Seaside Moors redline

They sat, huddled in the fog like tourists enduring the wait times of public transportation, and his impatience snarled in his hands like a cramp, only instead of pain it was an unbearable need to move, to flex, to punch, anything that didn't resemble squatting at a night bus station waiting for the next sardine tin of tired workers to roll by.

Chin up, kid, he mimed picking off lint from his coat. This just might be it.

He gestured to the woman approaching them. She faded in and out of the mist, then in and out of the curving hills. Pretty, he thought. Could probably kick both of our asses.

Heya. I'm Nine, he's Jojo. We're lookin for the pack round here. Ah-- a home, maybe. He passed a hand over his hair, then the stubble on his cheek, head tilted forwards (a common courtesy, Kincaid would call it, and Nine would make fun of how he said courtesy almost like kurt-see).

Aw, come on off it Kin. Leave me an' my poor brain be.