@stellaanimarum
He’d been doing a lot of thinking, whether anyone knew it or not, and after much consideration he had come to a decision. He backed up, out from under the raised hood of the car that had so mysteriously been, quite literally, dropped into his life, and slammed the hood down, before dusting his hands off. Today, he did not wear the Black Coat he was so rarely seen without. No, today, he was wearing clothes he hadn’t worn in many a year. A plain black t-shirt. Black, baggy pants with red trim, adorned with chains and studs. Black lace up boots with skulls painted on the toes in faded red. In the trunk of the Firebird, a cooler, inside that, his favorite ice cream. A last look over the ‘Bird’s gleaming paint job, the car’s namesake practically seeming to glow, and he got behind the wheel.
The purring roar of American rolling iron outside the arcade where Flare worked, a last screaming rev before the engine cut out, and then he was coming through the doors. He walked directly to the counter, ignoring the riot of noise and light around him. “Hey, close the arcade for the day, and come with me, okay?” His bare hands on the counter, slender fingers spread. The appearance alone begged so many questions, but the demon seemed in no mood for answering them. What would she do?
