(no subject)

[alls-fair-in.livejournal.com]

A black Ford F-350 pickup truck moves along a narrow unpaved road towards the Cooper Farm. The exterior is a mess of cracked glass, dents, bullet holes, scratched paintwork and mud spatter, but it seems to be running smoothly. In the back, a more pristine-looking motorbike is held in place by bungee cords and a large pile of duffel bags, gas cans and other outdoor survival gear. There's also a tool box behind the cab, containing a sizable arsenal of guns, explosives and ammunition, and one very hi-tech bow. It's clear that this vehicle has been on the road for quite some time.

Jamie's at the wheel, keeping a sedate speed and tapping along lazily to a Steve Miller Band song. Eleanor is dozing in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard.

Since their arrival and subsequent alien encounter in Nebraska eight months ago, the two of them have conducted a fairly thorough tour of the United States: northerly parts in the fall and warmer climes during the winter. In that time, Jamie has learnt how to drive automatics and stick shifts, and Eleanor has figured out what his 'episodes' are, and how best to control them. They've roughed it at times, at others they've taken advantage of civilian abandonment, and there've been plenty of monsters, fights and adventures along the way. It was only a few days ago that Jamie accidentally tuned in to Barbara's automated radio transmission and discovered the existence of the Kansas safe-zone. They decided to check it out.

The truck hits a deep pothole as it enters the main yard of the farm. Eleanor's head thumps against the side window, jarring her awake.

"...Ow," she mumbles, eyes still closed. "Nice road. Are we there yet?"


[OOC: Two pups, two muns. Tag either or both.]

(no subject)

[tobeclosetohim]

She lost track of the days but the light comes all the same, rudely interrupting and cruelly abandoning. Her weapons are pilled in the front room, where the floor is littered with food boxes and alcohol bottles acquired but left untouched. There's a sharpness lingering throughout the unaired rooms.

Jo herself is sitting on her bed, dressed in the clothes she put on after stitches a week ago, her arm around her knees, staring at one open hand. In the palm of it is a small shining trinket. A bright green four leaf clover held between two thin layers of glass and rounded in a loop of gold.

"Help," she whispers, the sound more of a wheezed croak of notes caught in her chest.

The gold band snaps and the glass shatters, the clover looking suddenly brilliant summer green.

Jo set her chin on her knees, moving her gaze to her boots, listening to the even keel of her breath. But no other noises sounded, and when she looked back to her palm the clover was half shriveled from the outside headed further in while the glass pieces were shrinking.

Glass embedded against green and pink skin inside a closed fist, as she murmured to her boots and dust was left in her palm. "Not your lucky penny anymore."