Post by pretzelbender on Jul 14, 2020 17:36:04 GMT -5
This was never the story of Red Cliff, not fully. It’s not his story to tell. No, unfortunately, this has always been the story of how Miles Lucky escapes Red Cliff. And the story of how Miles Lucky, well. I guess we’ll get there when we do. For now, one thing at a time. For now, the escape.
Today, that story takes place. Or not today, or even the day before. Maybe it’s been a week or two or three. Time doesn’t matter too much. Tomorrow has as much meaning as today in Red Cliff.
So, yes. Today. Tonight.
Tonight, where Miles stands at the entrance of the gas station lot. He watches as, feet away, he can make out the chariot of his escape; an old truck, belonging to Jack. Jack, who will stay asleep late into the afternoon tomorrow, when Miles is long gone.
Should this all work out, of course, because the worn vehicle is surrounded by crows. Black perched all over, they have been waiting for him. They flap their wings and twitch in anticipation of his next move. Naturally, from what we know of him, Miles should be twitching as well. The sight alone should send him into a cold, damp sweat. His anxiety should be spiking. He should be ripping his skin and making a swift return to his hotel room, back into bed where the unsuspecting gas station attendant slept soundly, unaware of his near abandonment.
However, Miles isn’t quite himself. There’s a determination behind his scowl toward the birds, a hatred that bubbles evenly into a furious calmness, a finger bone between his teeth. He isn’t turning back, he isn’t going back to that motel. He will never see Jack again. He won’t spend another day in Red Cliff. He won’t die here, he won’t be devoured, he won’t be buried. He decided it weeks ago and solidified it in his mind moments ago, moments after swallowing an eyeball with bloody hands, the exact moment he dug his dirty fingers into willing hips, the moment after untangling himself from the man clinging to him.
“I love you, Jack. I’m sorry.”
Miles had dressed so quickly, rushing to leave while trying to be as quiet as possible. He was practically vibrating when he was snatching clothes from the floor, not realizing then that they were Jack’s clothes. Jack’s clothes that he threw knee pads over, an old brown leather jacket, junk and gear and goggles. He still doesn’t realize it. It’s a good thing, because Miles is always just hanging by a string. He would fall apart if he knew how easily the two of them fit around each other.
“I love you too. What are you sorry for?”
He had a single bag to leave, it was all he needed. There was a mannequin waiting for him near a gas station, with two belts wrapped around its waist. Everything else he valued, was in the bag. Junk and treasures, a fidget spinner and a tuft of hair. He took too long, probably. Too long to get it all together, too long to find his shit in the dark, too keep quiet and not wake up the light at the end of the fanged fish. He knew he took too long, he fucking knew it, and he still hesitated when he reached the table to steal Jack’s keys to the truck, the gas station and anything else that was locked and needed him.
Why? Well, he isn’t sure. Maybe he was waiting for the floor to open up and drag him to the center of the earth. Maybe for the town to come alive and fold in on itself in a shuddering scream, or for his skin to shed and for him to evaporate from the sheer audacity of planning an escape. Or, worse yet, maybe he waited because he wanted Jack to wake up and stop him.
Yeah, that was it. Everything to fall apart at once, before he had a chance to do it himself. It’s a strange thing, when people wait to be stopped. He gave him a chance. It could’ve happened, he was at his most fragile. He stood in the dark then, sweating and on the verge of screaming, he couldn’t move as he shook in place. Miles in Miles fashion was having an existential crisis and second thoughts while possibilities of the worst flushed through his head. This wasn’t new, but it couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time.
But Jack had slept like the dead and Miles slowly, in fear, looked at his peaceful expression.
“I don’t know. I just am.”
Miles frowned when he did. He was terrible, he knew it. He was a horrible person. He was selfish and he couldn’t stop it, not now. Jack was always willing to stay with him, always handing him comfort and touches and warmth. Jack never judged him. Jack never told him how he should behave. Jack was the best person he knew. He dealt with Miles and all the terrible things that come along with who Miles was.
And maybe that was because Jack didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. Jack didn’t want Miles to go. He would carry it all for another day. Miles was a piece of shit, he knew it and he still does, because he would never sell himself for an ounce of comfort. He would never wear the chains of this prodding town for Jack. Miles didn’t know what lonely felt like, he’ll never understand. He’ll never trust it.
Jack was here and has been here for as long as he has for a reason and he just wanted someone there with him. Miles was hit then, like a train going through his gut, with a realization that sent him back into motion. He closed himself off, fought off any doubts and his mind scrambled back into place. Anger and paranoia fueled him to finally leave the motel room. Of course, he grabbed his shovel by the door before leaving because while you can replace a person, you can’t replace a good shovel.
Miles, like he has done a million times before, talked himself into abandoned Jack.
“Hey, it’s okay… I’ll stay with you.”
And now here stands Miles, a leg shaking in place as his adrenaline begins to spike in his already boiling blood. The shovel is balanced across his shoulder as he takes deep breaths. His realization back in the room turning the fear he feels into something else entirely, something sloshing his head.
He’s either part of Jack’s punishment or Miles is being punished himself.
Neither option sits well with him. This town is a prison, he’s been fucking his cellmate while the guy’s serving life. Jack is a trap. Jack will say anything to keep him in place, so he’s not the only one. Did he love Jack? No, he takes it all back
Fuck Jack, he’s getting the hell out of here.
So, standing there in the polo work uniform of the man he just fucked, looking like absolute shit, hasn’t showered since his match, covered in blood, nose fucked, with the slight feeling of betrayal in his heart, just enough to justify his own, Miles becomes still. One last exhale, he removes the shovel from his shoulder, digging it slightly into the ground in front of him. One bandaged hand keeps it balanced, while the other pulls goggles down over his eyes. He takes the bone from his mouth, stuffing it into his pocket before grabbing a hold of the shovel, gripping it tightly in front of him as the crows watch nervously.
Miles suddenly roars from where he stands, breaking out into a full sprint toward the truck. The crows seem to have fully expected him to retreat, surprised as they scatter to avoid a wild swing from Miles. The shovel doesn’t hit a single bird, denting the truck loudly upon the hood he hammered down on. He doesn’t miss a beat, though, quickly changes hands and spinning with enough momentum to swing lowly with his hips. A few of the birds rising to get away from the ground gruesomely introduced to the full force of the shovel, one exploding into feathers upon impact while a couple more sail from the scene.
The crows begin to shriek into the night and, understanding the situation and his intentions, turn back to him. All at once, the crowd swarms him. They fly around him and peck at him, talons digging into the worn leather jacket and pulling, ripping into the shoulders, snapping at the goggles in search of eyes, his face being clawed at and dressed with fresh blood. Miles is flailing and swinging the shovel desperately, crows being hit in every direction. Still, it’s overwhelming and they stab at his hands, pulling at the shovel.
He loses his grip and in trying to regain it, he loses his balance. He stumbles to the ground, but he’s back up before he knows it, before he can even force himself to. Miles is a survivalist at heart, Miles will die one day swinging. Just not today. He swats at the birds, ripping the bag from his back to use as a weapon, sending them away long enough to throw the bag in the bed, taking off his jacket and throwing it over his head by the time they were on him again. He can hear his heartbeat and his breathing as he attempts to unlock the old truck. His hands won’t stop shaking from the pressure of it all. The crows take his jacket and go for his turned back, ripping at his shirt, sending their beaks into him and their talons craving skin.
Finally, the lock gives and he rushes inside the truck, a single crow following in behind him and wasting no time to attack.
“Cripes!” He yells out in pain and frustration. The crow completely sacrificed itself to the cause, Miles smacking it so hard it bounced against the glass and landed near the pedal, where he stomped it mercilessly for too long. Way too long, until he started crying, until the crows are perched on the truck again and blacken his view. Which way was the truck facing? In all the commotion, he didn’t notice. Fuck.
Miles lifts his goggles for a moment to wipe the tears from his dirty face, cursing to himself, snapping them back and shaking his head. He looks ahead at nothing, emotionally, devastatingly. Something is crushed within him at that very moment and he doesn’t know what, but it was replaced with the drive to move forward. He starts the truck and, with no way of knowing which way he’s going, puts all his weight on the gas, winding it up, and letting her go.
His vision is cleared from the sudden speed, but not quick enough for him to stop. Not quick enough to realize that the truck had been facing the gas station building. He drives directly into the storefront, his head hitting the steering wheel as the windshield cracks and the doors to the establishment give out, the wall demolished and crumbling from the impact. He doesn’t let it slow him down, holding his head as he throws the truck into reverse, debris sliding off the truck, a door being dragged right into the main street before giving.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Pete’s sake, fuck!” He screams to himself, his eyes wide from the damage he just caused, the fight he just survived, from being so close. MJ is just down the chosen road out of town. Miles is so close, so close.
The now broken headlights aren’t any help seeing in the night, but he’s hyper aware, he’s practically foaming at the mouth and he can see them. Crows, crows, fucking crows. A bit different from before, bigger than before. They are on the mannequin, poking holes into him. Miles' first thought is to leave him and the titles. His second thought is to give up. Luckily, Miles is a third thought kind of guy. He doesn’t hit the breaks and drives straight into the mannequin, sending him skidding down the road and the crows scattering. His belts are loosened and fall from the mannequin. Miles still drives forward, the tires bumping over the belts harshly and reaching MJ before stopping.
He hops out of the truck, running to the mannequin. “MJ! MJ, I’m sorry! Come on!”
Grabbing the mannequin and stuffing him into the passenger side, Miles looks down the road. He hears faint cawing of birds. The hairs in the back of his head stand up. It sounds like they’re calling his name. He scrambles to the ground to grab his titles, the cawing getting slightly louder. He rushes back to the truck with his gold, slamming the door and speeding forward.
“Holy cow, holy cow, I’m so. MJ, I’m. We have to make it, we’re going to make it. What happens if we don’t? We will! Shut up! God!” Miles slams at the steering wheel, the crows getting louder and the feeling of dread within him piling up. But he’s so close. Goddammit, Miles, you’re so close. He can't keep quiet, he can't relax. Fuck, relax!
They’re almost out when the tires screech from him stopping. Miles looks so defeated, gutted, swaying in his seat with an iron grip on the steering wheel, as he looks upon the giant mass of birds blocking the way out of town. In the darkness of the night, the suffocating shadows of the road, they look grotesque and morphed into one as they fly and climb over each other. Their cries are deafening.
Miles decides he has nothing to lose.
“Hold on, MJ.” He says and drives straight into the behemoth of creatures and gets swallowed completely.
The crack of the windshield spiders from the force of the collision, growing from the bodies of the crows hitting against it. He can’t see anything but darkness, his view obstructed by the feathers and splattering blood of the birds. He couldn’t hear anything but them. It fills his ears until the sound of the windshield finally shattering takes their place before a steady ring.
“Whoa!” someone yelps beside him, when he lifts his head from the steering wheel. It takes him a moment to process everything. The truck hit a tree, the metal of the vehicle digging into his rib and side dramatically. Miles groans, crying out when he attempts to move.
“Miles?” He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even pay attention. Screaming through clenched teeth and a bleeding mouth, he stretches his body to lean down and pull at handle under the seat, miraculously pushing the seat back and freeing him from the metal death trap.
Miles catches his breath, his vision blurry and his head swimming. His head is bleeding, his body is bleeding, he feels like gagging. The truck is smoking. The truck is fucking smoking.
Miles climbs onto a body in the passenger side. Crawling over them to escape the truck. He hits the dirt miserably. The body follows behind him and he rolls onto his back, confusion hitting him.
“Where are we?”
He didn’t say that. He finally looks at the person. An older guy, a rough beard, a plain face despite it. Climbing right out of the seat where MJ had been sitting. The man leans down to look at him. Roughed up, standing either way.
“You alright?! We should start walking, I don't know where we are!”
Miles stares at him for a moment, climbing onto his elbows.
“MJ?” He nearly sobs. The man smiles at him and waves.
“Miles! Hi! You look pretty bad!” MJ smiles enthusiastically. Miles gives him a small smile, laying back down on the ground. Tears gather in his goggles, overwhelmed by his success. He did it, he escaped. He throws an arm over his head, pounding.
“Grab. Grab my phone from the bag in the back, please.” Miles hiccups and stutters. MJ gives him a thumbs up.
“Sure thing!”
Miles uses the moment to sit up, calm himself, grabbing tightly at his side while he waits. He feels so exhausted, he could sleep just like that. His breathing slows and his eyelids become heavy, only shaking awake again when MJ speaks.
“Uh! Oh! It doesn’t turn on! Miles! Look!” The phone is shoved in his face. He grabs it and tries to turn it on himself, sighing when it won’t give. He climbs to his feet and slips the phone in his pocket, limping to the still smoking truck to grab his bag and tie the broken handle across his chest. He flinches at the contact with his ribs, gathering himself before retrieving his titles and the keys. He hands the belts to MJ, who puts them on without being asked.
Miles looks at MJ, for too long, slowly accepting this new reality. He digs in his pocket, placing the finger bone between his teeth. Jack’s name tag is still clipped to the shirt. “Come on, start walking.”
And they walk down the road. Miles pushing forward despite his injuries. MJ is excited about his new life and talks too much, letting his human lean against him as he walks him with support in the same way Miles used to. Miles removes the goggles from his eyes, sensitive from the building moisture. He blinks a few times, taking the new world in.
“Huh.” Miles huffs out.
For a second, it doesn’t feel any different.
Today, that story takes place. Or not today, or even the day before. Maybe it’s been a week or two or three. Time doesn’t matter too much. Tomorrow has as much meaning as today in Red Cliff.
So, yes. Today. Tonight.
Tonight, where Miles stands at the entrance of the gas station lot. He watches as, feet away, he can make out the chariot of his escape; an old truck, belonging to Jack. Jack, who will stay asleep late into the afternoon tomorrow, when Miles is long gone.
Should this all work out, of course, because the worn vehicle is surrounded by crows. Black perched all over, they have been waiting for him. They flap their wings and twitch in anticipation of his next move. Naturally, from what we know of him, Miles should be twitching as well. The sight alone should send him into a cold, damp sweat. His anxiety should be spiking. He should be ripping his skin and making a swift return to his hotel room, back into bed where the unsuspecting gas station attendant slept soundly, unaware of his near abandonment.
However, Miles isn’t quite himself. There’s a determination behind his scowl toward the birds, a hatred that bubbles evenly into a furious calmness, a finger bone between his teeth. He isn’t turning back, he isn’t going back to that motel. He will never see Jack again. He won’t spend another day in Red Cliff. He won’t die here, he won’t be devoured, he won’t be buried. He decided it weeks ago and solidified it in his mind moments ago, moments after swallowing an eyeball with bloody hands, the exact moment he dug his dirty fingers into willing hips, the moment after untangling himself from the man clinging to him.
“I love you, Jack. I’m sorry.”
Miles had dressed so quickly, rushing to leave while trying to be as quiet as possible. He was practically vibrating when he was snatching clothes from the floor, not realizing then that they were Jack’s clothes. Jack’s clothes that he threw knee pads over, an old brown leather jacket, junk and gear and goggles. He still doesn’t realize it. It’s a good thing, because Miles is always just hanging by a string. He would fall apart if he knew how easily the two of them fit around each other.
“I love you too. What are you sorry for?”
He had a single bag to leave, it was all he needed. There was a mannequin waiting for him near a gas station, with two belts wrapped around its waist. Everything else he valued, was in the bag. Junk and treasures, a fidget spinner and a tuft of hair. He took too long, probably. Too long to get it all together, too long to find his shit in the dark, too keep quiet and not wake up the light at the end of the fanged fish. He knew he took too long, he fucking knew it, and he still hesitated when he reached the table to steal Jack’s keys to the truck, the gas station and anything else that was locked and needed him.
Why? Well, he isn’t sure. Maybe he was waiting for the floor to open up and drag him to the center of the earth. Maybe for the town to come alive and fold in on itself in a shuddering scream, or for his skin to shed and for him to evaporate from the sheer audacity of planning an escape. Or, worse yet, maybe he waited because he wanted Jack to wake up and stop him.
Yeah, that was it. Everything to fall apart at once, before he had a chance to do it himself. It’s a strange thing, when people wait to be stopped. He gave him a chance. It could’ve happened, he was at his most fragile. He stood in the dark then, sweating and on the verge of screaming, he couldn’t move as he shook in place. Miles in Miles fashion was having an existential crisis and second thoughts while possibilities of the worst flushed through his head. This wasn’t new, but it couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time.
But Jack had slept like the dead and Miles slowly, in fear, looked at his peaceful expression.
“I don’t know. I just am.”
Miles frowned when he did. He was terrible, he knew it. He was a horrible person. He was selfish and he couldn’t stop it, not now. Jack was always willing to stay with him, always handing him comfort and touches and warmth. Jack never judged him. Jack never told him how he should behave. Jack was the best person he knew. He dealt with Miles and all the terrible things that come along with who Miles was.
And maybe that was because Jack didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. Jack didn’t want Miles to go. He would carry it all for another day. Miles was a piece of shit, he knew it and he still does, because he would never sell himself for an ounce of comfort. He would never wear the chains of this prodding town for Jack. Miles didn’t know what lonely felt like, he’ll never understand. He’ll never trust it.
Jack was here and has been here for as long as he has for a reason and he just wanted someone there with him. Miles was hit then, like a train going through his gut, with a realization that sent him back into motion. He closed himself off, fought off any doubts and his mind scrambled back into place. Anger and paranoia fueled him to finally leave the motel room. Of course, he grabbed his shovel by the door before leaving because while you can replace a person, you can’t replace a good shovel.
Miles, like he has done a million times before, talked himself into abandoned Jack.
“Hey, it’s okay… I’ll stay with you.”
And now here stands Miles, a leg shaking in place as his adrenaline begins to spike in his already boiling blood. The shovel is balanced across his shoulder as he takes deep breaths. His realization back in the room turning the fear he feels into something else entirely, something sloshing his head.
He’s either part of Jack’s punishment or Miles is being punished himself.
Neither option sits well with him. This town is a prison, he’s been fucking his cellmate while the guy’s serving life. Jack is a trap. Jack will say anything to keep him in place, so he’s not the only one. Did he love Jack? No, he takes it all back
Fuck Jack, he’s getting the hell out of here.
So, standing there in the polo work uniform of the man he just fucked, looking like absolute shit, hasn’t showered since his match, covered in blood, nose fucked, with the slight feeling of betrayal in his heart, just enough to justify his own, Miles becomes still. One last exhale, he removes the shovel from his shoulder, digging it slightly into the ground in front of him. One bandaged hand keeps it balanced, while the other pulls goggles down over his eyes. He takes the bone from his mouth, stuffing it into his pocket before grabbing a hold of the shovel, gripping it tightly in front of him as the crows watch nervously.
Miles suddenly roars from where he stands, breaking out into a full sprint toward the truck. The crows seem to have fully expected him to retreat, surprised as they scatter to avoid a wild swing from Miles. The shovel doesn’t hit a single bird, denting the truck loudly upon the hood he hammered down on. He doesn’t miss a beat, though, quickly changes hands and spinning with enough momentum to swing lowly with his hips. A few of the birds rising to get away from the ground gruesomely introduced to the full force of the shovel, one exploding into feathers upon impact while a couple more sail from the scene.
The crows begin to shriek into the night and, understanding the situation and his intentions, turn back to him. All at once, the crowd swarms him. They fly around him and peck at him, talons digging into the worn leather jacket and pulling, ripping into the shoulders, snapping at the goggles in search of eyes, his face being clawed at and dressed with fresh blood. Miles is flailing and swinging the shovel desperately, crows being hit in every direction. Still, it’s overwhelming and they stab at his hands, pulling at the shovel.
He loses his grip and in trying to regain it, he loses his balance. He stumbles to the ground, but he’s back up before he knows it, before he can even force himself to. Miles is a survivalist at heart, Miles will die one day swinging. Just not today. He swats at the birds, ripping the bag from his back to use as a weapon, sending them away long enough to throw the bag in the bed, taking off his jacket and throwing it over his head by the time they were on him again. He can hear his heartbeat and his breathing as he attempts to unlock the old truck. His hands won’t stop shaking from the pressure of it all. The crows take his jacket and go for his turned back, ripping at his shirt, sending their beaks into him and their talons craving skin.
Finally, the lock gives and he rushes inside the truck, a single crow following in behind him and wasting no time to attack.
“Cripes!” He yells out in pain and frustration. The crow completely sacrificed itself to the cause, Miles smacking it so hard it bounced against the glass and landed near the pedal, where he stomped it mercilessly for too long. Way too long, until he started crying, until the crows are perched on the truck again and blacken his view. Which way was the truck facing? In all the commotion, he didn’t notice. Fuck.
Miles lifts his goggles for a moment to wipe the tears from his dirty face, cursing to himself, snapping them back and shaking his head. He looks ahead at nothing, emotionally, devastatingly. Something is crushed within him at that very moment and he doesn’t know what, but it was replaced with the drive to move forward. He starts the truck and, with no way of knowing which way he’s going, puts all his weight on the gas, winding it up, and letting her go.
His vision is cleared from the sudden speed, but not quick enough for him to stop. Not quick enough to realize that the truck had been facing the gas station building. He drives directly into the storefront, his head hitting the steering wheel as the windshield cracks and the doors to the establishment give out, the wall demolished and crumbling from the impact. He doesn’t let it slow him down, holding his head as he throws the truck into reverse, debris sliding off the truck, a door being dragged right into the main street before giving.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Pete’s sake, fuck!” He screams to himself, his eyes wide from the damage he just caused, the fight he just survived, from being so close. MJ is just down the chosen road out of town. Miles is so close, so close.
The now broken headlights aren’t any help seeing in the night, but he’s hyper aware, he’s practically foaming at the mouth and he can see them. Crows, crows, fucking crows. A bit different from before, bigger than before. They are on the mannequin, poking holes into him. Miles' first thought is to leave him and the titles. His second thought is to give up. Luckily, Miles is a third thought kind of guy. He doesn’t hit the breaks and drives straight into the mannequin, sending him skidding down the road and the crows scattering. His belts are loosened and fall from the mannequin. Miles still drives forward, the tires bumping over the belts harshly and reaching MJ before stopping.
He hops out of the truck, running to the mannequin. “MJ! MJ, I’m sorry! Come on!”
Grabbing the mannequin and stuffing him into the passenger side, Miles looks down the road. He hears faint cawing of birds. The hairs in the back of his head stand up. It sounds like they’re calling his name. He scrambles to the ground to grab his titles, the cawing getting slightly louder. He rushes back to the truck with his gold, slamming the door and speeding forward.
“Holy cow, holy cow, I’m so. MJ, I’m. We have to make it, we’re going to make it. What happens if we don’t? We will! Shut up! God!” Miles slams at the steering wheel, the crows getting louder and the feeling of dread within him piling up. But he’s so close. Goddammit, Miles, you’re so close. He can't keep quiet, he can't relax. Fuck, relax!
They’re almost out when the tires screech from him stopping. Miles looks so defeated, gutted, swaying in his seat with an iron grip on the steering wheel, as he looks upon the giant mass of birds blocking the way out of town. In the darkness of the night, the suffocating shadows of the road, they look grotesque and morphed into one as they fly and climb over each other. Their cries are deafening.
Miles decides he has nothing to lose.
“Hold on, MJ.” He says and drives straight into the behemoth of creatures and gets swallowed completely.
The crack of the windshield spiders from the force of the collision, growing from the bodies of the crows hitting against it. He can’t see anything but darkness, his view obstructed by the feathers and splattering blood of the birds. He couldn’t hear anything but them. It fills his ears until the sound of the windshield finally shattering takes their place before a steady ring.
“Whoa!” someone yelps beside him, when he lifts his head from the steering wheel. It takes him a moment to process everything. The truck hit a tree, the metal of the vehicle digging into his rib and side dramatically. Miles groans, crying out when he attempts to move.
“Miles?” He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even pay attention. Screaming through clenched teeth and a bleeding mouth, he stretches his body to lean down and pull at handle under the seat, miraculously pushing the seat back and freeing him from the metal death trap.
Miles catches his breath, his vision blurry and his head swimming. His head is bleeding, his body is bleeding, he feels like gagging. The truck is smoking. The truck is fucking smoking.
Miles climbs onto a body in the passenger side. Crawling over them to escape the truck. He hits the dirt miserably. The body follows behind him and he rolls onto his back, confusion hitting him.
“Where are we?”
He didn’t say that. He finally looks at the person. An older guy, a rough beard, a plain face despite it. Climbing right out of the seat where MJ had been sitting. The man leans down to look at him. Roughed up, standing either way.
“You alright?! We should start walking, I don't know where we are!”
Miles stares at him for a moment, climbing onto his elbows.
“MJ?” He nearly sobs. The man smiles at him and waves.
“Miles! Hi! You look pretty bad!” MJ smiles enthusiastically. Miles gives him a small smile, laying back down on the ground. Tears gather in his goggles, overwhelmed by his success. He did it, he escaped. He throws an arm over his head, pounding.
“Grab. Grab my phone from the bag in the back, please.” Miles hiccups and stutters. MJ gives him a thumbs up.
“Sure thing!”
Miles uses the moment to sit up, calm himself, grabbing tightly at his side while he waits. He feels so exhausted, he could sleep just like that. His breathing slows and his eyelids become heavy, only shaking awake again when MJ speaks.
“Uh! Oh! It doesn’t turn on! Miles! Look!” The phone is shoved in his face. He grabs it and tries to turn it on himself, sighing when it won’t give. He climbs to his feet and slips the phone in his pocket, limping to the still smoking truck to grab his bag and tie the broken handle across his chest. He flinches at the contact with his ribs, gathering himself before retrieving his titles and the keys. He hands the belts to MJ, who puts them on without being asked.
Miles looks at MJ, for too long, slowly accepting this new reality. He digs in his pocket, placing the finger bone between his teeth. Jack’s name tag is still clipped to the shirt. “Come on, start walking.”
And they walk down the road. Miles pushing forward despite his injuries. MJ is excited about his new life and talks too much, letting his human lean against him as he walks him with support in the same way Miles used to. Miles removes the goggles from his eyes, sensitive from the building moisture. He blinks a few times, taking the new world in.
“Huh.” Miles huffs out.
For a second, it doesn’t feel any different.