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Fog sets in during the early morning - it always has, always will. It weaves its way between pines, barricading either side of the road, no matter how it curves. Fog sets in during the early morning. Thoughts lose their form and become wispy, feelings become miasmas of impulse and buzz, and words in her mouth become groans and sighs and deep breaths.
Her feet are propped up on the dash - Jane hates that. Her cigarette isn't quite out the window enough to not get ash on the door handle - Jane hates that. The two of them are silent, and she can only really hope Jane hates it as much as her. But it's 4:30, the sun is only beginning to find its way up, and the moon still hangs in the sky, though set on a backdrop of searing oranges and muted cyans, rather than the pitch it was hanging on just hours earlier.
The twin moons of Home and New Home are hanging in the sky, and the both of them wish they were there, right now. Teleporter pads aren't difficult to make, but sometimes the preservation came first, for better or worse. None of the new gods are old enough to remember a time before highways, before alleyways, before interstates, before traffic laws. And so long, twisting roads carved through forests remain, pine tree canopies a topsoil that long-gone children with particularly malignant shovels dug roads into. Cars are strange to her. They're big metal boxes, that you fling at high speeds, sometimes just inches from cars going the other direction. There are no other cars now, though, she thought, it's safe to put a brick on the pedal and fly down this road in the middle of nowhere, feeling the danger of death for just a moment. She says as much to Jane, that she liked that thought. Jane liked it too, but only one of them was truly immortal now, and using Jane's resurrection for this would have been such a waste.
She pokes the dial for the radio, and it crackles to life, with the sound of a hazy Morning Station filling the empty air. It's not a very creative name for a show, but it's a legacy name. It's not a very good show, but it's a legacy show. She doesn't like it, Jane doesn't either. Jane scoffs and pokes the radio back, and the silence returns, thick and impenetrable as the fog they drive through. She sighs quietly, and kicks a bit of dirt off her shoes. They land on the dash, cascading their way into the fan vents, and moments later she flinches, the dirt flicking her face. Jane gives her a chuckle, and she loves it.
Acting out is how it goes, usually. The back and forth of the prankster's gambit, trading the same lone point back and forth. A bad idea, acknowledged yet returned unopened. She knows Jane cares about her, in her way, but it's tough to find. Even on the best of days, it rarely ever reaches exuberance, never joy. This is what she received from Cetus - the tranquility of a quiet life, and the chance to heal, her pieces put back together with golden lacquor. But even now, she longs for a joy that never existed, at least not where she could find it, lost in a fog impossible to see through.
What use is gold that does not shine?