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Well, I'm runnin’ down the road tryin’ to loosen my load
I got seven men on my mind

There's nothing wrong with a little improvisation. Not to Grace, anyway, since the radio in the police cruiser she'd taken seems to be on the fritz. She's already destroyed ‘Hard to Handle.’ Flicking cigarette ash out her window, she smirks at the long stretch of open road and kicks it up to 95. The engine hums along.

Four that want to own me
Two that want to save me
One says he's a friend of mine.

She's driving south on Interstate 35, toward Kansas City and Wichita. She hasn't run across anyone since Charlie, back in that weird town. There have, however, been some interesting craters in the road that she felt compelled to check out. Grace doesn't know what's going on, but she’s certain of two things: it makes sense to head for Oklahoma City, and this is somehow all Earl’s fault.

Take it eaaaaaaaaaaasy...

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"I'm pretty sure I've fought him," Dinah says thoughtfully. "On my own world. Here it's all dragons and orcs and walking plants."

Walking plants.

Grace briefly wonders if you can smoke them.

"Crazy. Guess it's a good thing I stole backup rounds. You want to ride with or will the Swamp Thing make off with your bike while we're gone?"

She's sick of her own singing.

Dinah glances at her bike, obviously torn.

Then, after a beat, she shrugs.

"When Lady Blackhawk gets back online I'll tell her to pick it up," she informs Grace, and vaults over the hood to ride shotgun.

"Where in Ok City are we heading for?"

Grace jumps into the driver's seat and pats the top of the window casing.

"A couple of places," is her answer. "The station. Then home."

She peels out.

"And the jail."

"OK," Dinah says, peering into the back seat in the hopes of finding some food.

"We looking for wnayone in particular?"

There's some beef jerky and a bag of chips rolling around the seat. It's not much. When under pressure, Grace prefers a liquid diet.

"Nah." Only everyone she knows. "Just signs it isn't my Oklahoma City. I think I know how I got here."

Why she's here is a different matter.

Chips are rejectes after Dinah checks the packet. She's not that hungry.

"That's more than anyone else knows. I just put it down to random interdimensional tears."

She's rather blase about it.

"Interdimensional tears sounds about right." But maybe this particular one wasn't random. Grace smirks and pushes the gas pedal to the floorboard, humming a recognizable tune about a particular Wicked Witch. "If he was gonna blow me into another dimension by tornado, he at least could've let me land on a bad guy."

"I bet you'll get your chance,"Dinah tells her. She has the passenger window wound right down and is part leaning out.

"you can even have any shoes we find. I don't look good in red."

A grin.

"I don't do pumps."

She likes her boots just fine, and the men don't seem to mind. In Oklahoma, nothing says sexy like a girl in cowboy boots and tight jeans.

Well, fishnets aren't bad, either.

"But if we run across a Porsche, I call dibs," she finishes, mouth twisting.

"And I'll take any Harleys," Dinah agrees. She thinks that's only fair.

"Deal."

Grace would shake on it, but she's busy lighting another cigarette.

"So, anything else I need to know? Like, are we going to get eaten by zombies if we stay out after dark?"

"Not if I can help it," Dinah says. "I have not seen any zombies, anyway. The worst are the humans acting out of fear, anyway."

"I'm not surprised," admits Grace, as her expression hardens. "Humans can be meaner than animals."

And she can't abide mean, even when it stems from fear. Fear is no excuse.

"But I'd rather shoot zombies."

"Mean's an interesting choice of word," Dinah says.

She's go for 'cruel'.

Yeah, that too. Along with several other words, like vicious. But 'mean' sticks in Grace's head, and maybe it's because for all the truly heinous crimes she sees, there are hundreds more petty, selfish and reprehensible actions committed by people who never see the inside of a jail cell.

It all makes her question heaven and hell.

She gives a shrug and tosses a smile to her right as she takes a drag on the cigarette, then quickly changes the subject.

They have to stop once to siphon gas from an abandoned car, but it's not long until things start to look familiar. For the most part, anyway. Grace falls silent as she cruises down a deserted boulevard, looking at the remnants of a taco stand in her rearview mirror.

Edited 2008-05-01 20:53 (UTC)

Dinah has by now succumbed to the temptation of chips, the bag of which is torn mostly open, resting in the well formed by her stomach and lap when her feet rest on the dashboard.

"Even there is anyone around, they're probably going to avoid strangers."

She's speaking from experience.

"Even cops?"

The question is low and offhand. She knows this neighborhood well enough to predict the answer. Grace frowns, looks back at the road and takes a turn too fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees a shadow lurking in an alley; when she turns to look, there's nothing there.

"This is weird, man."

Edited 2008-05-02 03:37 (UTC)

"Yeah, it does keep getting weirder."

Dinah's head follows another shadow, that just as clearly isn't there.

"Some cops have even stopped thinking of themselves like that."

"Don't think I could."

She's a Detective, first and foremost. It's who she is, how she thinks of herself.

Another turn, and she pulls into the station parking lot. Parking is a lot easier when you don't have to flash a badge or fight for a space; she takes up three.

"If nothing else, we'll get supplies." A glance at the crumpled packet of chips. "There's a vending machine outside Vice."

"Oh thank god," Dinah says, finishing off the last one. "There's just not enough to eat in this world."

To the first, as she gets out of the car, she shrugs.

"Neither could any of the good ones."

Grace smiles, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Heh. I'm not so good."

In some respects, anyway. There are several things she's quite good at, including her job, sex, shooting and catching food in her mouth.

...at least one of which will come very much in handy in the next few minutes.

The building already looks different, and that's before Grace leads Dinah past the front entrance to a side door and sees the way all the windows to the left are broken. Glass sparkles on the sidewalk, reflecting light from the jagged pieces still in their frames. "Shit," Grace comments, using her elbow to knock more glass from the window closest to the door. "Guess we don't need a key."

A non-committal half-shrug. Dinah's friends in the force have always been the best cops.

Her hands flex briefly when she sees the damage, and she glances to Grace's hips to check for a weapon.

"Better let me go first."

Dinah is very very definitely unarmed. There's no room for hidden weapons.

Grace raises an eyebrow.

"I'm the one with a gun," she notes, pulling her glock from where it was tucked into the back of her pants, holding it up for Dinah to see, "but be my guest."

Far be it from her to chastise impetuousness. Besides, Dinah did say she fought orcs. Those things are tough.

"I don't use guns," is all Dinah offers as an explanation. But she does tap her abdomen quickly to demonstrate the Kevlar built into her outfit.

Yeah, she tried a full bodysuit before. It didn't take.

Listening carefully, she reaches through the broken glass and opens the door quietly, wasting no time in stepping through.