Chapter Text
“Diego, I don’t like this.”
Hot Pants sounded as nervous as he’d heard her, and her horse seemed to be stepping more deliberately as well, slowing as he picked up on his rider’s hesitation.
Of course, Diego couldn’t blame her. They’d been following a trail of carnage for more than a day now— a herd of cows had repeatedly met the wrong end of a pack of wolves, or so it seemed— but thus far, they had yet to come across the rightful owner of the steer.
He slowed his pace beside Silver Bullet, straightening a bit, scaly snout slowly receding into his regular jawline as they fell in step with Hot Pants. He blinked the slightness out of his pupils, then quickly mounted his still-moving horse in an unnecessarily showy demonstration of skill.
“Well,” Diego said once he was situated, frowning, “We need clean water, and I’m assuming we’ll find it at the farm. Otherwise the next town is still at least a day out…”
The jockey was right, of course, but it was nothing she didn’t already know.
“I’m beginning to think we’re not going to find anything good at that farm,” she muttered. “Some of the dead ones are at least a week old, and we’ve found more live ones scattered and grazing— don’t you think the farmer should have missed them by now?”
“Obviously something’s wrong,” he snapped back. “We’ve been tracking cow entrails, for Christ’s sake. But we still need water.”
She glared at him briefly, pressing her lips together to keep herself from commenting on his attitude. He opened his mouth to speak again, but shut it quickly, sniffing at the air, his eyes going reptilian between blinks.
“What is it, Lizard-boy?” Hot Pants asked.
“Without this Lizard-boy you’d likely be dead by now,” he pointed out haughtily, scoffing at the nickname.
“Without this Lizard-boy I’d have found myself a nice church and settled down to live a quiet life of devotion and piety by now,” she grumbled back, but they both knew that wasn’t really what she wanted, so his expression only briefly displayed his offense.
“Anyway,” Diego began, as though he were doing some great favor by dropping that vein of conversation, “We’re getting close to something. Civilization.”
“The farm?” she pressed.
He confirmed with a short nod before digging his heels in at Bullet’s sides to urge the mare into a gallop. Though he darted ahead and quickly out of view, Hot Pants took her time in following; there was no point putting unnecessary strain on her horse, or rushing into a situation that was unfamiliar and potentially dangerous. It wasn’t as though she could ever really match his pace, anyway.
After a while, she saw Diego again. He was half-dinosaur, facing a small house situated next to a modest barn, hands curled like claws and tail extended out behind him for balance as he leaned into the scene before him, eyes slits as he scanned for movement. Silver Bullet was stamping nervously at the ground next to him, and tossed her head as Hot Pants approached.
“Dead—,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and not entirely human, and she almost didn’t realize he was speaking to her regarding the occupants of the farm. Of course, if anyone could tell from this distance, it was him; his senses were so acute as a dinosaur he probably had been able to tell for at least a half mile. He gestured toward the well as his body started changing into something more human. “But we can get water here.”
“Do you know what did it?” she asked, dismounting, eyeing the eerily quiet scene in front of them.
But he just shrugged, sniffing again. “It’s been… a couple of days. Nothing too rotten yet. Some of the animals are still alive, too. And—,” he paused, frowning. “Let’s just get out of here quickly, okay?"
“What, you think the wolves will come back?”
“I think we need to get out of here as soon as possible,” he gritted out.
“Fine,” Hot Pants returned, and started toward the well.
“I’m going to see if there’s anything in the house we can use. You fill the canteens.”
In spite of mixed feelings about looting the dead, she did as he told her. Limited resources made it necessary to be practical above all else; she watched as Diego disappeared into the house before tending to her task.
Once the flasks were filled, she drew another bucketful of water, removing her helmet to splash her face and rinse her hands thoroughly— a rare luxury. In the cool of the late spring afternoon, the damp caused her skin to prickle. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her sleeves, dried her hands against her dress, and looked back toward the farmhouse, not expecting to see Diego emerge so soon, and yet there he was.
“Diego Brando, what in the world is this…” Hot Pants muttered to herself at the sight, momentarily forgetting that unlike most people, he could hear her from this distance.
His face twisted up into a grin that was as nervous as it was apologetic. It was alarming how convincingly he could school his features into innocence when he tried.
More alarmingly, he wasn’t alone: in his arms, tucked against his chest, was something that looked suspiciously like a small child, its straw-colored head lolling against his shoulder as he approached.