Hi, I've recently come across some free-time again, and have decided to try another story.
Hopefully, I'll be able to keep updating regularly (fingers crossed).
Warnings will be added when new chapters posted.
Preview Chapter/"The End" Edit
The electro-pop's on and he's mostly stopped bleeding, so: good enough. His gloves are stiff with dried blood, cracked over the bends in his hands, the skin of the knuckles showing through the holes stained red. The jacket's trashed, made now of quilted grime, though the scorpion on the back still gleams.
Still, he's cleaner than the dog he finds when he pulls over to the side of the road.
With a soft grunt, still cradling his stomach, he gets out--even he needs to stretch sometimes and there's no inhabited place to be for sprawling miles--and looks the dog over. It's some lanky mutt, standing maybe two feet fall, covered in wet mud and dried blood, but it looks over hopefully and starts to get up.
"Down," he says hastily to the dog, guessing, "--boy. Down."
The dog goes down, filthy head resting on his paws.
The lanky guy driver looks over at him--he really isn't in the mood for more injuries right now; he's not sure his body can afford them--but then approaches slowly.
The dog wags his tail cautiously.
They look at each other for a few minutes.
"You running from something?" he asks, quietly, "Like me?"
There's nowhere to go but away, and the dog looks half starved and pretty wrecked. Sympathizing is pretty easy.
He lowers a still gloved hand, lets the dog sniff the leather, his skin. Warm and tentative, the dog's tongue licks at his knuckles. A head scratch and he takes his hand away: all the blood probably isn't good for a dog to eat.
His hands are pretty dirty.
So's the rest of him, really.
After wiping off his own face, he ends up shrugging off his wrecked jacket and using it to towel off the worst of the mud, then clicking his tongue to invite the dog in through an opened car door. The dog bounds in, then sits quietly, gazing out the window, then back at this new human.
He leaves the jacket at the side of the road, shredded, stained.
Sometimes scorpions shed.