I own nothing (other than the inevitable spelling mishaps of a hurried typer)
Divergence
It's conditioning, an instinct bred in necessity and birthed in repetition. Keep running, for one never knows what gives chase. Permanent nerve damage will result from the constant strain of looking behind. He runs like the fiery hounds of hell are set upon his trail; dodging, backtracking and covering in an effort to confuse the trackers. They snarl at his heels but he's faster. Stopping for breath is an invitation for trouble and while danger has its own fun, death has nothing to recommend it.
For every sprinter there's a reason, a rationale for the dash. Debt is easy to claim whenever he laces up and departs with the speed of implosion. Having a price leveled on one's head is a forceful motivator. It's an oft-traveled road and he pauses occasionally to dig holes and lay mines for his pursuers. But she has words, each one a railroad crossing gate he can't get around and she's not budging. Life, as ever, is the oncoming train. And she drags him back where the panic of youth resides between high walls and a shaggy beard. We all love someone who's dying but right now his personal demon thrives. He's asked to release the devil himself and though he can't swallow the bile fast enough, he obeys.
Even as he vows to stay, because the mystery has bruised him now, the words strangle him on the way out. Of course, cowering beneath the shroud of the government is a better shelter than hiding on his own. Use what's on hand, this is the con's motto and at present a blond with a gun is an appealing shield. Besides, he's always had an answer, regardless of the lies he threads through it, but recent events have stolen his certainty. And the stone of doubt yoked to his neck makes it hard to run.
He speaks the language of a scrambled mind, which is hardly comforting but she seems to believe the talent is vital to world salvation. And as the road stretches behind them in this play at unity, he's employing other skills which make the stroll toward bleak kismet more interesting. She appreciates what he provides, however half-heartedly he offers it and the gratitude matters. A little. A bit. But not for long, he likes to repeat in a mantra that sings him to sleep. He can quit anytime because this usefulness is in no way addicting. At all. Much.
The world crumbles into chaos and he's entrenched now, a soldier in supernatural warfare. The road is still there, has always been, but the forks diverge and multiply into that which he must and that which he cannot. Naturally, the path he favors carries him far from this. Here. Her. And from the ditch the other side, the lately untested side, is plentiful. Those old dangers remain but at least he knows how that clockwork functions. She sees it, the flight impulse clamoring under his skin and she knows just where to touch to make the freeway to freedom seem insignificant by comparison.
He's running again and for all that it scares him, it feels good. She doesn't understand but she runs all the same. Strides matching in shared purpose. Freelancing aid where needed, they spend the majority of days simply evading. The orderly society they'd never truly been part of has collapsed and taken the others with it. Alone. And yet defiantly not. Because his talents have not diminished and she hasn't lost her touch. The road still has potholes and while some are of their own making, they own it. And they don't look back.