#swanthesavior

wh at

hurry up and get here i already announced to the bar you were on a mission to get laid tonight. i have 3 takers. 

So who do I have to screw to get some food, around here? 

The night had been relatively quiet and still, the only noise up until that point had been the crunching of dead, dried leaves under Weston’s boots and the occasional snapping of a twig as he took one of his nightly strolls through the woods. It was cold, and with each breath air was visible in front of his face like he was some sort of ice dragon. He smiled, nuzzling his nose into his scarf to protect it from the cold, but his smile was gone in a flash when he heard the screeching of tires and a scream, followed by booms and crashes. Without a second thought, he took off sprinting in the direction of the main road.

He reached the small, yellow car of Sheriff Swan first. He’d seen it around town enough to know it at a glance, and he paled as he looked at it now; upside-town from tumbling down the steep incline off the road, smoke billowing out from under the hood, windows smashed and body dinted and broken. He bolted over and fell to his knees. “Emma!” he called out. The blonde woman still buckled into the seat stirred, letting out a moan. She was battered and bloody, but she was alive.

He mustered all of his strength to drag the door open enough to reach the woman, pulling at her seat belt. She buckled forwards but he grabbed hold of her, hooking his arms under her armpits and dragging her out. He winced as she cried out in pain and he noticed the blood covering her ripped jeans, the biggest shard of glass embedded in her thigh.

When she was out of the car, he laid her on the ground, feeling for her pulse. It was there, and the sheriff seemed to be growing more aware as the cold air hit her. Her eyes were fluttering half-open, and she peered curiously at the boy, muttering a near incomprehensible, “Weston?”