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There are only a few things that can make the calm, sensible Cobalt Blackthorn lose all rationality in favor of displaying certain behavioral characteristics that must be imprinted in some underlying genetic code of the Asmond bloodline. Silas can count on two hands the number of specific events and people that can enrage the Wachter at a moment’s notice. He knows the stubbornness that borders on obsession- and might well pass it- in regards to anything even relatively related to metal-working. And he is more than happy to indulge in Cobalt’s feelings about him, particularly the feelings that tend to happen later in the evenings.
Then…then there is the matter of speed, whether it is achieved in a death-defying stoop down the Aruma Mountains or behind the wheel of some souped-up vehicle. Nothing quite gets Cobalt ramped up to the level of reckless euphoria that at one point Silas mistakenly thought only Ember Asmond herself was capable of achieving. This of course was before he’d seen her behind the wheel of the Blackthorn’s supply ship “Rum-Runner”. This was before he’d tried to match her pace as they’d dove and swooped through the valleys around Himlens Port in hot pursuit of the 2:30 train to Gryphon King City. This was before “FyreFly” was completed and the wheel handed off to one of the craziest pilots this side of the Veil. And it was most assuredly before Cobalt managed to get her hands on speed incarnate in the form of a heavily modified 1969 Shelby Mustang.
They’d come across the car in a literal scrapheap in southern Michigan, nothing left but sun-melted tires and a chassis that was in desperate need of attention. Glass smashed out by either time, weather, hooligans, or more likely all three. He’d barely noticed it in passing, but had felt the sudden smash of excitement reverberating out from his mate like a 50 megaton explosion. They had been looking for a suitable vehicle for Luke to do some tinkering with, at the time FyreFly had been on her second generation of engines and the young inventor was sure he could put just a bit more speed into the airship if he could figure out how to shrink a few components. Plus, it was becoming glaringly obvious that sometimes a quicker and more Earthen form of transportation was needed besides one’s own feet. They’d been aiming at something newer and certainly more intact…but Cobalt had taken one look at the veritable corpse of the machine buried in the late summer grass and had fallen head over heels for it.
And when one shares a piece of their very soul with another it is impossible to not get at least a little excited about the subject of their love’s attention.
Currently, Silas almost- almost regrets giving into his soulmate on this one.
The not-so-gasoline engine roars like a dragon, he can feel it vibrating up through the soles of his boots- one pressed to the dashboard, obliviously over the air-bag and the other stuffed somewhere between a duffel-bag and a picnic basket in the floorboard. He howls as the car lurches to the left, barely missing a pot-hole that could (in his mind) have very well snapped the suspension into at the speeds their traveling at. The clink of miraculously unbroken glass is drowned out by the enthusiastic melody of Shania Twain’s “You Win My Love”- the radio turned up so loud that it physically hurts a bit. But when he looks over at Cobalt who’s belting out the lyrics- eyes thankfully fully invested in the road ahead his heart melts into a familiar goopy pile of feelings…only one of which is the looming fear of death.
Over a ton of sky-blue metal streaks down the wide country roads, the shadows of trees passing over the cab so quickly that the resulting flashes of light and dark could easily bring on a seizure. Tires that at the start of the journey had been relatively intact are quickly being broken-in at a frightening pace, sliding across gravel as the Mustang drifts around a sharp turn and skirts the edge of a field of verdant green rice.
The smell of fertilizer and pesticides filters in from the vents along with the cool air-conditioning, at war with the sunlight which beams hot across the sleeve of his coat. His knuckles whitening as he clutches the grip affixed to the door. A fearful war-whoop is ripped from his lips as inertia mashes him against the door-frame as far as the seat-belt will allow. Cobalt’s answering cry is high-pitched and victorious, lost to the uncontainable joy of traveling at break-neck speeds.
Silas manages to right himself as the car fishtails and corrects to sprint down yet another straight-away, bordered by fields of beans and what looks to be the beginnings of corn. As his eyes travel down the road he spots far-off in the quickly approaching distance a familiar gleam of red.
“Stop sign!” He bellows playfully above the music and Cobalt glances over to give him a gleeful nod. Her long brown hair has begun to pull free of the ribbon she’s tied it back with and a few strands have stubbornly affixed themselves to her neck. He feels the car begin to slow, watches warily as the needle drops from ninety to eighty to seventy, and so on as the stop sign grows in size and clarity until it is no longer half-hidden by the haze of summer heat reflecting off the gravel. The car still skids a bit as they finally arrive at the odd country intersection and Silas takes the opportunity to remove his leg from the dash and shove it down beside the other. His aching muscles immediately relaxing in appreciation, he groans- stretching out as much as is possible in a vintage car with picnic supplies crowding your feet.
“Need a minute?” She asks, a concerned- yet pleased grin stretched across her face as she looks him over, he can feel her mentally examining him- searching for any sign of discomfort. In response he lets his thoughts flit in her direction…yes he’s a bit terrified- but at the same time it’s been an implausible amount of fun. Sort of like a highly dangerous and even more illegal roller coaster ride on a flat surface…the illegal bit is a tad odd for the likes of the two extra-dimensional law-enforcers, but hey a Ranger has to let loose every now and then, right?
“I’m fine…I- wait…I think someone’s coming?” He points out the window over Cobalt’s shoulder where a cloud of dust that had just barely been visible a second before is rapidly tearing along towards the intersection on the road that crosses theirs’s. “P-Perhaps back up a bit, Blue?” he asks, thinking back to the way he’s seen her tear around corners only moments before.
“Nah- they see us…they’re slowin’ down, Dove.” She reassures, a hand coming down to grip his own as he sees that, yes the black bullet of a vehicle is in-fact coasting to a stop.
Together they watch as the car approaches…the shape of it quickly revealing itself to be an even older looking thing than the Mustang with circular headlights and a long, low body. A pretty nickel-plated fender shines smartly in the southern sunlight, perfectly matching a very sharp-looking grill. Sleek black paint covers the hood and the sideboards that sweep elegantly up and over the front wheels further adding to that old-timey speed-demon theme, while the sides are a few tints lighter in a not-quite-charcoal-grey.
Cobalt lets out an appreciative wolf whistle, a bit louder than she’s intended if the look of surprise on her face is anything to go by when one of the passengers in the other car calls out.
“Not so bad yourself!” A shock of spiky red hair juts out from the window closest to them, the distinctly English accent catching both Gatekeepers by surprise, considering they’re currently sitting smack dab in the middle of some lazy Tennessee road (actually they’d crossed the Mississippi River some hours ago and had simply neglected to notice the blatantly Arkansan road signs.).
“Well…Thank ya!” Cobalt drawls, trying and failing obviously to come up with something better to say, but it’s apparently got nothing to do with the accent that Silas is still hung up on and everything to do with the car adjacent to them. “Is that a Bentley?” she calls out above the rumble of the engines, sticking her own head comically out of the window as well.
“She is! See Angel- I told you…” the rest is lost as the man’s head pops back into the cab of the vintage car to address whoever is riding along with him. The sun glares across the windshield so that it’s impossible to see into the cab, save through the rolled down window.
“I guess we’re not the only ones out joyriding today!” Cobalt laughs, arm hanging lazily out the window- he hears the thump of her hand patting the door like she would the neck of a rambunctious horse. For a second Silas feels a wave of weariness roll over him, a slight pounding headache in the base of his skull- more than likely brought on by moving at frightening speeds for well over an hour and sitting in a moving car…that is now not moving for longer than that. The hum of the a/c against his face battles wearily with the heat pouring in through Cobalt’s open window and the sun battering down through the glass. His tailbone hurts…now that he has an opportunity to realize it rather than struggling to keep himself from smacking into Cobalt or the passenger-side door. It’s vaguely disappointing…the adrenaline rush of flying down country roads seems to be something he likes more than he had realized and to have it tainted by physical discomfort is frustrating.
He’s about to say something about possibly pulling over for lunch somewhere and stretching their legs when the stranger’s head pops out of the car again. The sudden reappearance of their new acquaintance is immediately followed by the very loud revving of a gasoline engine…and though he can’t see the man’s eyes for the black-sunglasses perched on his nose, he can see the rather large grin stretched across his face.
Cobalt and Silas turn very slowly to look at each other, both have the same shared thought in the moment headache or no…stiff and numb buttcheeks or not…both are still slightly giddy with the forbidden fun they’ve been enjoying behind the wheel of the Mustang. Silas rolls down his window and flips the a/c off, sweat already beginning to bead on his brow as Cobalt eases down on the accelerator a rumbling purr ripping out from beneath the Mustang’s hood. A second later an answering roar issues from the Bentley and the man is pointing to the road in front of him and then to the road in front of them…an obvious question of which way they’ll be going.
Silas glances over at Cobalt and shrugs…in front of them lies only uncharted territory- however he recognizes the name of the road the Bentley is on from a sign a few miles back. And if they do go down the Bentley’s straight-away it should put them into more familiar territory, or at least he supposes it might put them back closer to the town they’d passed through on the way here. The image of a little road-side diner slips into his mind and it’s a moment before he realizes its Cobalt that’s put it there not himself. They exchange a series of understanding nods and then with a rev of the engine she points out the window and down their opponent’s path.
This is all it takes as the other car is suddenly hurtling forwards in a cloud of dust and scattering rocks. In response both Wachters let out a very Tearmannian war cry and Cobalt slams down on the gas as Silas grips the middle console with one hand and the side of the car with the other. The Mustang practically slides around the turn, gaining traction as deep ruts are carved in the road by the skidding wheels- a heartbeat passes as the car lines up with route 304 and time smashes back into existence as Silas is thrown back against the seat. He screams, a high-pitched…definitely-not-girlish screech of fear and excitement that even he was unaware that a grown man could make and pulls his knees up to his chest…both feet now braced against the dash. Cobalt screams along with him, blue eyes wide and teeth set in a scarily-determined grin as the Mustang devours the road beneath them.
If he had thought they were going fast before…it’s nothing quite like this. The road stretches straight on for several miles ahead and they’re forced to stay farther back than either one of them would like in order to see the road properly. Even then they’re pushing the Mustang to new limits while managing to easily keep up with the vintage car ahead of them, it occurs to Silas briefly that no one in their right mind would drive an antique car so recklessly. But then again he’s seen odder things and the thought is interrupted from further development by an approaching curve.
The two cars drift around the turn, for a moment mere feet apart before they dance away from one another at the hands of apparently expert drivers. Cobalt manages to get the Mustang nose to nose with the Bentley as the road straightens, the cars race neck and neck for a few minutes. But she suddenly curses and slows as the road begins to slope up a steep hill that could be hiding anything from a tractor to a hairpin turn and jams the car back into the cloud of dust formed by the leading vehicle. Cobalt might be competitive…but she’s definitely not stupid- at least not stupid enough to go careening blindly over a hill in the wrong lane.
Dimly, he realizes 'Eastbound and Down' (which had been playing on the radio) has been cut off and replaced with a slightly more country-ish version of "Don't Stop Me Now". Though currently, he has more pressing matters to deal with.
A moment later they are greeted by a great long stretch of beautiful gravel road that fades off into the distance towards the blurry silhouettes of distant hills, there is not a car or any other sign of life for miles and miles around save a crop duster puttering along to the west. Cobalt lets out another whoop in excitement and though it seems impossible at this point…the Mustang’s engine ramps up another notch and suddenly the bordering fields are reduced to green, blue, brown blurs that makes Silas’s head spin. Within seconds they have caught up to and managed to get the fender of their car what seems like a few inches in front of the Bentley’s but it is a hard won and an even harder kept thing. For the better part of the next three or four minutes they trade the lead back and forth- drivers hollering out the windows at each other unintelligibly- a fact that is only made believably possible by the European position of the Bentley’s steering column. The red-haired man is only revealed to in fact be the driver when Silas dares to spare a glance over his wife’s shoulder as the cars come side by side for the second time. His passenger is slightly obscured in shadows but seems to have drawn himself back in the seat in a similar situation to Silas himself…mostly terrified out of his wits- but also quite enjoying the experience nonetheless.
Unfortunately, or rather fortunately for the state of the cars and their not-completely-willing passengers- the fabric of reality can only be manipulated so much. And so eventually the road narrows- forcing the Bentley this time behind the Mustang…the red-haired man hollering out in what seems to be mock-annoyance as the road bends and curves, fields giving way to sparse forests. Though Silas can't help but feel that they've somehow been allowed to take the lead for a moment. Required to slow the cars settle into a very fast cruise as the gravel roads dump them out abruptly onto pavement- without so much as the grace of another stop sign. Just a big bump and soon they’re dodging potholes carved out by the ever present parade of farm equipment. Turtles hastily slip into brackish ditch water, a trio of cranes takes flight disappearing behind a copse of trees, and Silas swears for a moment he sees the outline of a buck vanishing deeper into the woods.
As the road rises and falls, twists and turns in a far more accurate imitation of a roller coaster, laughter fills the cabin of the car as the two fight the rush of each decent, stomachs rising into throats. Lightheadedness coming and going in ecstatic bursts. They’ve been at this for at least the last fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty since the Bentley had pulled up at the crossroads and still there’s no sign of them needing to stop or slow. But like the straightaway and all other good things this too has to come to an end…and it’s not long before Silas is pointing out yet another stop sign- a flicker of heavy disappointment and admittedly a smidgen of relief pulling out another ridiculous fit of giggles.
“Is-Is that the sign for the church we passed earlier?” Cobalt asks suddenly as they pull up to the stop sign. And sure enough, even if it is a bit foggy and disorienting seeing it from another direction, Silas recognizes it- the white-washed thing peering out from a stand of pine trees.
“Yeah! Wait…Wait-the diner’s down that way then!” He says and points off to the right- down the path they’d traveled down not a few hours earlier.
“You sure, we’ve still got- “she gestures down to the floorboards to the picnic basket and bag that still somehow have kept their contents intact.
“We can always eat it tonight- it’s not like it’s gonna spoil.” He points out. “Maybe they’ll follow us?” with a gesture back to the waiting car behind them. And it’s true; peanut-butter sandwiches and chips will hardly go bad in the timeframe of a few hours, only the sodas might be warm by the time they get to them (not that they weren't already)…but they can get ice at whichever hotel they stop at tonight. Cobalt nods, decidedly flicks on the turn signal- and with a glance to the left, the right, and the left again pulls out onto the road.
He watches curiously and a bit anxiously as the Bentley pulls up to the stop sign…pauses and then rolls out onto the road- it’s something of a relief and a strange twist of nerves to see that it is indeed following them. He catches a glance of himself in the side view mirror, tan hair flopping about in the wind that begins to howl past as the Mustang picks up speed, this time keeping well to the posted speed-limit. He grins back into his own brown eyes and lets his arm hang merrily out the window enjoying the feel of the air rushing past his fingertips. The headache from before is a dim thing, pushed back by adrenaline and the sudden reintroduction of the a/c and the cooling wind blasting against his face. He hums contentedly as the road curves down and within a few minutes once again he catches sight of the little diner sat high up on an over-looking hill.
If when the Bentley purrs up into an open space beside them, it strikes him as odd that both the strangers’ car and now the Mustang are as clean and scratch free as they were when they began their respective journeys…if not a bit cleaner- that thought quickly takes a trip elsewhere.