OOC: This post mostly develops the bitter relationship between Dave and Art, and develops Art's character a bit more. Not so much plot advancement as character development in this post. Sorry, but it felt right.
Blaze was silent for a minute. "Sure, werewolves only exist in stories. But what about Dave? Remember what he is. To him, we only existed in stories until he came here. So we can't really rule out the possibility of a werewolf or a were-whatever. Or anything from myths and fairytales, for that matter."
Streak was nodding. "He's right, Pseok. As illogical and ridiculous as it sounds ... he's right."
---
Dave thought that the girl - looked like she thought she was the chick in The Matrix or something - near the pharmacy-place nextdoor. He couldn't get a really good look at her, but from where he was standing ... she was a cutie.
But then Charger and the others were moving along, and he hurried to catch up.
Then the screaming started. Gunshots went off. It wasn't long before Charger was shoving them away. "... get to the others and get to safety!"
Art was nodding. He understood the situation: they wouldn't be after a couple of humans. He grabbed Dave's shoulder and tugged. "Let's go, Dave. Back to the others."
Dave plodded to catch up. "What are we gonna do about Charger and Kaira? What if they get in trouble?"
Art didn't slow. "Then maybe we'll come back for them." He was talking faster and faster. "Or we'll send Pseok to check things out from overhead or something. I don't ****ing know right now, kid."
Dave winced a little at this last, not at being called 'kid' again, but at the irritation in Art's voice. He was coming off as more of an asshole than Dave had ever considered him.
"Alright, Art. Chill," Dave was saying. "I'm just saying that we shouldn't just take off--"
"DAVE, WILL YOU CUT THAT SHIT OUT!" Art snapped and stopped walking. Dave stumbled and stopped. A few people in the mob glanced over, but they were too focused on other things to care about a stranger shouting at some kid.
Art took a deep breath. "Look, Dave," he started. "Your concern for Charger and Kaira is touching. But you have to realize something very key here that I don't think you've gotten through your thick skull."
Dave wanted to retort, but he was too frightened of Art to say anything. This is crazy, he thought. I'm scared of a guy I made up.
"This isn't just some game, Dave-o," Art was saying. "It may have started out that way to you, but guess what? You're ****ing here, and this is not a frigging mad-lib anymore. It's real ****ing life. So stop acting all high and goddamn mighty all the time, like your someone special around here because you think you made me up. Just because you could probably tell me every detail about my past doesn't mean I'm your creation. You aren't above this, you're a part of it. And things don't always work out like in the storybooks, kid. Sometimes, even if you really want to, you can't. Sometimes, there just isn't a ****ing way. I know you want to go back and help Charger get away from that mob, and I know you want to make sure Kaira's okay, but I also know this: that to you, this is still a story. But it just ... ****ing ... isn't."
Dave and Art stared at each other for a full minute in silence. Dave looked away first. He didn't speak, just walked to the passenger side of the car and got in.
Damn, he was thinking. I had no idea Art was so ... articulate. He's right... but goddamn if I can admit it to him.
Dave was slowly realizing that he hated Art. He never had reason to dislike him, but he never had a reason to really admire the guy, either. Maybe back at the start of things, when he first wrote the guy down, Art was a guy Dave wished he could be ... but it was years ago. Art hadn't changed, but Dave had. And Dave was learning the truth: Art was a coldhearted man deep down, just as Dave had made him ... and Art was capable of a whole lot. And Dave knew that Art almost always had a great grasp on his situation.
All this in spite of Dave, who had once admired Art. Dave resented the hell out of it, that Art could really be this way. He hated him for it.
Art, meanwhile, was developing a healthy dislike of Dave. Some punk kid fresh out of high school shows up from another dimension or whatever and suddenly wants to run the world like a storybook. And the ****ing things Dave had put him through! His fear of cats. His fear of intimacy. The noodle incident in the third grade. Everything that had gone wrong with his life was Dave's fault, whether the kid had ever written it down or not. Because, like it or not, there was always the possibility that Dave really had thought him into existence. And Art hated the idea that there was a force out there that had controlled his destiny from day one.
Art started the car up, and began to drive back to the campsite. They rode in an icy silence.
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