BURIED IN WATER.

“Yeah, well—” He winces as his fingers lift to his neck, feeling the blood caked there. That’s messier than his normal work, for sure. Fingernails aren’t nearly as effective as a knife, but… “Guy knocked my knife out of my hand. Didn’t really have another choice.”

Despite the pain and the brutal self-inflicted gouging of the flesh of his neck, Steinbeck offers Lovecraft a warm little smile—it’s the specific smile reserved for his partner, comforting and sincere. “’ve done worse.” His expression turns somewhat pensive. “Used to do it like this all the time, actually.” With the grape vines gone, there’s some fresh blood running down his neck again, staining the white of his shirt collar even more. (That’s a common occurrence, and the RV is well-stocked with peroxide per his ma’s old trick.)

Torn skin and blood are also caked on and under his nails, but he’s undisturbed. “Hurts a bit more than the knife, though.“ If he’s being honest.

If humans deserve credit for something (among their other various accomplishments), it’s a little impressive what they can pull off when put in a desperate situation. No claws or fangs here, just the brute force to accomplish what needs to be done. (If a fox will chew its leg off to escape a trap, would a person do the same? Lovecraft wonders, sometimes.)

“Good grief,” is all Lovecraft has to say to that, the words sounding dry and entirely out of place. His lips press into a thin line, even as Steinbeck smiles (like a ray of sunshine—it’s really not fair, sometimes). 

Without entirely thinking, Lovecraft reaches out, wiping away at the trickle of blood along Steinbeck’s neck. It doesn’t do anything, naturally, besides leaving a smear on the still-unblemished skin, and Lovecraft is left staring blankly at his own reddened thumb. 

Well, that was stupid.

He wags his hand slightly, as if willing the blood to jump off. It doesn't. Lovecraft stares at it, utterly betrayed. 

despite their steely expression — despite their confidence and resolve — they find themself taking a step backwards as the stranger takes a step towards them. there’s a wariness in their expression, visible through the hardness of their eyes. 

he knows who they are. “ i’m sigma, yes. ” their eye for detail catches the impossible movement of his hair, so unlike how theirs moves much less fluidly in the wind. 

“ who are you? ” that’s their first question, posture straightening even as their pulse thrums too-rapidly in their ears. “ and who’s asking? ” something tells them that the one physically seeking them out isn’t the one who actually wants them sought out. like them, he’s just a piece being moved by someone else. utilized. used.

they’re not sure how they reached that conclusion, but they’re also not sure they care.

Good. They have enough courage in them to confirm their identity, even as they nearly retreat. Not that there’s anywhere for Sigma to run to, if they wanted to try. The side street the two of them are standing in is empty, the few stragglers passing by on the main thoroughfare conspicuously not looking their way. 

“Lovecraft,” he answers them without hesitance. And he moves again, long legs closing the distance too fast, too quietly—until a gap of only a foot or so separates them. Lovecraft looms over them, the difference in height between them distorted, exaggerated somehow. 

He could grab them so easily. Hurt them. Test how real they truly are. But he is incredibly disinclined from doing any of those things, right at this moment.  

"You’re very perceptive.” Lovecraft’s voice is mild, his expression impassive. As he speaks, his head lists to one side, like a curious animal. Not aggressive—observing. “Someone wants you found. Retrieved. They thought you were dead.”

there’s nothing technically wrong with his appearance — a little gaunt, sure, but he’s just a tall, lanky man with long hair he doesn’t seem to have brushed in weeks ( but also, somehow, doesn’t seem to need to brush ). there’s nothing off about him.

so why, then, does sigma find themself nearly paralyzed upon meeting that bottomless gaze? they swallow down the lump of their heart threatening to beat out of their throat and cant their chin slightly upward as they slip their mask of maintaining control on without hesitation. 

“ can i help you? ” ( the casino may be out of their reach now, but what it gave them is held close to their chest. )

He stands, watching. 

Yes, that’s them. No doubt about it. It’s not something an ordinary creature would see—something they’d feel maybe—but this person is surrounded by, what is, for lack of a better word, unreality. They don’t belong in this world. They aren’t wrong, not in the way Lovecraft is, a way that makes even the most ignorant of beings uncomfortable for reasons they could never explain. 

Instead...they are out of place. Like a picture cut from a magazine and pasted into a textbook. A “true” image, yes, but one entirely at odds with its new environment. 

Their eyes are mismatched when they meet his, their expression falsely assured. How...brave of them, to stare into the void.