally came upon the prize, the shattered window with which our protagonistic pair had made their escape. It wasn't the window itself which shown as a reward, but a sharp piece of glass that jutted mischievously into open air along its side. This shard had upon it a faint red stain, the stain of a girl who'd misjudged a jump in the panic of following her partner's unexplained demands.

This hunter of unparalleled skill pulled the shard from its frame with a practiced motion, teasing it's dripping edge with her quivering tongue. Her shoulders swelled and shifted just below a grimacing face most would pay hard cash to avoid witnessing shortly after tasting the irony supplement now coating her alien taste buds. "Found you..." She'd hiss playfully to herself.

Sirens had now swelled into a chorus around her, yet, all law enforcement which arrived appeared to slip by without paying her any thought. Whatever she may say, shout, or do, would go completely unnoticed by them. The same would go for her partner as he stepped into the open air next to her, magic meant to distract others from their presence operating with potent effect. In two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, they'd cleared the scene and established methods to track whoever had last been here; an unsatisfactory time by most standards given to them over recent months.

"Found 'em?" The man would sigh, withdrawing a cigarette and rusted lighter from his suit jacket.
"The girl I expect to find doesn't trouble me deeply; her blood is uncultured... It's the other smell that gets to me, her companion. I can hardly discern species, let alone if he's stronger than myself or perhaps even weaker than the girl." Her lips quivered in rage at this statement, the vile syllables by which she spat each separate word growing ever more rotten than the last. Her failings are markedly rare, primarily when she's remotely invested in a matter.
"Let's get back to the car. I'll request governance over this case." He turns towards the parking lot holding their ride after relinquishing a wisp of smoke from his lips. He is apathetic to nearly everything he'd just experienced, all aside from the sentences he'd just heard his partner speak. She may never in the past have failed to distinguish her prey simply by one smell, this standalone failure marking nothing significant to him. What would become significant is her rebellious rage over possibly not being allowed to track and manage this present pair. He'd have to call in a few favors.

Anora’s gaze flicked once from his revolver to his face to check for any signs he would comply. She did a double take and sucked in a breath; she swore he looked even worse than he had even a few moments before. Like Death really was about to pay Darsby a visit.
His eyes flicked in her direction, their strange, glowing pinkness momentarily meeting hers. Even his eyes looked ready to give up on life. She gasped and staggered back into a tree, the box of wipes falling from her hand as emotions and the ghosts of sensations slipped from him to her, her eyes going wide. But before the container had fully left her grasp, he looked away, taking with it the haunting, inexplicable occurrence. A shudder ran down her spine.
What is this guy? she wondered, her breaths frozen in her lungs for a precious second.
Wounded. Depleted. Whatever else he was, he was hurting. Perhaps in more ways than one.
When he tried to rasp in a breath, Anora hurried back to him, crouching down. She opened her mouth to ask what he needed, what she could do to help him, but he reached for her, cutting off her questions.
With a short, surprised shout, she tried to stand and step out of his reach, but, even looking on the verge of falling unconsciousness, he was fast. His fist gathered her shirt just below its collar. The collar dug into the back of her neck at his sudden weight, and she stumbled to a knee as he pulled himself up.
For a moment, she was sure her heart stopped. She gripped his hand, ready to pull it away, sparks of purple dancing over her fingers in her shock. His face drew up only inches from hers, the urgency alighting his pale, weary features giving her pause.
Her blood ran cold as the last raspy words left his lips. ‘Our heads.’ Not ‘my,’ but ‘our.’
Before her mind could process the new implication enough to ask who in the world would be after her, his body spasmed with the struggle for breath.
“Darsby!” she breathed, her free hand going to his shoulder to help support him.
It did no good. His grip loosened and slid from her shirt as his body fell lifelessly to the ground.
“D-Darsby?” Her voice came out in little more than a whisper, her eyes bulging at the still body.
She hesitantly reached a shaking hand toward him. She exhaled heavily as she touched his wrist, his skin already unnaturally chilled. She searched for a pulse, but found none.
She stared in astounded horror at the corpse that lay before her. Her body refused to move, too stunned to even suck in more than the smallest necessary breaths.
Sure, she had always wanted adventure. But this? This was in a league of its own.
Two hours to recover. Had he thought he wasn’t going to die, or had he meant…
“Are you fricken’ SERIOUS?” Her voice went from a whisper to a panicked shout that echoed in her ears. She cringed at her unintended volume.
Anora looked around nervously, paranoia making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She wondered who was after them. The Blouth, or something worse? Were they after her only because she had accompanied Darsby? She glanced to his body. Or had he included her in that simply to keep her from abandoning him?
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “Okay. Not the type of adventure I wanted,” she mumbled to herself, running a hand through her lengthy black hair. Her fingers caught at a tangle in the strands’ bleached tips. “But beggars can’t be choosers. Right?”
Feeling something dripping down her skin, she glanced to her arm. She scowled at the cut she had all but forgotten. Though fairly shallow, blood seeped from it, leaving a red trail snaking toward her elbow. It smeared in a couple places from brushing against either the seats or the tree.
Frowning, she returned her attention to the more pressing matter before her. She walked toward Darsby—or the shell that remained of him—on her knees. Looking to his gun, she reached for it, but his fingers were impossible to pry away. She gave a frustrated humph, then switched tactics. She quickly figured out how to check the cylinder.
She gave a heavy sigh in relief. Empty. He was out of bullets.
Ignoring his bare backside, she braced herself to lift him into a sitting position. She blinked in surprise at how much lighter he was than she expected, his muscles hard beneath her hands. Though it still took decent effort, it was easier than she anticipated to lean his back against the car.
She glanced between his body and the open door of the passenger seat. As much lighter as he was than the average guy, physical strength had always been a weakness of hers.
She got to her feet with unexpected steadiness and raised a hand toward Darsby. Her chin lowered in concentration, and her signature mist poured from her palm. It wrapped around him, casting his body in a harmless, electric-looking haze. With a silent command and push of will, the haze swirled around him, solidifying and softening in just the right combination to lift and transfer his body from the concrete and grass to the seat.
As soon as he was in, the mist fizzled from existence. Trying to not think about the fact she was handling a corpse—or something unnervingly close to it—she tucked him into the seat and, for good measure, buckled him in.
She quickly retrieved the wipes and pulled one out as she went around to the driver’s side. She wiped at the crimson on her arm. She winced slightly as she used it to put pressure on the cut. More of her mist formed around the wipe, keeping it in place in a makeshift bandage.
With a shaking hand, she opened her door and got in. She tossed the container into the back seat, then gripped the steering wheel, the engine of the van purring readily.
Thankful no one had driven by, she nervously adjusted the rearview mirror then started down the road.
“Nothing unusual about riding with a corpse as a passenger,” she muttered under her breath, overly conscious of the body beside her. “Nope. Nothing whatsoever.”


The next hour went by in a thick, dangerously contemplative silence. The quiet finally gave everything time to fully sink in.
In the span of the afternoon, Anora had hit a guy, witnessed a monster attack, become a car thief after fleeing a potential crime scene, had a shell-of-a-body to deal with, and was now apparently being hunted by who-knew-what. All but one of which because she had decided on a whim to follow a mysterious scarred-and-tattooed man who controlled magic and had a gun glued to his hand.
Smart. Real smart.
Mom always said impulsiveness would get me in trouble one day, she thought with a humorless chuckle.
More than once, she caught herself going well above the speed limit, before she remembered she couldn’t risk getting pulled over. Forget the stolen car and suspended license; she had a freaking dead body keeping her company.
At least he didn’t smell like rot.
At last, she came upon a turn onto a dirt road. The van bounced slightly, clods of dirt and rocks clinking and thudding against the underside of the vehicle. As the van crested a hill in front of them, trees began to replace the fields that had become the normal landscape. The thick green leaves of the branches cast their shade over the road.
Soon, she stopped just outside a gate blocking the path. It was an old dilapidated thing meant to keep horses in, but it had rusted away in places. It stood slightly ajar, the lock long since devoured by time. Grandpa Jack had never bothered to replace it, deeming it unnecessary.
She got out just long enough to open it fully, then drove the van through. She left it open in case they needed a quick escape.
Anora rounded a curve, and the familiar sight of Grandpa Jack’s farmhouse greeted her like an old friend. Despite the shape of the gate, the rest of the house was in relatively good condition.
Two stories tall with an attic on top, its white paint had faded and chipped in some places. Flat roofing jutted out over the protruding windows of the attic. Drapes covered each of the house’s many windows. A porch wrapped the front of the building and disappeared around the back. A large three-car garage sat apart from the house.
Anora pulled the car onto the overgrown lawn, driving as close to the front door as she could. Stopping so the passenger side faced the front door, she put the car in park, grabbed her backpack, and got out.
She hesitated at Darsby’s door. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the passenger door open, unbuckled the lifeless body, and summoned more of her mist.
As it had before, it surrounded and lifted Darsby from the seat, his limbs flopping disturbingly as the gold-and-purple sparks shifted around him to pull him out of the car and to the porch. Anora followed her cloud, carefully directing it up the couple steps of the wooden porch and to the front door.
At her direction, the mist sat Darsby gently on the wood of the floor, freeing her concentration. She opened her backpack and rummaged around inside for the farmhouse’s keys. Her favorite thick sketchbook, skull and black rose-patterned pouch of drawing materials, waterproof flashlight, extra batteries stored in Ziplock baggies, couple energy bars, a half-drank bottle of water, wallet, a dirt-caked chain she couldn’t remember ever having, a few interesting-looking stones she had randomly collected, a couple unused Ziplock baggies, and various empty wrappers and loose dirt cluttered the inside.
After a moment, she gave a defeated sigh. She didn’t have the keys.
Shouldering her backpack, she went to the door and examined the lock on the handle. She had locked only the bottom one the last time she had come, so at least she only had one to worry about.
She stared at it a moment in contemplation before pointing a finger at the lock. She had never tried creating a key before. Now seemed as good a time as any.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the excited feel of her powers. She willed it into the lock, to conform and harden to the needs of the mechanism inside, and unlock it.
The satisfying metallic click of a door unlocking met her ears. Despite her overall situation, a proud grin spread over her face as she opened her eyes.
She could add breaking and entering to her list of felonies later.
She opened the door, letting it swing inward with a loud creak of protesting hinges. The scent of musty, stagnant air floated outside.
She turned back to Darsby. She stretched a hand out to him again, calling again on her powers. She felt the beginnings of fatigue eating around her edges. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything all day. Between that and her slightly heavier power usage, she would have to find something to replenish her energy. And soon, in case who—or what—ever was after them found them before Darsby came back to life.
If he came back to life. For all she knew from his request, she was just a creeper lugging around a corpse that would stay a corpse.
She walked in the house, Darsby’s magically floating form following her. They entered a fairly large entry room, the floor covered in wood panels, some still showing their former shine. The once white walls had faded to a dirty brown. An archway stood to both her right and left, a hall extended in front of her, and a staircase stretched upward at the side of the room, leading to the floor above.
She shut the front door behind her, locking both locks.
A guitar riff blared from her pocket, shattering the silence.
Anora shouted and jumped in the opposite direction of her musical jeans pocket. The electric mist holding Darsby up vanished with a fizzling pop, and his body fell to the floor with a loud thunk
Anora cringed, her face twisting in a sympathetic apology even though he couldn’t see it.
“Sorry, Darsby,” she offered as she pulled her forgotten phone from her pocket.
Caller ID read, ‘Janet, Work.’
Anora groaned. Work. In the mess that had arisen, she had forgotten about the mundane thing known as her job. Worse, she forgot she had her phone on. She slid the screen button to decline the call, then powered her phone down. If Criminal Minds was anything to go off of, police could track her via cellphone GPS. Though signal sucked in the area, it didn’t mean she didn’t get it.
She scowled. Great. She shoved her phone back in her pocket. I’ve got the cops and ‘something in the wind’ to worry about.
With a sigh, she looked to the wipe-turned-magic-bandage on her arm. She dismissed the magic, the blood-stained wipe clinging to her skin on its own. She carefully peeled it away, her nose scrunching as it irritated the cut beneath. Without paying the small wound much mind, she crumpled the wipe and shoved it in her pocket.
She resummoned her cushion around Darsby and quickly brought him up the stairs, paying closer attention to how much energy her abilities pulled from her. Upstairs, she hurried down a hall, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet, and into one of the guest bedrooms that still had a bit of furniture.
Inside the bedroom, a once-plush gray carpet muted her footsteps. A simple mirrored dresser sat in a corner beside a narrow closet door. A twin bed, its covers stripped, was shoved against the center of the wall, the mattress a bit stained and lumpy. Two windows on the wall opposite her let in a bit of the early evening’s light, the curtains tinting it a calming shade of blue.
She directed her magic to place Darsby on the mattress. The bed frame creaked at his added weight, but held. His weapon-wielding arm draped over the edge of the bed.
Satisfied, Anora returned downstairs and headed into the kitchen near the back of the house. Over the past few months, she had taken to leaving a few nonperishable items in the pantry.
She grabbed a bottle of water from a dwindling collection, selected a sealed microwavable bowl of soup, and pulled off its metal top. Without any power running regularly to the house, she sipped at its lukewarm contents hungrily as she headed to the bathroom. Her boots clicked gently on the wooden flooring, leaving soft prints in areas where dust and dirt had collected longer than in others.
In the bathroom, she placed the soup on the sink and dug out one of the many first aid kits Grandpa Jack insisted on keeping spattered throughout the house. She quickly set to work washing off the cut using the bottled water. Finally capable of getting a good look at it in the mirror, it looked a bit deeper than she had originally thought. The skin around it had grown red and irritated.
She quickly bandaged it up properly, then, soup in hand, headed to the attic to find Darsby something to wear. For her sake more than his.
Dust motes floated lazily in the light of the various windows of the stuffy attic. Boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling, some stacked more precariously than others. A table with more smaller boxes sat in the middle of the room surrounded by—you’ll never guess—more boxes. Some were labeled, but most weren’t.
Anora downed the rest of her soup and placed the empty bowl on a small sliver of table visible between cardboard. She opened up a few of the boxes before finding some of Grandpa Jack’s old clothes. Hoping the two were at least somewhat similar in size, she found a pair of worn jeans, a belt with a tarnished horse head buckle, a red plaid shirt with a couple burn holes on one sleeve, and a pair of cowboy boots that had seen better days in the 80s.
She returned to the guest room, casting Darsby’s body an anxious glance. It hadn’t moved. She folded the clothing items and placed them on the dresser beside the boots.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the bed’s side. She glanced to his gun, its metal catching a stray ray of sunlight.
What’s with him and that thing? she wondered, thinking of anything besides that a dead guy, or sorta dead guy, was laying on her granddad’s guest bed. She took a deep breath and touched the barrel of the gun. Some sort of connection to his lifeforce? The source of his magic? The EMTs got it away from him, though. And he still recovered, and did magic.
She had so many questions to ask, so many things she needed to know. But, apparently, he would only answer two. Two she had not given much thought to. With somewhere around half an hour left before Darsby's two hour mark, she had a little time left to think on it.
She glanced to Darsby and shifted her weight awkwardly. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in a room with a corpse for the next half hour or so. An hour’s drive with one had been bad enough.
“Can this day get any weirder?” she muttered. She paused, then glanced toward the ceiling. “That’s not a challenge,” she told the universe sternly. Just in case.
She hesitantly took his wrist, his skin the clammy cold only death could achieve. She shuddered as she moved his arm so it draped over his chest instead of the edge of the bed.
Going to the dresser, she pulled her sketchbook from her backpack, found a blank page, and tore a corner from it. She quickly scrawled a note for Darsby, her messy handwriting something somewhere between print and cursive.

Darsby, I’ll be on the roof keeping a lookout. Give me a yell when you’re… alive again. ~Anora
P.S. The windows stick sometimes. Wiggle them a bit and they’ll open.

She placed the note atop the clothes, returned her items to her backpack, and went back to the attic. She forced one of the swollen windows open and climbed out onto the overhanging rooftop, as she had done so many times before.
She climbed to the peak of the house, careful of loose shingles. She nestled with her back against a chimney, angling herself so she could see both the front and back of the house. There were two roads leading to the farmhouse, one in front and another harder to find out back. A few other buildings occupied the space between the trees behind the house: a workshop, a barn, and an old shed.
The property extended well beyond the trees out into a decent portion of the fields, but she had always loved the seclusion and solitude the wall of trees provided. It felt like its own little world, its own small pocket of peace hidden away from the busy, nosy lifestyle of the rest of the world. As much as she loved the hustle of the city, the quiet of this place was a perfect occasional escape.
From her vantage point, she could spot anyone coming from either direction well before they would see her. Or, if Darsby decided to back down on his promise and try to leave, she’d see him. Unless he disappeared the same way he had moved the car.
She couldn’t tell if he had simply needed her, so told her what he thought she needed to hear to make her come with him, or wanted something in particular from her. Neither was a very pleasant scenario. In one, she could wear out her usefulness, and there was no telling what he may do then. In the other, the possibilities of what he wanted from her were innumerable, from exhilarating to terrifying.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, listening, thinking. If he stayed and kept his word, she had two questions. That promise of answers kept her in place, kept her from leaving him behind. She needed to get to the bottom of things, figure out what was true, and what wasn’t. Besides, the only other place she had to go was back home to legal trouble.
She opened her eyes, watching for intruders, sorting through her many questions and whirling thoughts. Waiting for Darsby to wake up—if he was not truly, irreversibly dead.

Darsby had retreated into his bodily shell as unwitnessed energy. His powers sought refuge to amass another bought of feigned weakness. Being stuck at a level only just above that of humanities best physical specimens is likened to being deeply poisoned into a near-comatose state for him. Spending moon after moon in this vehicle had taxed Darsby into treating his body and mind as if they had both been depleted, his tendency towards dramatics only working to further these unhealthy habits. Recent events had dealt at least some form of a successful blow into changing him back into his usual self. He'd been through much before transcending to his current status; he'd do well to remember said days.

"They've really done a number on you... Or, perhaps, you did a number on yourself?" A gentle voice radiates throughout Darsby's submerged consciousness. Strands of magic connect him to a distant space where his familiar dwells, busy at work.
"Have I always been so difficult?" Bubbles float from Darsby's ethereal lips in this space of tangible thought, each one slowly disintegrating, allowing words to echo into the open void.
"Certainly. I often find myself looking after you." Our earlier voice responded in kind; it's soft syllables brush gently against Darsby's mind.
"...Will you be checking on me here as well?" He says after a long silence.
"Yes, in two days. I'll bring snacks, your favorite." The voice states in motherly tones. Darsby sighs at such a kind offer, seeing it as perhaps a pinch overbearing. Then, with the accuracy of an atomic clock, the time limit to Darsby's rest is reached.

Silently, our troubled traveler opens his luminous eyes. His mortal shell takes several seconds to account for all of its separate parts as dust is witnessed to dance gently in the waning sun of a dying day just above his revitalized features. He takes a few moments just to lay there, returning his mind to places it's long left in the archaic sands of time — days of walking beneath purple sky's, hours of drills and meals with long perished companions. His present body may not require food or air, even so, these thoughts brought a faint grin and distant hunger to his typically soured psyche.

Darsby eventually sits up over the edge of his mattress in one smooth motion, lithe legs spilling over lumpy bedding. He examines his surroundings with what most humans would perceive as extremely heightened perception. He can hear it, the sound of wood and wind a floor above and beneath him. He can smell them, the grass and trees surrounding Grandpa Jacks Estate. Even without eyes, the world would be full of plain detail for a fair amount of surrounding meters. Long years spent honing abilities to perceive greater constructs than Earth have paid their dues in some small way here.

Darsby blinks at the nearby outfit put together by Anora two minutes into re-aligning himself. This country's plethora of simple raiments have always been uncomfortable. Too many separate articles to arrive at one outfit, it all seemed unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, he knows it may be needed to appear somewhat normal looking when peering into his plans for the immediate future. Also, he realizes he should be kicking himself to accept the hospitality of the simple people populating this world. Once getting dressed he places his revolver into the left side jean pocket, its leather-bound handle protruding enough to be observed.

Further minutes passed. Darsby eventually found his way on to the roof. He'd had trouble understanding the window presented to him; he couldn't accurately read the alien language on some small piece of paper that was left for him. After several grunts and a nearly shattered glass pane, he'd found himself on the roof whilst whispering apologies to Anora's relatives. His pronounced posture carries him in long steps towards the chimney Anora is propped against. He'd look vastly different than he had at the hospital.

His shoulders are squared, his balance is steady, his hips facing directly towards whatever it is he finds himself focusing on. Darsby could be more easily related to a marine in dress uniform than the shambling figure that had been nearly dismembered by a passing car earlier today. His skin may still be of a porcelain tone, yet something about it appeared more vibrant and full of entirely necessary moisture. The only thing immediately off about him would be his shirt; it is much too large for him. Baggy jeans and worn boots can near-always attribute to someone's upstanding, working character. Regrettably, a shirt of this size typically can't. What stands before Anora now looks like a middle-schooler wearing his large fathers flannel, entirely intent on remaining proud of himself despite its untucked edges reaching very close to the knees.

Darsby didn't appear to understand how he presently looked, resigning himself to gingerly approach the chimney Anora was inhabiting. Something of mild, childish anxiety had overcome those exasperated features and broad chest. He moved in a near stumbling motion to rest against the bricks himself, as if feeling he may not have permission to do this. Darsby was tired, as always, yet this exhaustion was evidently of an emotional sort. His body had renewed itself; somehow, his mind had barely followed.

"Are you... Okay?" Darsby didn't look to understand how to ask this question entirely, yet, he did, nonetheless. His words weren't full of the warmth most people expect from their fellow man, though, it may be surprising he decided to show any concern in the first place.

------
(Pursuer update in next post, had a huge migraine.)

Anora startled at every small sound that floated to her, and her attention snapped to every wave of the leaves or grass as a gentle wind blew through it. Anxiety made her muscles tense and put her senses on high alert, expecting to see some horrific creature or flashing blue and red lights emerge from the road. Not exactly conducive to sorting out thoughts, but she did her best.
Though she knew she should keep her attention on her surroundings, she pulled her sketching materials from her backpack. Drawing was one of the few things that could always calm her nerves and settle a racing mind. Which was exactly what she needed.
She flipped to the first blank page, the page she had torn the corner from. Taking a deep breath, she removed a pencil from its case. She closed her eyes for just a moment, trying to focus on her desired scene.
She put pencil to paper and began. Though she often glanced up from her work, soon, a rough sketch of the scene from that morning’s lucid dream took on monochromatic form. Massive pillars surrounded by bones, grinning skulls peaking out in places. A giant’s hand, fingers curled, readying to grasp the terrain around it, a few bones soaring through the air from its sudden emergence. The faint outlines of mouths covering the hand’s skin, blood dripping from their parted lips.
She had begun to add solid details to the hand when a rattling noise made her jump and nearly tumble over the rooftop. She dropped her book and pencil as she hurried into a half-crouch, careful to not lose her footing. The book, laying open to her most recent artwork, slid down the slant of the roof before catching on a warped shingle. The pencil rolled further, stopping where one of the flat portions met the roof’s slope.
Black-speckled-purple teased her hands. Its golden sparks buzzd in preparation to go on the offensive as it sounded like someone was trying to break one of the windows. With the windows themselves mostly blocked by the roofing plateaus above them, she did her best to guess which one. Deciding on the one she had come through, she focused on it.
She heard the window slide violently open. She held her breath, waiting. Her electrified mist increased, swirling around her hands and spiraling over her arms.
Darsby’s hushed voice reached her from the window she had chosen. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as his head poked into view. Relief because it was Darsby, not a headhunter, and that, contrary to what his body had indicated, he was very much alive.
Her magic dissipated and her muscles relaxed as she returned to her place against the chimney, her backpack leaning against the side next to her. She looked from him to her sketchbook, but then had to do a double take.
He stepped easily over the rooftop, his form much stronger than she had yet to see it. The sunlight shone through part of his short hair, igniting its pink strands. If she had not known better, she would have said the man walking toward her was an entirely different person.
A smile quirked at her lips at the almost comical looseness of the plaid shirt. She cocked her head, her brows furrowing as his stride turned almost uncertain when he neared.
Realizing what caused the change, she hesitated. Part of her didn’t like the idea of him being so near her without knowing if she should be worried about him killing her or not. But something about him seemed… different, and not just because of his recovered body and hand-me-down clothes. She couldn’t see the Darsby from the hospital deigning to sit next to her on the rooftop.
She took a breath and scooted over to share the chimney’s space. She reached for her sketchbook as he sat, its corner just barely in her reach. She leaned back against the chimney as Darsby spoke.
She snorted a laugh at his question, unfazed by his tone.
“Seriously?” She rested her book on her knees and raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m peachy, thanks,” she answered, her voice thick with the sarcastic lie. “Nothing like being left with a corpse, news that something wants your head, and no explanation. Always a highlight of the day.” She sighed, looking him over. “But I should be asking you that. Looking alive suits you better than looking dead.”
She couldn’t help glancing to the gun shoved in the pocket near her. Reminding herself it wasn’t loaded, she looked instead to her newest drawing without really seeing it, keeping a peripheral watch on him. She let the tingle of her powers race just out of physical existence, ready to be called upon should he decide to turn on her.
She absently used her thumb to smudge the shadowing where the graphite wrist met bone gravel. “If you’re well enough, does our deal still stand? I swear,” she looked to him and jabbed a finger toward his chest, “if you count that as one of the questions, I’ll push you off the roof.” The attempted menacing look she gave him only accentuated the emptiness of the threat.

Darsby, now unclouded by deadly fatigue, gives new life to emotions he earlier expressed via physicality and tone. His previous habits of tiredness and exasperation appear to be rooted at least partially aside from his bodily state. He had the air of an intellectual on the verge of discovering some foreboding, all-encompassing truth. To speak and interact with this being was to talk with someone who lacked humor due to his mind being somewhere far removed from present circumstance.

"You're unlike most humans. I'd suspect you to be in relative distress after dealing with today's happenings. It's strange you find it good." Her sarcasm had flown in the exact opposite direction of Darsby whilst he shrugged apathetically, caring not for whatever undertones Anora may be trying to establish. The remainder of her words passed over him as fluid across a stone, doing little to move or mold him in their short-lived disparity.

Darsby gazed into the afternoon sky through jaded slits of radiant pinkish dye. Bags the size of suitcases could have hooked into the underside of either eye and they'd be wholly at home. His back hunched forward so both arms could rest atop denim-coated kneecaps. Gentle wafts of air play cheerfully with his hair in contradiction to an overly saturated figure of grim sanctity. You'd suspect him to be the detective of an H.P. Lovecraft story, facing his final demise with solemn repose.

Once Anora finished speaking and pointing, Darsby would turn his head toward her. His eyes again bled emotion and spirit in profound yet somehow subtle ways as they did before he collapsed by the road two hours earlier. A mother having a regrettable, but, necessary conversation with her dearly loved child. Someone driving by the body of an animal laying dead on the side of the road, feeling regret over its untimely demise. All of this shifting suddenly towards the feeling of watching a grown cat shelter it's infant from the rain in a dark corner of urban jungles. Steep roads where a parent drives safely to avoid swerving out of control with their family asleep in the car on a long journey home. These would all wrap themselves into one dense emotional amalgam that slips as wind through the heart. However brief it was, it still got the entirety of its point across in some cold, distant manner.

"Our deal stands. You deserve two answers still. Ask away whenever you want." He'd state simply, his expression unchanged as those words end his glancing in her direction. Darsby now stares back out into the endless horizon before him, something alien yet human collide together in the visual of him sitting there. He is motionless, more so than most any person could truthfully accomplish. He is also full of some longing natural to most any deep-thinking individual, that face searching the earth galloping before it as if some faintly world-revealing poetry were being actively written beneath it. His concern and hostility are far from Anora if they even debatably live at all inside that callously softened aesthetic. His revolver looks more as a piece to some nonchalant artistic statement than it does anything to be used for violence.

In truth, darsby danced mentally between old memories and the task at hand. He'd need to carefully sort his immediate goals before taking any action involving Anora. He'd also need to crawl from whatever dark place he'd been falling into over the course of this past month as a human. Being away from his home and duties had done much more than expected to sabotage the outlook he'd usually hold in all matters at hand.

Anora stared incredulously at Darsby when her sarcasm went right over his head. This guy for real? She rolled her eyes, a habit she had retained in part thanks to her younger sister.
“Remind me to explain sarcasm to you later,” she said through a sigh.
She started to lower her finger, when he looked toward her. Her breath caught when their gazes met, sending another wave of emotions not her own through her. Emotions akin to someone who cared, but from a distance, someone doing what they had to do out of necessity. Her grip on the hard binding of her sketchbook tightened.
She opened her mouth to ask about the strange occurrence each time she met his eyes, but closed it again. She didn't want to waste one of her questions if he really was keeping count already.
She gave a quiet sigh of relief at his confirmation their deal still stood.
I’d say I deserve way more than two, she thought with an annoyed, bitter edge. But, as much as she wanted to, she did not argue against it. For once, she made herself think before she spoke. She didn’t need to risk him deciding to not even give her those two.
She looked ahead of her and took a deep breath. “Answers given with complete honesty,” she reminded him of his full earlier statement.
Though she had yet to tangle out her second question from the knot of them in her head, there was no debating on her first one.
Trusting him to tell the truth, she looked to him. A firmness mingled with unease about the impending answer to her first, most important question. She looked him in the eye and took a deep breath.
“What, exactly, do you want with me?” The question left her lips quieter than she had expected. Her anticipation hung in the air, the girl barely breathing as she awaited his answer, fearing the worst but hoping for the best.

Darsby offered no reply to Anora's initial verbalities describing how she'd had explaining to do and the importance of honesty in his promised responses. These things mattered little to him, his mind still making unwitnessed attempts to dive back into the variables of mortal life. He'd had more than a few years since the last moment where death was an available circumstance, something most humans feel in at least some slight way every day.

"Well-..." Darsby began, his body reacting before his mind to offer an answer. He'd stopped at that first word for what would likely feel like ages, his figure giving into motionless existence for many measurable moments before continuing.

Cold rooms slurped their jumbled importance into his train of thought. One message received from his close mentor, the fight to gain a task from the hands of other competitors. His desire to run from his home, to run as far as he could readily go. The notion of using an offered duty to utilize his fears and revitalized mourning as vehicles to undertake callings of discovery. Sitting before councils and briefs and further councils inside frigid stone chambers. The truth of him still being emotionally weak despite his hidden strength causes his body to visibly shiver before he begins speaking again to escape the honest valleys his mind may start to wander otherwise.

"..- I elected to undertake an emissary task. My superiors wish to find and communicate with an entity known as Pan, of Olympus, having detected a vestige of his magic as presently active. After scouring this world, I'd discovered an ancient contract this creature made. You are the only living human where that contract can be found, deeply ingrained in your blood. I plan on using you to assist me in finding this contracts creator; it should still be attached to him in some small way. I'd understand if you refuse, though, I didn't travel all this way to hear a 'no' to any of the questions I retain." Darsby spoke in a clear, level tone. He relinquished the simpler side of an explanation to Anora without further hesitation. He didn't pause for breath. He spoke with callous speech and unflinching emotion. His ending statement sounded no different than anything else he's ever said thus far. This man is used to dealing in blatant facts and not much else.

After perhaps two or three seconds of pause, Darsby relinquishes a sigh and reaches to scratch the back of his neck. This action would look to be sudden despite its slowness due to his recent states of motionlessness.

"Y-you're necessary. I'll need to show you the ropes.. b-but you could act as more than a compass if you sso desired." An odd thing happened to Darsby's voice. Something of emotion had infected it whilst it appealed to Anora in suddenly sheepish undertones. He slurred his words in the jumble of ill-portrayed sensations which came across as a likely insensitive ordeal. His hand grasped the back of his head purely in an attempt to hide his eyes for a few brief seconds. Perhaps he didn't wish for his soul to be peered into as typically seems to occur when locking eyes.

-----------------------------------------------------

Cold air licked the edges of our dapper gentlemen's cigarette. His dry lips touched the filter of another cancer stick made heavy by the worries of a stressed employee. He took in several long drags before pulling the rod away between thin, leathery fingers.

"No, John. I already spoke to Hernandez, and he told me to call you....-" The man wrestled verbally with yet another superior on the phone. Paperwork and hoops are typical obstacles to jump through with any government agency. "- No, you won't be a scapegoat for anything.... Yes, I'll be the active hand with three steps of permission. She won't be making any brash actions.... No, I haven't heard anything from them, this all seems to be some free-hand stuff..... I know it's gotta be an off-worlder, my gut says the same thing... But-... No, I did-... Ok, ok I get it. Thanks, John. I'll call you back after contact." One pale, work-hardened thumb taps an android phone screen to end it's present phone call. With a sigh of relief, the man drinks in another musty grey cloud.

"Finally! Let's go!" Thick, curling lips toss speech as slabs of granite against their nearby peer. The one to whom these feminine lips belonged had spent more than two-long hours awaiting her partner to obtain necessary permissions over the case of a potential off-worlder in their local vicinity being accompanied by a female, native magic-user.

*Thunk!* The glove box in the old car they both presently resided inside of jostled loudly, our huntress opened it feverishly to find a freshly transported case file within. Bare bones paperwork and a few blank lines requiring signatures cold found between manilla walls. Our gentlemen went to work quietly labeling its contents, patiently ignoring his partner.

"Are we lea-!?" The woman is cut short by a sharp, pointing gesture made on the tip of a smoldering cigarette towards her.
"I'm in charge, active hand permissions here. Only after three steps can you intervene, or else. You know the deal." He spoke by patient, unwavering callousness. She sits back, holding the ferocity of one-hundred lions in aggressive heat at bay lest her partner be rent into literal pieces.
"...Fine." She'd finally say, looking forward through a polished windshield. She would give him time to address their present circumstance. If anything, she respected him as capable among humans upon witnessing him in combat for many moons straight. At least they had the case. She'd fought hard for this one, something about that second smell was familiar... A familiarity she somehow detested on a deep level.

Our gentlemen gently tapped the steering with his wrist after several minutes of filling in the dotted line. Their 1969 mustang transport roared magically to life, beginning to drive itself hands-free towards the new location impatiently given just before all permissions to continue were given — some farmhouse owned by a local family. There was an internal debate soon to be resolved as to whether or not they'd take the faster route there. It was looking as if impatience would get the better of them, a simple teleportation incantation being its result.

Anora held her breath when Darsby began speaking. Her heart pounded in anticipation in the suspenseful silence that followed. Though he did not meet her gaze, she kept hers on him.
For a moment, as one second spanned into another, she feared he wouldn’t answer. That he had changed his mind. Then, with a shiver despite the summer’s warmth, he dissolved those fears by answering.
Her eyes narrowed at the prospect of Darsby working for someone, but that thought was pushed to the side.
“Olympus?” she repeated, but Darsby continued despite her shocked interruption.
By the time another pause fell, Anora’s brain was still stuck on Olympus, trying to figure out if that was a code name, or if he meant Zeus’ Olympus, let alone even beginning to wrap around the rest. She inhaled at his last sentence, about not traveling just to hear ‘no.’ It sounded vaguely like a threat to her ears, though his tone gave nothing of his intent away.
She glanced from him, trying to make her mind stop spinning, his answers only spawning more questions. She groaned inwardly before his voice again regained her attention.
She blinked in surprise at his new tone, at the sudden switch from cold and uncaring to saturated with inexplicable emotions. She stared at him in the silence that followed his words, but still, he refused to meet her eyes, even hiding them from her. But his final offer made her heart flutter.
She exhaled heavily, glad, nonetheless, for the moment to try untangling her thoughts.
He was willing to ‘show her the ropes’ so she could be more than his guide. Which meant it was unlikely she would end up in a ditch in the side of the road with one of his bullets in her head if he decided she was no longer useful to him. No one put effort into something they planned on discarding.
But then, if he was working for someone, who were they, and what did they want with this Pan guy? And how the freak did she even have a ‘contract’ with the guy when she had never even met him?
It was nigh impossible to narrow down her questions to just the one that remained.
“Limiting me to two questions is borderline barbaric!” she grumbled irritably. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers smudged with graphite.
A gentle breeze blew about the rooftop, bringing with it the sweet scent of trees and earth. She stared ahead of her at the expanse of roof spanning in front of her, her gaze at where the rooftop dropped away.
She took a deep breath, hating having to think so hard on what to ask. She had many questions, and a choice. It took great restraint to keep from immediately agreeing; if it meant learning more about her magic, about others’ magic, she was in. But a small, dusty voice at the back of her skull reminded her she needed to think first, act later. At least just this once.
At last, she took a breath and looked back to Darsby. “What would I have to do? To find this Pan and be ‘more than just your compass,’” she elaborated, hoping he wouldn’t count the double information request as two separate questions.

While Anora grappled with Darsby's words, and immediately upon her looking away from him, he'd have lowered his arm back to its previous position upon denim-coated knee. He now resumed facing the Earth in its entirety from that ramshackle rooftop, less afraid of its shadows than he was of his own. That personal darkness crawled as a now living prison to insights awaiting rediscovery.

An ancient sensation was brewing within him, something youthful and simplistic. 'Innocence' had been one of the first words to come to mind, but it didn't belong to Anora by its origin, so from where had it come? Something colorful, perhaps even childlike had brewed it's unwholesome brew within him. Though, he somehow thought that he was wrong in aiming to be afraid or disgusted. These conflicts spawned further cascades of troubled self-reflection.

Had Anora looked back into Darsby's eyes before he began responding she'd, for a moment, be tossed back into that drowning current of emotions which consumes the soul on it's most profound levels. Images and sensations poured as plentiful, raging rivers of violent waters over her innermost facet. A parent, lovingly gazing at their child among others before picking them up at daycare, finding themselves suddenly troubled that this infantile human may take after one or more of their parents worse habits. A child staring into a marble, genuinely captivated by its spherical shape and inner-artwork, not letting a single detail escape his sharp young eyes. Someone not above the age of eight, innocent in their desire to leap into the smallest pond reflecting warm rays of morning sunlight before them. An old man troubled to discover he's lived his entire life without being so young as he could have been in spirit all along. A niece sick with the flu, vomiting into a bucket near you whilst you gently rub their shuddering back. Darsby's eyes become a spiritual and near-physical location where all of these things are made simultaneously true yet not at the same time. It's as if the human mind were grappling with some form of communication ardent in it's comparison to typical speech.

In his contemplation, Darsby had noted, but overlooked, the double-wide question presented. Anora is young; her heated heart must be troubled at the moment; despite her earlier words. He could smell it in her sweat, he could hear it in her heartbeat, he could taste it in the breeze surrounding them. She was stressed, and he kicked himself mentally for not noticing all the way up until this moment. 'How tired have I actually gotten..?' He questioned internally.

"I'm..-" He started, his mouth wrestling with itself to not immediately apologize as it had somehow intended to do. He quickly regained composure, though his words were still mildly painted in sprays of apologetic verbality and anxiously hurried speech. "-Well, you'd be-" Darsby paused again, his hands wrapping around the back of his head lacing fingers into wild tufts of hair to wrestle these sentiments from existence with no victory in sight. "-You would occasionally have to undergo a mapping spell that relies on small sums of blood to point us in their direction. Aside from that, I'll take some time to talk to you about that energy you so freely toss about. You're a bit off in how you're using it." It wouldn't, by tone, sound as if the mapping spell was what he felt apologetic or anxious about. Perhaps his outward conflict is outside of Anora herself.

Darsby sighed, without breath or air, into space before him. The engines fueling his lungs lay their calculated uses aside to express a troubled heart. Those hands remained, gently holding an organic head whilst it's inner-workings fold harshly upon one another.

----------------------

Half a mile away from Anora and Darsby an old car warped its polished exterior into existence. This teleportation was soundless and unnoticeable, shiny outer surfaces having been delicately hidden beneath a tree.

"Remember, don't set one foot outside this car without 'all three steps'." Hoarse, masculine vocals split the air between two stressed employees.
"I wouldn't dare." Came the overly-accentuated feminine response, sass, and disrespect blatantly clear by all accounts.

The man sighed as he stepped from an ebony vehicle, his body fading from sight under the guise of an invisibility spell. He knew better than to give into that vile woman's banter.

Anora inhaled when her eyes again strayed to his, his guarding hand now away from his face. Feelings and emotions not hers flooded through her, but she tore her gaze away before they could finish. With a heavy exhale, she kept her head pointed forward.
Her eyes shifted toward him, careful to avoid the apparent trigger of eye contact. She had heard that the eyes were the window to the soul, but this gave the saying new depth. If whatever kept happening every time they met gazes really were his emotions.
And she thought she had a mental struggle going on.
But were the emotions she had felt directed at her, or something else? Or even both, if not neither? Did it happen with just her, or anyone who happened a passing glance?
Suddenly glad she wasn’t an empath—at least not under normal circumstances—she looked to the sketchbook propped open on her knees as she waited for Darsby to answer. Her own contemplations softened the edge of her usual impatience.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves and steady her breaths.
When Darsby spoke again, she instinctively turned her head toward him. Remembering at the last moment to avoid looking him in the eye—her dad had always drilled the importance of holding eye contact in a conversation—she let her gaze settle on the small space between them.
Her brows furrowed at his tone. It sounded like he was about to apologize. She raised her gaze, still avoiding looking him in the eye. Though she didn’t know what to expect from him, an ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t on her list.
She watched him move as he spoke, a finger tapping impatiently on the hard cover of her sketchbook. He paused in speech more than anyone she had met in a long while. It was rather annoying.
Her tapping stopped and she gawked at the news of how she would track Pan. “Blood magic?” she interrupted, not expecting him to stop to answer. Her eager surprise at a new type of magic being more than lore turned into a frustrated frown at his critique about how she used her powers.
“I don’t ‘toss’ my powers about freely!” she grumbled indignantly. “Well. Okay. Maybe a bit,” she added, thinking about how regularly and even heedlessly she used them day-to-day. “But I can control it well, and people can’t see it, anyway.”
She took a deep breath, looking away from him. She shook her head slightly. “Until I met you, I… I thought I was the only one,” she finished the sentence quietly.
Feared, more like, she corrected silently as she opened a hand in front of her. She let a few licks of her mist rise into her palm. It swirled lazily just above her skin, the colors of her irises intensifying and glowing slightly.
“I’ve been practicing with it for years. Trying to find and push my limits. But there’s only so much one can teach themself.”
She exhaled and closed her hand. The mist puffed out from between her fingers before extinguishing, and her irises reverted to normal. She returned her gaze to his face, but didn’t meet his eyes.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Darsby; teach me about my powers and how to use them, and I’ll do everything I can to help you find Pan.” She struggled to keep her excitement and eagerness out of her voice.
There had never been a doubt in her mind; one way or another, she would have agreed to help him. Even if he hadn’t offered to teach her, she could at least learn by watching.
But there was still a question nagging at the back of her mind.
“But there’s something you said right before you…” she trailed off, her face scrunching in uncertainty as to if she wanted ‘died’ or ‘went unconscious.’ “Before I drove us here,” she went with instead. “If you want my help, I need to know what I’m up against. So who’s after us, and why?”
She watched him, her gaze as stern as her demanding question. A third question, but she really didn’t care. The worst he could do was not answer.

Darsby lent little effort to interpreting Anora's words, their sporadic birth unbound by laws of serious contemplation did little to ease a troubled mind such as his. He'd feel each notion and emotion they held, imagery and deeper meaning spilling as fluid-filled buckets over the empathic space he finds himself occupying. Regardless, being practically empathic and taking it's more profound enlightenment into account are two entirely different things. He who has a tool and knows little about how to use it is something commonly found in day-to-day life.

"When you said that you feared you were the only one who could use magic..-" Somehow Darsby had heard her intentions. He didn't take the time to realize this isn't common among humans. "-.. Have you ever looked up at the stars and wondered whether humanity is alone in the heavens?" The profound implications of that very question did little to stop him from continuing speaking.
"What we're up against are the people who know the answer to that question. I suspect an associate of mine is with them. That would resolve why I can already smell them." With that, Darsby took the liberty of standing from his sitting position.

His impassive face may not have shown it, but something certainly felt off. He couldn't quite place it in the realm of his five natural senses; this would make sense with the precautions the man approaching had taken. No, he felt something deeper within him. He stood in expectation of what that thing may be. He couldn't tell what it was that had made its approach. Regardless, one of the many faculties that this body had been constructed with was the ability to sense nearby predators, both magical and natural. This sense screamed for attention, meaning that something threatening was relatively close. More than likely, Darsby suspected, it was already in the house.

"These people, as I'd suspect they are, have detected my presence. They're after me, I'm a foreign element..-" Darsby swept the revolver from his pocket with one smooth motion that could easily go unnoticed if one wasn't actively watching him while talking. "-They probably sensed me when my body was damaged and forced itself into an uncamouflaged regenerative state." Darsby opened the chamber to his weapon, simultaneously exhaling a small cloud of what looked to be black smoke. This smoke slithered into all six chambers of his armament, hardening into usable rounds. *Click!* It was then spun into the active and entirely usable state Anora had feared it would be in. Though, just after Darsby had performed this profoundly practiced event, he turned towards Anora. Soft notions painted his features; one could even say he looked somehow pained.

"Y'know... Anora? I'm.. I'm sorry about all of this. I'd be right to guess you have a family and friends and a place where you occupy yourself to attain currency. I..-" He stopped, this would have been another one of those annoying pauses. Even so, this pause had the exception of his eyes twinkling alongside faint, understanding tears welling up at the corners of those glowing iris's. "-I'm going to take care of this. You're not a tool. You're a person." Perhaps he was saying this for her to hear, perhaps he was saying this so he himself could recognize it as true. Whatever the meaning, he meant it. His face would look wounded compared to its typically emotionless state. The cause of this could be interpreted as him internally hurting by personal notions, yet, perhaps he genuinely felt troubled that he was pulling Anora from what she had once called her own average life.

Anora would not have felt the presence entering the house; it's stealth-based magics had all but surpassed Darsby's honed senses. Our odd, magic man was merely acting on a gut feeling that something was off since he faintly perceived it to be that way.

Should Anora have met Darsby teary eye's, even for a moment, she would see and feel two strange events. On one end, she witnesses a tremendous green plain. People mill this way and that into and out of their huts. They look up to the sky above and give genuine notions of thanks to its great berthings of divine bounty. Each time these people thank the sky, Anora would feel an overflowing sense of gratitude to the point of crying joyful tears. On the other hand, gunfire and screams are heard. Anora would feel someone's hand going cold whilst held within her own. Life and emotion seep into those now cold fingers as lights flash left and right alongside explosions resounding in the distance. These two things would feel more like memories than feelings, and would quickly pass as Darsby himself turns hastily from the young girl next to him. He stares out at the fields ahead, gathering his thoughts as a drop or two of fluid pace his cheeks unhindered.

----------------------------------------

'She just had to be right! Those aliens and their noses..' Upon approaching the calm-looking ranch home ahead, our callous gentlemen felt and thought something. This particular something was dark and heavy, however faint it may have been. He had secretly hoped that all to be found here was some damsel native magic user, unaware of the world at large and entirely susceptible to a memory-wipe. He'd be right in saying that all he could sense and smell was a woman his practiced instincts had expected to find. What told him that she wasn't the only target here was a briefly used spell, something unnatural and new to the air of America. He could feel the spell pace his spine in threatening tingles, like hot smoke filling his lungs. There's no way she could cast something like that; she'd have to be much more than she seemed for that.

He came to the front door, passing through it as an amorphous, invisible fluid. He hated that he was right to use the only high-tier invisibility spell he had in storage among the many others in his suit jacket. This whole day was going to be more than he cared to experience, he could feel it. Something deep down in his bowels told him he'd be right to kick back, throw off the spell and light up a cigarette in peace towards those above him.

His conscience stopped him from making alms with his assigned targets. His future self bucked endlessly at his choice to continue forward. Regretfully, he would have been right to stop right where he stood. Nevertheless, he didn't. The roof would likely be reached in the next minute or two; he took the time to analyze what's above him.

Anora blinked in surprise when Darsby addressed her thoughts. She was positive she hadn’t said that out loud.
“I… didn’t say that,” she said with slow suspicion. She closed her sketchbook as Darsby continued before she could ask if he had just read her mind.
She glanced skyward at his question. A few wisps of clouds had been joined by thicker ones, floating over the sun to momentarily dim its light.
“Hasn’t everyone?” The corner of her lips quirked upward. Is he trying to say he’s from another planet? she wondered. Would explain a lot, in the long run, wouldn’t it? She cast him a sideways glance as he began to answer her question.
The relief she felt at his answering turned into panic. “You can smell them?” Anora hastily shifted to her knees and grabbed her backpack. “What, like you did the Blouth?”
Adding super smelling to her mental list of his superpowers, she shoved her sketchbook and pencil pouch into the larger section. She glanced to her companion as he continued his explanation. She zipped it shut, stood, and shouldered one of its straps.
“So they’re not after me, too?” Somewhere between relieved she was not on some magic/alien clean-up crew’s hit list and irritated that he had said ‘we’ instead of just ‘I,’ she glanced to Darsby. She almost missed him draw his revolver.
Anora cleared her throat awkwardly, realizing he meant the first time he had been injured. “I’m really sorry about that, you know,” she offered quietly. She shook her head, trying to keep the broken, bloody image of him from returning to the front of her mind.
She carefully stepped beside him, watching him with curiosity as he opened the revolver’s cylinder. She tried—but failed—to not gawk when he breathed smoky bullets into existence in the gun.
“Don’t suppose you could teach me that, could you?” Despite the impressed, hopeful smile on her face with the question, she took a cautious step away. Though she was sure he wouldn’t be using it on her, she still felt a bit uneasy.
She took a breath and turned her attention from him as he clicked the bullets into place. For a short moment, she scanned the dirt driveway leading to the house. Nothing stirred. She hadn’t noticed anyone trying to sneak up on the house, but she hadn’t exactly been paying attention since Darsby came out.
She looked back to him when he addressed her, the tone in his voice making her brows furrow. Her expression turned to surprise when he actually did apologize. As he finished, she couldn’t help it; her gaze met his. She had just enough time to register the wetness of tears in his eyes before the ghostly images of what could only be memories floated from Darsby to her.
She had expected a flood of confusing emotions to radiate from him with her glance, but that was much more than simple, intangible feelings. She inhaled and stumbled, her foot slipping on one of the shingles. Her foot slid a few inches before she caught herself, forcing her to break eye contact at the same time as Darsby.
Anora swallowed, hard, and looked back to him, his face away from her. He had lost someone he had cared for. Maybe many someones. There was no telling when or even where it had happened, but it was apparently still fresh enough in his mind.
Her expression softened. She ran a hand through her hair with an exhale. She gave a slight nod to herself, then raised her chin and squared her shoulders.
“Not alone, you’re not.” She stepped toward the flat part of the roof over the window. “I might not be an expert, but I’m still good at using my powers. Whatever the people after you want, they’ll have to go through both of us.” As she passed, she bent to pick up the pencil that had rolled down the rooftop. “We’re in this together now, Darsby.” She turned her head to glance at him. “For better or worse. Think that kinda sealed itself when I dragged your sorry butt to my family’s farm.” She offered him a tentative smile. She stuck the pencil in a pocket of her jeans.
“If whoever’s after you is as close as you think, we’d better get going.” She climbed to the window, a couple pools of the misty sparks of her powers forming around her feet in precaution.
She tested the ledge with her shoes. Her feet sat firmly on the window sill, the window still open from when Darsby had used it. One hand grasping the overhang, she let her bag fall from her shoulder and tossed it between her legs into the attic.
Anora draped both arms over the tiles, only her head and shoulders sticking above the roof. She looked up at him, careful to not meet his gaze. She hesitated for just a moment.
“Look. Everything that’s happened… It’s the last thing I expected today. But… the only thing I’d change is that I’ll probably be arrested the moment I show my face in town.” She scowled at the thought despite the attempt at making it sound lighthearted. “This is one heck of a leap into adventuring. But baby-steps are overrated, anyway.”
She shrugged, trying to hide her fear and anxiety. Fear of meeting the people who dared hunt someone like him. Fear of being unsure whether or not she would get to again see the friends and family Darsby had reminded her about.
She swallowed and did her best to push the thought aside. Hoping the empath-memory-thought-sharing thing didn’t actually go both ways, she swung herself easily into the attic. Without sparing the area so much as a glance, she collected her pack, slung it back over one shoulder, and turned back to the window.
“You coming or what, Agent K?” she called outside. Thinking she should probably rethink that nickname if he was more the alien than the MIB agent, she turned toward the hole in the floor that led to the attic's stairs.

*Thump thump!* The rattling wood, first to come before unhindered footfall. These sounds blasted our agents heightened senses. He'd yielded his ears to higher energies. Said ethereal resource directed him to locate two targets on the uppermost floor of this agriculture estate. He felt he needed to use this perceptual magnification. Typically his sixth sense would be enough, the vague pressure that allows most magic users awareness of nearby sentient entity's. His instincts were right that it wouldn't help him here.

The echoes of one pair of shoes and another pair of boots clapping casually against wood echoed through several hallways and rooms until finally filtering down into the dusty living room this agent had wandered into. Above he could sense it via his inner being, unhindered waves of converted earthly energies radiating from a woman. She was likely uneducated in magic but not entirely inept in her ability to hold her powers. She wasn't the biggest oddity here, even though she was to be considered odd. The queerest factor was her companion.

Typically, anything with the ability to think or be self-conscious emits waves of ambient energy that can be faintly interpreted with a trained sixth sense. The woman above radiates both this and another form of some converted energy that is at home in her mostly human body; the other individual radiates nothing. They are presumed to be humanoid as they did give off the sound bipedal movement creates, but, while approaching there is another oddity. This humanoid isn't breathing. One could even say that its presence was sucking in small waves of ambient energy into some abyssal pocket of unreadable magic. Everything else indicated that this was, in fact, a human male aside from the lack of breath and conscious radiance. His smells, his heat, his movements, nothing was out of the ordinary in those respects. 'What is that thing?' Regrettably, the time that could've been expected to be spent mulling over this target was at an end.

*Bang!* One magic projectile cleaves with force through the air, wood, and polished shoe leather all in one drastic swoop. A bullet had breached his footwear, just barely missing soft flesh, followed shortly by a powerful man's voice.

"The heart comes after the foot!" Whoever shouted this must be massive or grizzled beyond belief. Our agent wasn't looking forward to meeting them, but he fell to his knees and placed his hands behind his head nonetheless.
"Hopefully not.." Would be the response, he didn't plan to give up all at once. Even so, hearing/seeing things out would be better with so many unknowns at play. His heart and stomach had been lurching ever since he entered this house, keeping him from going on the offensive. Something more terrifying than his partner is nearby, he knows it.

Should anyone sprint downstairs, now that the spell is released, they'd find this man in all his present glory there. A disheveled individual in a black and grey pin-stripe suit of notable luxury is there. His left shoe radiates polish whilst his right smolders near the toes. His skin is practically white alongside his blondish-ivory hair that shoots as stress-born spikes in every direction from just the upper-scalp, the sides of his head have a faded cut. His eyes both have powerful red iris's, perhaps even luminescent similar to Darsby with deep suitaces underneath each of them. Unlike darsby, there was no pull to some strange form of profound and intrusive communication when meeting them.

-----------------------------------------------------

Darsby took the entirety of the time Anora gave him to gather himself further. Some deeper instinct born of combat told him to be ready for anything soon. He felt like eyes were watching him, or perhaps ears were listening. He couldn't correctly use his higher senses, or he's revealed to onlookers, so he relies on base animal sense. He squares his shoulders and descends the roof. Her words passed over him like mist; he's still held ajar by some mild form of shock that keeps him away from the real world.

Anora was waiting for him upon re-entering the attic. His return to the house was far more graceful than his exit, one acrobatic motion making use of his momentum and leverage to perform an entirely silent flip through the window once having gripped its edges. He'd land with a reasonably soft *Thump* upon one of his soles not three feet from Anora. Darsby then rose slowly, his body appearing mechanical in its ability to assume a standing position with minimal shift in posture. He half-turned towards Anora, to avoid eye-contact, an air of danger seeping into his voice.

"Stay still, something is in the house..-" Darsby quietly said. Strangely, if Anora had looked at him, she may have noticed that his lips hadn't moved, the whisper being generated by some other means. "-Try not to speak unless you notice something. Follow me." He then began descending the rickety attic stairs downward. His left hand held that polished revolver tight to his flank, his other hand gently reached back towards Anora in slight movements with each occasional shift in his targetted gaze as if he'd be ready to pull or push her away from danger should it be necessary. The whole process of his stride and protective posture looked trained in its graceful proficiency as if being an escort in times of risk was an activity he'd familiarised himself with. Images of him keeping watch over and transporting high-priority individuals under dangerous circumstance could be imagined after seeing him like this.

"Wait.." He'd project with posture and silent speech once reaching the stairway leading to the next floor down. He slowly, silently, and with much care aimed his revolver at an obscure spot on the ground beneath them. He was aiming back behind him; if Anora is in the way at this time, he will emit another unspoken whisper. "Out of the way." He'd fire between her legs if she didn't move.

*Bang!* One black bullet launched itself through floorboards and insulation into the center of the living room beneath them. Darsby would shout just after doing this. He was a predator, a warrior; perhaps it hadn't been revealed until now. Everything he did showed that he was used to these dangerous ways of living, trained for them. His voice was stark and demanded deep respect; its newfound authoritative verbality bled of someone who could make others obey merely by a single word. He didn't regard Anora during all of this; perhaps it hadn't occurred to him to do so. To him, she was his VIP, not something to be used as counsel.

"The heart comes after the foot!" He'd say, the meaning of these words made clear to the one who'd received the black round. It had struck with all intended accuracy, Darsby's gut sensations proving their worth after ages of being molded into their present state.

"Hopefully not..." A cold, faintly trembling voice would come from below. One muffled *Thud!* is heard alongside masculine suggestions in speech. The target had relinquished a spell of stealth and fell to its knees in surrender, a deal Darsby had understood after sensing our intruder's presence for the first time.

Nearly forgotten ways of being had been recalled to Darsby through his shock with the car accident earlier. He hadn't acted this way in a longer time than he'd care to admit — something about having someone not ten feet away to protect brought this out in him, for better or for worse.

Darsby would wait several seconds after firing to confirm the target had only fallen to his knees. Afterward, Darsby would descend. Should Anora attempt to go down the stairs before him, he'd sprint down them after her, keeping not more than five feet from the girl.
----------------------------------

In an ebon car several hundred yards away, a throbbing form of muscular majesty had made the first ploy towards its target prey. Her partner had only said not to take any 'steps' anywhere. There was a gross lack of instruction here. A spell of higher potency than previously seen envelops our huntress in swathes of invisibility and stealth. With this, she places both of her hands on the ground just beyond the doorway of the car. In one smooth motion, she balances the entirety of her weight on both hands.

With incredible grace and strength, she begins walking, no, running with near-vehicular speed towards the nearby house atop the palms of her callous hands. Soon she would arrive, soon she'd know what that stinging smell was. She'd been bothered with familiarity ever since having first smelt it. She knew that scent and had a feeling she would be able to fulfill a long-held resentment once encountering who its retainer. Soon, a tide of inhuman prowess would explode on these premises. Hopefully those present survive the encounter...

Anora stepped a bit further from the window as Darsby swung himself inside. A tinge of jealousy at his show of acrobatics flashed over her amethyst gaze. Even the noise of his landing was softer than hers.
Careful to keep her eyes averted from his, she crossed her arms as he began to straighten.
“Took you long enough,” she jibed with a smirk. “So, there are a few food items in the pantry.” She stepped toward the floor’s opening. “I’ll shove some of those in my—”
“Stay still,” Darsby interrupted.
Her foot froze mid-step. The hairs on the back of her neck rose at his tone. Gently placing her foot gently back to the floor to keep from losing her balance, she turned to look to him, a mix of panic and curiosity on her face.
When he continued with his orders, she gawked; he hadn’t spoken at all, yet the words were audible, not echoing around in her head. She blinked, her eyes trailing after him as he moved past her.
“Can you get any weirder?” she couldn’t help whispering beneath her breath. With a faint smile, she shook her head, then followed after him down the stairs.
Despite the itch to ask how he knew something—something, not someone, she noted—was in the house, she kept quiet. She flinched at each creak of the old stairs. Suddenly, all the noises of the settling house became indicators of potential threats.
When they reached the bottom and entered the second-floor hall, she kept close and slightly to the side of Darsby to be capable of seeing in front of them. Noticing his trained protective movements, his hand ready to move her from harm’s way at the first sign of trouble, her brows rose.
What is he, some sort of Mars Secret Service? she wondered. Part of her felt grateful to have someone with his abilities and who knew what they were doing on her side. But the other, greater part was more annoyed than anything. She wasn’t helpless, after all.
Occasionally casting his hand an annoyed glance when he held it at the ready to act, she kept her eyes open for anything out of place as they crept down the hall. Even the shadows could be an enemy.
“Wait.”
Her attention snapped to Darsby as they reached the set of stairs leading to the main level. Trying to figure out what the cause of the holdup was, she looked around him, but saw only the wall, the dust and dirt on the wallpaper outlining where a picture frame had once hung. Even the stairs looked clear of enemies to her.
His movements caught her eye. She inhaled when she realized he had pointed his revolver behind him. Eyes widening, she staggered back.
“What—?!”
The earsplitting gunshot interrupted her, shattering the quiet they had maintained. In such small, close quarters as the hallway, it sounded even louder than it had at the hospital.
Darsby’s voice broke through the ringing in her ears. Heart pounding in her chest, she could have melted in relief when she realized he hadn’t been aiming at her in some fit of insanity. Though she didn’t believe he would hurt her, that possibility still nagged from a small, quiet corner in the back of her mind.
The tone he took made her shudder. Her brows furrowed as the response of an unfamiliar voice filtered up to them through the new, small hole in the floor, followed by the sound of something falling.
Did he… just kill someone? She glanced at Darsby, who seemed in no hurry to find out who he had just dropped, then to the bullet hole. Guessing the bullet would have hit somewhere in the general area of the living room, Anora hurried down the stairs.
Conscious of Darsby springing into action and following after her, she led the way to the nearly barren living room. Eyes glowing and licks of purple mist crawling up her arms just in case, she slid to a stop outside the living room's doorless frame.
Half expecting to see a murder scene—with how her day had gone, that really wouldn’t have surprised her—she quickly took in the man kneeling on the dusty floor.
Pale and even a bit shell-shocked, he looked like any well-off business man. Or would, if not for his unnerving eyes. Though he appeared very much like a ‘-one’ rather than a ‘-thing,’ if Anora had learned nothing else in the last few hours, it was that anything really was possible. For all she knew, he could be an evil spirit in disguise come to suck out their souls.
Anora inhaled, the mist and sparks at her fists pulsing readily.
This is who was after us? She eyed him warily, trying to not show how much his gaze unsettled her.
His smoldering shoe caught her attention, and Darsby’s comment clicked into place. She let out a low whistle and stepped slightly aside for Darsby.
“Nice shootin’, Tex,” she complimented with a quick glance to him. She looked back to the intruder, her gaze hard.
Whoever this was, he was bold enough to go after Darsby. Which could mean his surrender was a show, hiding who-knew-what kinds of powers. Keeping her guard up, she met the intruder’s eyes fiercely, ready to look away at the first indication it could prove unwise.
“Now. Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound as imposing as possible.
Though, even she had to admit, compared to Darsby’s threat, she sounded more like a house cat mewling after a lion’s roar.

What happened next would have happened fast, extremely fast. There's a realm which dwells outside of humanities visual capacities. This is the realm where the next four seconds transpire.

Darsby, still entirely unarmed by his standards, was caught off guard by the feminine huntress closing in on our farmhouse. He couldn't have heard, seen, or smelled this woman underneath the veil of her magic.

*Crash!* Through the window came an invisible mass. Reacting on instinct, Darsby turns left to face whatever hidden foe may have reared its fangs here. *Bang!Bang!-Crash!* Two rounds exit a worn revolver's chamber just before Darsby is thrown into the wall at his left with such force that he nearly breaks through it entirely. With a faint shimmer, our new opponent is revealed, one of her hands has wholly passed through the center of Darsby's chest.

Rippling muscles cascade down the exterior of heavily tanned arms sprouting from a grey tank-top. Loose fitting cargo shorts rest just above sandals — crimson hair jutts in many directions atop veined features contorted by beauty and habitual rage. Fierce orange eyes glow near Darsby's chest as she withdraws her arm from the gaping hole she's created to quickly strike both of his shoulders with a blur of punches. *Crack!-popop!* Bones snap under the weight of her near-invisible strikes.

The man and his grey suit stand just as this woman finishes her assault, her right arm drenched in chunks of bone and strips of flesh.

"Ahllasta! I told you to stay in the car!" He barks, though somehow still sounding unenthused by present circumstance.
"He's a Baron." She'd quietly say in a mist of rage while staring down at the sputtering form of her victim.

Darsby is again rendered as a mass of broken form. He's crumpled into the ground and left to sputter in effort to speak, both arms limp at his sides after having slid to the Earth below.

*Bang!* With one movement, so fast it escaped sight, the grey man had drawn a pistol and fired a round into Darsby's twitching head. With that, Anora's companion went silent.

"Then he's stuck in bureaucracy until his body's fixed. I'm making the call." He then pulls a cell-phone to his ear, sighing while stepping from the room to mumble silently at some unnamed superior.

The Huntress is all that's left in the room. Her lips are curled int a snear as she stares down upon what looks to be a corpse. She's openly furious, having been robbed of the ability to speak her mind to the figure at her feet.

Anora shouted and spun in surprise when the window at the end of the hall practically exploded, shards of glass trailing behind the invisible force that smashed it. She stumbled back as that something rushed past her and slammed into Darsby. She tumbled to the floor just inside the living room.
Whether she suddenly began to move in slow motion or everyone else was darting about at supernatural speed, Anora couldn’t say. But before she had hit the floor, before even the clatter of the scattered shards of glass could finish raining down, a gunshot rang out. Or perhaps multiple. She would never be sure.
She could only stare, horror-struck, at the blurred attack taking place before her. The sickening crack of breaking bones fought to be heard over the echo of gunfire still ringing through the farmhouse.
Heart hammering in her throat and eyes wide, her gaze settled on Darsby’s now sputtering, bloody form.
“No!” she breathed, scrambling to her knees. Her powers sparkled to life in the air in front of her, reacting to her terror and panic rather than conscious orders.
Before her powers could so much as solidify into something helpful, another gunshot rang out. She had not even realized the man in gray had stood, let alone drawn a gun. The bang of the gun momentarily deafened her. But she didn’t care. All her focus was on the target of the bullet.
Just like that. He was dead… again. In only a matter of seconds. Her hands fell limp to her sides. Her powers sputtered out. Dead and broken. Anora swallowed, hard.
The sound of the man’s voice reached her through the ringing in her ears. She shook herself from her stupor in time to catch only the last sentence. She glanced to him as he left the room, neither of the murderous monsters paying her any mind.
With fear-shortened breaths, her gaze flicked between where the man had walked off to, to Darsby, to the woman. Crimson dripped from the woman’s fingers, splattering the floor in blood. The same crimson soaked Darsby’s shirt and streaked his face.
She was beginning to loath that color.
Her hands clenched into fists. She let her fear fuel her anger. Anger at the intrusion when she was so close to getting answers, to learning more about a side of the world most humans never saw. Hatred at what they had done to Darsby. At herself for being capable of doing nothing to stop it.
She could be afraid later. Right now, she needed to act.
She glared up at the woman, her eyes glowing as mist cascaded from her hands. Indignant rage twisted Anora's face as she slowly stood, trying to mask the trembling of her legs and pounding of her heart. The mist quickly created a pool at her feet, golden lightning and specks of black flowing through its vivid violet.
She needed a distraction. Something to keep them preoccupied long enough for her to get Darsby to the van out front and escape. She knew it was risky, knew she could be overdoing it or even fail and end up just like Darsby—only without the regeneration part—but there was no way she was going to let that stop her.
Darsby had tried to protect her, watched out for her upstairs. Now it was her turn to return the favor.
I’ve got this.
“I don’t know who you crackpots think you are,” she growled, proud and shocked she managed to keep a tremor from her voice. She took a cautious step closer to Darsby and his attacker, her puddle of magic following her, “but you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
In the span of a thought, her mist rose into three swirling masses. They molded and solidified into the form of hellhounds about waist high to the intruder. Ebony and gold flashed over their matted fur and through their translucent purple bodies. Each one bore its fangs, their growls coming out in a crepitating hiss through their gnarled snouts. Their pupilless eyes glowed a swirling black and gold.
Though she had no clue whether or not the woman could see her powers, or was as blind to it as everyone else she knew, all that mattered was that she kept them solid enough to do damage and keep the duo busy. All the better if the murderers couldn’t see them.
As soon as they fully formed, the monstrous dogs readied to leapt at the woman, snarling and snapping their jagged fangs.

Darsby feels his spirit slip from space and time alongside the sound of gently running rapids. He was here only moments ago during his bodies previous recuperation. Ebony and ivory collide as shadows strike surrounding lights with force against his unsubstantial form. Thoughts and relevant information struggle to formulate inside this flowing dimension just beyond the haze of our supposedly solid reality. Conflict over what it is that has just occurred fights for supremacy of importance. Darsby wrestles to regain proper sentience after having been forcefully tossed into this other realm while Anora resolves to stand for whatever semblance of life she may yet hold.

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This huntress tenses further, proving that this action isn't impossible despite her visibly flexed muscles. Ahllasta had taken notice of Anora and kept her reaction at bay. The creature before her had been subdued entirely without a struggle despite her previous wishes. She knew this man; she had a score with him.

Ahllasta had wished to perch herself atop Darsby's body, waiting for him to recover so she may derive the satisfaction of genuinely striking him down. The man in grey, Vince, had taken said luxury away. She cared for little else than prey and grudges; in our present scenario, he had stolen both.

Slowly, Ahllasta turns towards Anora. Though she reeks of aggression and ill-kept notions of hate, she didn't appear to be directing any of it towards our young human.
"Girl, you know this man?" Her words slip with the anger of a military instructor struggling to keep their louder vocalities at bay.

Ahllasta's posture would then change upon Anora mustering the strength to fabricate veritable hell-hounds. This alien huntress has one small but thick brown horn protruding its sharp surface from the center of her forehead, glittering by the faint specks of blood that splattered over its surface from the previous attack. Just below said feature dwells a newly revived outward mode of emotion. All at once this woman shifts from predator to aggressive negotiator. Her arms casually lace themselves beneath her breasts, her hips sway slightly to the left, her feet turn somewhat outwards. All that still held on to vicious dismay were her eyes, those heinous, beating eyes.

"He needs you for something, doesn't he? What if I said I'd help you get him out of here?" Her lips curled once more to release those leering words. She spoke like a beast turning to address some lesser animal impassionately.

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Darsby begins to recollect his fragmented self from within the spatial void he now occupies. The outside world comes to him in muffled waves of prismatic light and slurred sounds. Cognition begins to spin it's whirring gears again as method transcend logic, feelings collide to transcend expression, and finally, words arrive to make sense of the pieces at play.

"I'm... I've been put here?" He musters to say to himself, still many moments from making sense of current circumstance. He attempts to align an out-of-order sequence of memories. Gunfire, cars, smoke, a girl, conversation, a residence. He feels he's getting close, but this likely won't produce any externally visible results in an amount of time that Anora should reasonably bargain for.

Anora’s hounds hesitated when the woman—the monster, alien, demon, whatever she was—did not immediately try to defend or attack. Anora had had no idea what to expect from the… thing, but talking had not been among her considered possibilities.
She squared her jaw at the woman’s question about Darsby’s need for her.
“No,” she lied, a tinge of her surprise at chatting instead of fighting marring the harshness in her tone. “I was just convenient.” Her hounds pawed at the ground with Anora’s uncertainty at the situation.
She snorted at Ahllasta's hypothetical question of helping to get Darsby out of there. She glanced to Darsby’s bloodied, lifeless form. A chunk of plaster fell from the dent the woman had put in the wall from slamming him into it.
“I’d call you a liar,” she spat. The hounds snapped their teeth in unison at her last word. She dared a glance to where the first intruder had gone. He could be calling for backup, or cleanup. Or worse, depending on what ‘the Call’ was.
She didn’t have time for this. She could feel the draw on her energy from keeping the hounds solid, but she didn’t dare let them fade. Not yet. But if there was even a slight chance of making escaping alive easier, she had to take it.
“Why would you help me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She suppressed a shudder as she met Ahllasta's gaze. She didn't trust those eyes.