#{prodigil}

"What the hell happened? Hit on the head by what?" A baseball bat? A freight train? André the Giant from the top rope? The pain hammering around in her skull is unlike any of the times she's woken up from a prophetic dream, so that's ruled out for now -- unless they're getting worse now.

Haven scrapes herself up off the back seat with a groan, the daylight assaulting her eyes causing her to squint while they adjust, trying to make sense of the current situation the best she can. The last thing she remembers is the doodle she drew on a diner napkin the evening prior. Everything after that, including dropping like a sack of potatoes from a spade to the dome, has been effectively powerwashed out of her memory.

"Not an option. I left for a reason." Not unless they were sadistic enough to drive her all the way to Kentucky with an unevaluated head injury. "How about, I dunno, fucking urgent care so they can check me for a concussion?"

" dude. it is rank in here. " a SNIFF rumples the bridge of his nose & bends his lips into a deep frown. brine & ammonia mingle together like the clearance end of the seafood aisle at the supermarket. in spite of its photographs tamped against the wall, little signals of a temporary home ( a bit too much like every mildewy motel room with its mystery-stain mattresses for dean to address head-on ), it's the kind of habitat that occupies a liminal space. dripping rust smears on bare, stoic concrete grey.

dean meanders past the fish carcass, shoving his flanneled sleeve over his mouth to stifle the stink.

a rack of cassettes in his own clumsy handwriting sits beneath a picture of himself with ... a pretty hot gal. his fingertips tip through the plastic sheaths before he thrusts up a hand. " fake me has crap taste, " he declares, a tape between thumb & forefinger. celine dion's name scrawls across the front. " sappy chick tunes, " he grumbles, tossing it aside to join the pile.

Cường sniffles, brows furrowing, forehead digging into his shoulder. Ow. This book is so... “Don’t take on anymore guests. They’re not fond of sharing. They’ll fill you until you burst. You’re using a different detergent.”

They should react more to HIS reaction —— but they don’t.  Yuu just stares at him, eyes guarded and prepared, waiting for him to either strike out or be of assistance, and prepared for either reality.  He slams on the break, and they sputter to a stop.  Dark eyes go more suspicious. 

There are certain levels of indignities J’onn has learned adjust to with his time as a hunter. Cheap motels, long rides on the Greyhound, hitchhiking with his last two dollars in cash in his wallet. Filthy motel rooms and the ugly, dark underbelly of small towns and closed communities, too-old coffee and days on end with nothing to eat but cheap instant ramen.

Though perhaps his least favorite of all are the ones associated with his monstrous side; mainly vulnerability associated with changing shape. Tearing off his skin, growing and shrinking his bones, feeling every bit the monster most would accuse him of being if they saw what was only within his nature to do. It was why he so very rarely indulged in shifting outside of necessity, it made him weak and open to attack. And more importantly, it made him feel revolting.

J’onn has never quite learned to move past that well of shame associated with his kind.

So to be caught mid-shift with his metaphorical pants down is, as one could imagine, a worst-case scenario for him, and one that he’s not all-too-thrilled to have come to fruition. He freezes in the middle of reshaping himself, fingers dug deep into a layer of skin that he was in the process of tearing off.

Were he in a less compromising position, he would have a great deal more generosity to be walked in on unprompted. As it is, he is feeling less than kindly, and without his vocal chords being reformed properly yet the most he can manage is a distorted utterance at the intruder.

“Get out.”