Shrike does a few side hops in front of the mirror. The backpack holding the battery is secured snugly, and the battery does not move around inside it. Efficient. Unnoticeable.
She leaves the gloves and hat inside the backpack as well. Obtrusive. Her skin tone is very fair, but not in an unsettling way anymore. More of a "stays at home all the time" complexion than a "haunts the forbidden woods" one.
She is ready for the mission.
Martin checks the mirror in his room. He looks good. Normal looking on the surface, but with A9 cut resistant gloves in his pockets, the uniquely loaded revolver hidden in his new jacket, four separate knives across his body, five different color-coded concoctions in bear spray canisters, salt, a small grappling hook he has yet to find an excuse to use, an expensive multitool, a flashlight...
He takes a baseball-sized black sphere as well. Just in case. He hopes he never has to, but Stolatz made a convincing case for bringing it with him whenever there was a mission like this.
He's ready, too.
It's a long drive to Zions. The Jeep's custom made expanded tank is filled, and the highway is barren at the moment. Lots of time to think, to observe, to listen, to take in the beauty of the endless landscape.
Or, as Moth initiated, ask dumb questions to pass the time.
"I believe it to be my turn. What do you three believe I would taste like?" Shrike smiles in the back seat, looking at Ferret in the front, and Moth next to her.
Martin answers first, after a bit of a pause. "Probably... overcooked deer. Tough, lean, and dry."
"I know it's obvious," Moth replies, "but she has to be spicy, right?"
"I bet she tastes like whatever the last thing she ate was," Ferret says. "My turn? Okay, you see space aliens come out of a flying saucer, one of them hands you a Blackberry Fresca, and says 'Gleeble Glooble Fresca Glarble.' Do you tell anyone?"
Martin clucks his tongue in thought. "I'd probably send an anonymous letter to Fresca saying that I'm on to them."
Ferret laughs. "You think Fresca is part of the conspiracy?"
"Yeah. You can't tell me that aliens would actually choose Blackberry Fresca as their first choice."
Moth takes a sip from a water bottle, shaking it a bit while thinking about Fresca. "That's true, but maybe its a threat in their language. Like, take us to your leader or drink this Blackberry Fresca."
"Perhaps," adds Shrike, "the aliens invented Blackberry Fresca, and it is an failed attempt to integrate with humanity without understanding human taste. I have sampled it once, and I can attest that I do not find it enjoyable. If it appeals to neither human nor kynde, it leaves only one option in this scenario."
Moth nearly chokes on her water when she laughs. "That's the one."
Martin swerves to the right on the empty road, wheels kicking up dust as he frantically corrects the Jeep back onto the highway. "Damn it..." He pulls off the highway into the dirt. "Someone's gotta switch. I'm drifting off. Long drives always make me tired."
"Sorry, but I'm the official navigator," Ferret says with a smirk. "We're going straight for a while, by the way."
Moth pretends to be asleep, even though she was just talking thirty seconds ago.
Without a word, Shrike steps out of the Jeep, and around to the driver's seat. She helps Martin out, and sits down. So strange, she thinks, to sit so close to the front window.
Ferret twists his mouth. "Are you certain you know how to drive?"
"Yes. The lights on the dashboard are moderately annoying, but dim enough to not impair my ability. So long as I am not driving at night with the headlights on, this is... possible." She gives a thumbs up, a newly learned gesture, before stepping on the gas. The engine roars in place, before she instinctually remembers to take it out of park.
Ferret holds his face in his hands. "We're going to die, but it's better than me driving. Good luck, Shrike."
"For the love of God, Shrike, please go faster." Ferret watches a fourth car pass her. There aren't even four cars in view.
"I am unlicensed and will obey the speed limit to prevent being pulled over."
"You're going 70 on a perfectly straight road with no one around. Also, the speed limit is 80, not 70."
"Strange. My instinctive understanding was 65 or 70."
"Your mind is, like, 10 years out of date. Fascinating research topic generally, incredibly annoying here."
"I apologize. I will increase to meet the posted limit." She presses down on the pedal slightly, releasing the instant the speedometer hits 80.
Ferret checks his phone. "My bad, Shrike, speed limit here is 90."
"Very well."
Ferret considers pushing it to 95, but that's probably tempting fate.
Shrike pulls into a hotel parking lot as the sun begins to set. They're only a few miles from Zion National Park, but this kind of hunt is best left for daytime. The four of them pile out of the car in front of the obvious tourist hotspot, and into the particularly clean lobby. The concierge welcomes them in, and has two rooms with two beds each prepared. Moth and Shrike take one, Martin and Ferret take the other. It's a practical measure: Shrike is nearly impossible to wake lately, while Moth is both a light sleeper and willing to kick the kynde awake if needed. Ferret is a late sleeper, Martin is an early riser. If they for any reason are attacked, it's the ideal arrangement.
Moth flops onto the clean-smelling bed, ordering room service for them both, assuming Shrike isn't picky. Shrike tries to figure out how the shower works, but can't figure out the obtuse single lever and knob design. She eventually gives up when the food arrives, and eats with Moth, wistfully thinking about hot water.
Martin and Ferret discuss food immediately, deciding that room service made the most practical sense, and have it delivered to the door. Ferret insists it be a no-contact dropoff, and inspects the food carefully once it arrives. He confirms it hasn't been tampered with before both start eating. Ferret knows its overkill, but he's gotten into the habit of checking, and not doing it makes him nervous.
Moth flips through TV channels aimlessly, while Shrike argues with her phone about playing music she knows exists, but the phone doesn't seem to know.
Ferret takes first watch, naturally, being a night owl. Martin falls asleep quickly using an old military method, learned from his original training
Moth and Shrike discuss the logistics of getting a pizza delivered to a hotel at midnight.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Ferret keeps his eyes on the door, a standard issue pistol in his lap. Nothing like Martin's gun, but loud enough to wake the muscle if needed.
Moth jokes about Shrike being part cat due to sleeping on the floor in a pile of blankets. Shrike retorts that Moth is part bitch for needing a bed. Both laugh between bites of pizza, a rare sound for Shrike to make.
Ferret switches with Martin, who sets a simple proximity alarm up outside the door, and watches the window.
By morning, the two groups link back up, Moth and Shrike looking well rested and relaxed, Ferret and Martin looking prepared and tired.
The Jeep pulls through the service gate for Zion, on its way through a back road that follows the trails. The Jeep leaves deep tracks on the dirt, adding to the ruts that have grown from the vehicles that passed through before.
The park is massive, a beautiful valley swallowed by red sandstone mountains, vast riparian zones that follow ever changing rivers, deciduous and coniferous forests meeting desert towards the south. For this, hunt, though, they're stuck to the slot canyons: deep, claustrophobic crags formed by water eroding through the relatively soft sandstone.
The four hunters move together as one unit. They cover far less ground, but with an unknown target that has killed at least three, it is the only sensical decision. Splitting up means death.
"Anything on the thermals?" Martin asks.
"Lotta rocks. Shrike?" Ferret turns to Shrike.
"My heat sensing does not work across more than twenty or so feet. Regardless, I sense nothing."
"All I got so far was two snakes, a prairie dog, and three kinds of birds." Moth says. "Nothing of note."
"It's a big place, but I'm fairly certain it's still here. The deaths were across a fairly narrow territory, and separated by weeks. I checked the bodies myself, all were probably attacked from behind by something with big teeth." Ferret says.
"Can we entirely rule out natural causes? Mountain lion? Bear? What points to it being a magical beast?" Moth asks.
"Because a mountain lion or a bear won't take the head and leave the rest. They eat what they kill. They don't do it for sport."
An old piece of knowledge breaks into Martin's mind. "Reminds me of that valley up in Canada. Nahanni, right?"
"Yeah. They never figured that one out. It was before beast hunting was an actual profession, though." Ferret goes back to the thermal imager, just in case the target is invisible to the naked eye."
"If requested, I can maintain a small protected area at the back of everyone's neck. The sun is bright enough and this outfit warm enough that I can provide it passively, including when asleep."
"Hell yeah, then! Speaking of outfit, what are you wearing, anyway?" Moth asks, looking at the faintly lumpy jogging suit.
"She's wearing a ridiculously overpriced heating coil someone stuffed into a shirt and pants. That backpack is literally just a hat, gloves, and a giant battery."
"Partially incorrect. I have stolen several iced teas from our hotel that upon resting on the active battery for a half hour more will be a hot tea."
"$4000, if anyone's curious."
The sun slowly sets, the day being completely fruitless. They hiked up and down the canyons all day with nothing to show for it. Shrike in particular looks exhausted after eight hours, though neither Ferret or Martin are doing great. Moth is the only one that isn't trudging along, seemingly with boundless energy. At a particularly wide junction, Shrike starts a campfire, and the four quietly discuss watch while eating a bland dinner. The answer is Ferret, Moth, Shrike, Martin. An easy rotation.
Shrike lies down on a sleeping bag by the fire, while the others use tents. She makes sure the nearly invisible hexagons of light are still being placed directly at the back of each of the hunter's neck, and that each tent is within fifteen feet of her to ensure everyone is in range. She's exhausted, but being surrounded by so many capable people is... comforting. Soothing. The warmth, vast light stores... everything. Still, she keeps the barriers up, making sure she falls asleep with her mind set to maintaining the current projections.
Ferret checks his watch. Almost time for the shift change. A warm breeze blows behind him down the slot canyon. Every other breeze has been a little cold. He grimaces as he turns.
Black hair, greasy, sticking to its skin. Black eyes, reflecting the fire. A mouth easily five feet across, filled with multiple rows of pointed, serrated teeth.
Ferret screams as it lunges out, mouth agape and encircling his head.
Moth sleeps with her submachine gun in her hands, and upon the scream, rolls out of her sleeping bag. She points it, no time for sigils.
A seven, maybe eight foot tall... flying head thing?
A pair of foul batlike wings extrude from its temples, flapping violently, as a loosely dangling spine flails from the monster's erratic jerking as if tries to bite down on Ferret's neck. Upper rows of teeth are blocked by sturdy golden light, while the lower rows are barely held at bay by Ferret's rapidly faltering arms pushing against its jaw, the edges of the sharp teeth slicing through them. The jaws are closing. Moth fires a concentrated wave of bullets at its eye that do little to hurt it, but startle it all the same, causing it to release Ferret.
Five shots from the loudest revolver Moth has ever heard pierce it monster, knocking it off balance, giving Moth ample time to cast the traditional sigil of hunting on the thick iron plate attached to her weapon: Imbalance, imbuing the bullets with a magic that drains itself, and the target's with it, leaving both bullet and target entirely bound by physical laws. More commonly known as disruption rounds, mostly to spare the explanation every time someone asks.
A spray of bullets go through its eye, wetly plopping as they lodge into the black orbs, blood bubbling out of each new hole while the giant head wails in pain it hasn't felt before.
Martin's shots had set the creature off balance. Were bullets to the brain not enough to kill it? No, they worked, otherwise it wouldn't be reeling like that. Clearly, he rationalizes, he only needs to keep firing into the monster. It's illuminated by the rippling fire, so its no trouble keeping it in sight. He reloads.
The monster attempts to fly away, yelling something in a language none of the hunters speak. It darts around, unsteady, leaking blood and cerebral fluid.
Ferret regains his composure. He can deal with his arms and hands being shredded later. Right now, he needs to stop it from fleeing, as once it passes the edge of the slot canyon it can go right back to skulking until it recovers. It's a big floating head, so it has to be the appropriately named Flying Head, an Iroquian curse. Had to have spread west, maybe it followed a group? No, it attacks randomly, victims weren't connected... Original host must be dead, the curse cut loose, no one specific for it to focus on.
"Moth, Tether!" Ferret shouts.
She immediately starts the sigil for Tether: to tightly bind an unanchored curse to a new host: the caster. Moth fires a single shot into the Flying Head, linking it to herself. The curse immediately turns around, flying straight for her with an open mouth. Six more shots from Martin's revolver ring out, two striking the rapidly flapping wings, causing the head to careen into the dusty wall of the slot canyon, smashing its skull into the rock with a loud splat. Moth recasts the Imbalance sigil, and empties the remainder of her magazine into it. She empties a second magazine as well, just to be safe.
Shrike finally wakes up, confused by all the noise and groggy with sleep, and now by a dead giant head with wings housing dozens and dozens of bullet holes. She sleepily meanders over to Ferret, whose arms are shredded by the Flying Head.
"Is this a particularly dangerous series of wounds for a human?" She asks him. He looks down, and nods rapidly before looking away as Martin scrambles for the first aid kit. Unfortunate, she thinks, as she starts the process. With a white hot flame emitting from two fingers, she cauterizes the worst of the bleeding, before dismissing it. Ferret is in extreme pain, but the alternative is death, therefore her actions are justifiable and not strange.
She's so tired. She can barely think. Where even is she? She looks at the strange arms she's holding. Not bleeding too badly, probably. Just needs pressure. She says as much to Martin, before falling back asleep next to the fire.
She wakes up periodically over the next few days, for a few minutes to an hour at a time. She is groggy, confused, tired. Always wanting to go back to sleep. Precious, quiet sleep. Reprieve. Waiting.
She wakes up five days after the flying head, suddenly alert. She fell asleep on her arm, leaving it numb, pulling her out of her slumber. Martin is in the kitchen, judging by the noise. Shrike goes to meet him there. Martin looks tired as well, eating a half-assed sandwich that's dropping mustard-covered browning lettuce. He looks over at Shrike, smiling broadly at seeing her awake finally. "Hey Shrike, better?"
"I am unsure. Ferret is alive?"
"Nothing a doctor couldn't fix. Apparently cauterization isn't just a movie trope. Great job, Shrike you probably saved his life." He nods in approval.
"I understand it is an incredibly painful process for humans to endure."
"Yeah, but he'll be fine. Why did you not wake up from all the gunfire? Do you need more light or something?"
"I was on the edge of hibernation without realizing it." She remembers it usually isn't a gradual process, but she'd been intentionally ignoring the instinct for a while now.
"Oh." He waits for Shrike to offer the solution. Hopefully its something simple.
Shrike turns her head away from Martin, struggling to meet his gaze for a reason she can't identify. "Yes. I believe it is time."
"Wait, what?"
"Unfortunately, it is time to hibernate again. You have been a gracious host, and I would like to thank you for-"
Martin jumps up from his chair, knocking it over fast enough that it bounces against the tile floor. Shrike steps back, startled, heavy eyes going wide as she tries to process his look of anguish.
"Why are you displeased?" She asks, unsteadily.
"Because you're saying you're going to leave, just like that! I thought I was your partner, your friend, not just a 'gracious host'!" They've shared every damn meal together for two months, and she's going to give up? Just like that?
"My hibernation period was established early into our arrangement. I do not see the conflict between us." She flexes her fingers a few times, shifting uncomfortably. Where is this coming from? She had expected anger or sorrow as a strong possibility, but not so intensely.
"I know you're not one for people, but god damn it. Do you even care about your friends here? About me? I sure as hell care about you." A bit childish for him to ask, he thinks, but for God's sake. Shrike's not a human, but she has to have some level of attachment to people. Or maybe, it was just wishful thinking, and too much humanization. No, he can't believe that...
Shrike takes a moment to think it over, as broadly as she can. Does she care about Martin, in the way he cares about her? She likely won't remember him upon waking next, but she does enjoy his company in the present. She also completely trusts him, as he's shown again and again to be reliable. Still, this is a simple need, one that can't be avoided as far as she knows, not an active choice. Perhaps his grief is a human nuance, and due to living a singular long instance only interrupted by sleep, companions are seen as more permanent? Whichever explanation it is, its making his eyes start to water.
"Please stop." She knows its futile, but she feels compelled to say something. Anything.
"You may not be upset, but I am. Dammit, no warning so I could find another partner, even, and do something fun with you as a sendoff. Why are you doing this now, out of nowhere? It's been less than two months!"
Why indeed, she thinks, for a different reason than Martin's alien mind does. She understands the emotions individually, and experiences them all to some degree, but he is displeased because he will not see her again. Did he not receive enough value? Is it romantic love? Is it human attachment, like to a pair of worn shoes? Perhaps simple friendship and companionship? Regardless, it is unpleasant to see him so upset. Deeply unpleasant. "Please stop crying. It is making me unhappy as well."
Why is he openly sobbing? They had known each other for barely a fraction of a human's life. Why does it hurt her so much to see him like this? There are too many unanswered questions about this. It may be worth further investigation. She has not overstayed a hibernation like this before, to her knowledge. Perhaps it is worth attempting, if only to stop his mourning for the time being. "I am convinced, I request that you cease now. I will remain awake, as long as I can."
A hug now, his emotions shift quickly, like her own. She allows it. Feeling his strength. His slow-beating heart. His quiet sniffling. His humanity, all at once. She may not miss it once she hibernates, but right now, in this moment, this is worth experiencing.
