Even the lights here were gray. He could feel his childhood returning by the mile. His usual meditation on the saddle was loosing to a weighted nostalgia. He supposed it was fitting that the film on the road wanted to kill him, seducing the expensive rubber to betray him. There was no love between these memories and the person he'd become in their absence. He was going to a funeral, but this entire place was a grave. It was this kind of dreary that gave him an edge in his home city. Perhaps he was coming to offer something in return. Here's some of my time, too little, too late.<br/><br/>Really, the plan had been to be there for a while. Come early, help unfold some chairs, say a few jokes, maybe hug someone. Life of the fucking mourning party. But he'd gotten out too late, and stayed too long at motels. Now he'd barely make it in time for the service. Flighty soul - he was still Miranda's adoptive son, after all, for however messed up that was. And now he was going to see her husband. Volk had laughed about that in quiet hotel bars on his way. It was strange, the rituals he was amassing. He'd even taken to telling women No, when they were friendly with the tall, quiet vagrant in leather jacket and transient garb. A vat of addictions, it didn't sit well with the Wicker orphan to decline skinship in an otherwise lonely march, but it seemed out of place that this should be part celebration. In the end it built toward a more gruff expression on his full lips in gaunt face, and that in turn made him even more appealing to the somber-romantic minds that also sat by themselves in lobbies and carpeted drinking rooms.<br/><br/>The quality of watering holes declined as he came closer, and in the end there was only drugstores and whatever bed his new money would pay for. She smell of lemon vodka from minibar bottles and your own flesh clapping toward satisfaction almost becomes the highlight of your night when the rest is just static overtaking a fat television and the sound of cars hesitantly parking by other rooms outside. He didn't really know why he was gravitating back, not if he tried to spell it out, and that lost him so many hours in bathroom mirrors. No service bars meant no distraction, even on the expensive technology he'd packed. He was traveling back in the world's time too, it seemed.<br/><br/>Burning Bear was smoldering when he crossed into it on two wheels - not by fire, of course, but by the long lost blueish atmosphere of his childhood. It was like driving through the clouds of a dreary day, indecisive about what downpour it should provide. The time on the digital face that also let him know his own velocity and windspeed told him he was far too late for his father's burial. Going back now wasn't really an option. It frightened him that he knew the way back to where he and Reno had chased each other. She'd laughed and called for her father when the game became too much, and Jonas, strong-backed and larger than life, would scoop her up to ward off her almost-brother. She'd be squealing for more when her heart had stilled a bit.<br/><br/>He had three cigarettes leaned against his motorcycle, purposely assembled to look haphazard, which really just underlined the fact that it had been an expensive build. After the last filter was flattened he pulled out the flask. In this rising fog, and the dark trees, did he look like some occultist, readying his pagan ceremony? Burning Bear always one of its paws in the other world. He frowned into the curved reflection. His hair was back after some effort, the helmet resting by the front wheel along with his duffel bag. The liquid wasn't what he liked. Cheap shit. Local brand. The only Jonas would drink. He sighed and reveled in his coward delight that there'd probably be no one left now.<br/><br/>A man, out of the fog behind her, black boots and black jeans. Soft leather on his long torso. A face that had grown pretty bones. It was unfortunate that she was here, still, but it was right too. Volk didn't even hesitate when he recognized the set of her shoes into the ground. Little girl grown. What was the alternative? To turn around now? He came to stand beside her, a svelte giant as he stared at the stone and the fresh dirt, flask hanging in his hand.<br/><br/>He didn't look at her when he drank. It was likely very inappropriate, given the cause of Jonas's demise, but Volk was sentimental in his own way. Fuck, why was this yokel poison so good when had in its home town? He went beyond on her and placed the silver container by the headstone. The sounds was comical, between the whiskey ant the metal. Miranda, during all her clumsy attempts at rekindling the affair that had seen this family upturned, hadn't said Jonas took up a heavy abuse of spirits after she left, but Volk would have to be plenty simple if he didn't figure it out.<br/><br/>And finally, he rolled his head and looked at her. She was beautiful, which was heartbreaking. His chest soaked into a sudden familiarity. He didn't have this with anyone else. Reno would see the boyish details grown a little more severe. Her mother had loved that face, at least, with the dark eyes and the swell of brunette riches ontop, tamed somewhat into a modern cut to favor tendrils that could still snake down to obstruct his vision. And he looked at her like he was seeing everything he used to be. Condolences on his mouth that he didn't voice, and another 'I'm sorry' that didn't at all pertain to Jonas.<br/><br/>When he stood from the knee he'd planted, he was a slender silhouette with heavier shoulders. All black, of course. And when he was in front of her he smelled like cigarette smoke and that dash of Bear Whiskey that had loved Jonas's liver more than Miranda had loved him. Volk had no right to any of this, and he still felt like he owed it. He wanted her to lean in so he could clasp her, and he would if she did, but for now he just looked her over, trying and failing to keep the pity out of his eyes.<br/><br/>"It's freezing out here." he said. "Let's get you home."