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Indrid Cold doesn’t much like to communicate with humans on this Earth. They’re so brash, so open in their hatred of one another. Sylvain was much less hateful. There were issues of course, a hierarchy problem, the lack of resources. But he’d been the court Seer, a higher up, so he’d never dealt with any of the actual issues. He noticed them, it was hard not to, but never been the victim.
No matter. He’s been ousted, removed from his home, and he hasn’t been there in decades. The transition was never easy, but he’s got to move on eventually.
Barclay had been the biggest help, honestly. He’d been deserted almost a century ago, roaming the woods of this icky little country they’ve been relocated to and gaining quite the reputation. He knew the place, watched as it changed and morphed into something possibly a bit less revolting, but still fairly awful.
The eggnog is a perk.
Barclay is off investigating with some of the other rejects, in a different “state,” whatever their bizarre lines of property mean. West Virginia, the place he’s made himself a home, has these wild little bunkers from their last war. They’re eerie, absolutely no amenities whatsoever, but they’re good to stay in.
He’s been getting his kicks by passing information on around the surrounding areas, helping kids get out of sticky situations, predicting some medical tragedies, the like. It’s so dull compared to his job back home. On Sylvain, he corrects himself. It’s not home anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while.
He gets his first premonition of something big in 1966. There’s been things, of course, things a bit out of his control, presidential shootings, natural disasters, things that he could interfere with and he has, saving people from death, failing to save people from death, telling people’s last words and wills. It’s an exhausting existence, trying to make everything work. The human race is so fucking reluctant to accept any help, any pushes in the right direction. Some things are easy, some things that make sense like bad structure or suspicious people, but other things people call him crazy for predicting and then die trying to protect others. These half empty bunkers with leftover radiation materials in some of them are much less tiresome.
As he’s resting, freezing cold and out of his unsettling and unfamiliar human disguise wrapped in his own wings, trying to block out all the possibilities swirling around him, he hears a creak somewhere deep in his head, the terrible snapping of a bridge collapsing, cars crunching, people screaming.
Bridge collapse, he thinks as his eyes fly open. He can see it, clear as day, on the edge of the town he’s camped near.
There’s a lot of possibilities of how many deaths there could be, and the number keeps changing, a headache forming behind his eyes at how fast this is all changing. He grabs the pile of papers from the corner and a pencil, eyes glowing in the dark of the bunker. He sketches out messy possibilities until all of them are out of his head, scattered around his body in a haphazard mess. He can see them clearly now, looking at one and seeing how it’ll play out, then another.
He has time here, over a year, lots of options, ways he can warn people and make sure they shut it down before it snaps. He gets up and walks around outside for a while, shuffling through the trees to clear his head. Nothing here is really a danger to him, he looks intimidating and unnatural to the beings of this forest, so he doesn’t have a worry about that. As he walks, two of the drawings he’d made become null, and he marks in his head to crumple them up when he gets back.
Indrid would like Barclay there, someone who knows how to interact with these humans better than him. He’s so bad at it, awkwardly smiling with too many teeth, thin cheek straining under the weight of it. People are uncomfortable with him, but it’s not like he can be his normal self.
He really wants someone to help instrument these plans, but all he has is himself, playing the humans like a bad game of chess until they figure out that something’s wrong with the bridge.
The first people he targets, some grave diggers out of town, get too terrified of him to actually be productive, but three more scenarios die off, so at least he’s narrowing it down.
Second is the couples in the car. Humans believe in superstition to an unhealthy amount. If there’s enough omens around Point Pleasant, maybe he can convince someone that something big will go wrong.
They come back with a police officer, and they all see him shuffling around the woods again.
Then he goes into town in his human guise, muttering about bridges and bad structure and no one pays him any mind. That’s another problem he has with this world. No one cares about anyone else. They’re all so wrapped up in themselves. No one accepts help and no one helps others.
He continues, switching between omens and in person, and the scenarios narrow down farther and farther of the year, and he’s getting anxious. The good endings aren’t the majority anymore and one of the bigger death counts keeps eking its way to the top. He’s getting antsy, worried that he’ll fail. But he’s Indrid Cold, renowned Seer to the courts. They have to figure it out.
He’s waiting in his bunker, getting ready for another day of shoving people in the right direction. It’s so much colder this December, and the Silver Bridge is set to collapse any day now. He’s going to city council today, or he’ll call. Let them know directly this time.
And then his head splits open, the smashing, the screaming, the crunch of metal and humans and everything he was trying to prevent blooming in his brain.
Today then, he thinks loosely as he sinks to the ground, holding his head. The collapse happens now. Well, not now, but in five minutes.
He doesn’t have time to get there, not on foot and not by air. He can do nothing. Everything he thinks through takes six minutes or more, even exposing himself to the public and dragging pedestrians away from the premises.
Forty six people as a total death count rolls around in his head, and all he can do is sit there uselessly, reaching out and crumpling every drawing left but the last one, the worst one. He grips it in his hands so hard it tears at the edges, where the bridge collapse ends. He stays there, staring at the bridge in his hands, watching the scene play over in his head.
And then he feels it, the shudder felt through the city, the terribly muffled noise of the crashing, like the world is coming down around him. The dusts settles into his hair and on his shoulders and he grabs his glasses and puts them on, shrinking down, freezing more.
Barclay will be here within two hours, his brain helpfully supplies, but he doesn’t move any more. He just sits there, hears sirens, feels the death count rack up, knows two bodies will get lost in the river and never show up. Two families wracked by grief with nothing to show for it. Forty six dead, countless more injured.
One hour and fifty seven minutes later he hears footsteps, heavy footed yet nimble. He knows it’s Barclay without looking up, sees the heavy boots he wears in his human guise.
“I came as soon as I heard,” comes from a heavy breath, and Indrid can feel it ring around in his head just before. “Are you alright?”
“I’m just peachy keen, Barclay,” he says blankly. “I’ve just been here all day, haven’t the faintest idea what you could be talking about.”
“I know something like that must have come to you months ago,” he says, upset. “I know you’d be working on it.”
“Shouldn’t have,” he says instead of keeping with the bit. “Messed it up more, I think. Failed them.”
“You don’t owe it to anyone, certainly not them. I know you try, and I try too, but we’re not them.”
He doesn’t say anything, just waits.
“Indrid,” Barclay says, but Indrid says it at the same time, repeating the lines playing in his head. “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course not,” he says on his own. “I didn’t refuse upkeep on that bridge.”
“Just— stop. Indrid, stop. You know I hate it when you do that.” He sighs and lets Barclay have his own words even if he already knows them all by heart. “Thank you. You can’t blame yourself for this.”
“Can’t I?” He asks, only partly looking for an answer. “I’m the Moth man. Fucking, omen of destruction, that’s what I’ll be now. I can see it. Omen of death and destruction, Mothman. Silver Bridge collapses, forty six dead. Possibility of dark spirit involved? It’ll be everywhere with those dumb conspiracy news sources. Can’t wait.
“You don’t know that—”
“Oh, I don’t? I don’t know that? Really. How could I possibly know that, Barclay? How could I possibly have any idea?”
He still isn’t looking at him, and Barclay drops into a sitting position in front of him. He’s probably comfortable, the jerk. He always ran hot.
“You know that’s not all of it. Just because some of them do doesn’t mean all. Don’t you pick and choose which parts of the future you want just to deprecate yourself with them.”
“I’m the fucking Seer! This is my job. I prevent this. I’m supposed to stop this from happening, or at least successfully warn people when it will.” He shudders in a gasp of a breath. “I’m nothing. I can’t do anything. I fucked it up so badly.”
“Indrid,” Barclay and Indrid say at the same time. “In— you— stop saying my words.”
“It makes it better,” he whispers into the cold concrete structure they’re in. “If I can predict this correctly, then I can still do something.”
Barclay sighs, heavy and low, before getting comfortable on the ground. “Fine. Fine. Just… just this once we can do this. Just tonight.”
“Thank you,” he says, and he pulls his glasses off. He’s cold, and while he’s never all that much warmed in his real form, it does offer a little more cushioning. Barclay pulls his bracelet off as well, scooting in on his side. Indrid wraps a wing around him, leeching off his body heat.
“You’re freezing,” he remarks, concerned. “Indrid, it’s winter. You can’t stay out here all winter. You’ll freeze to death.”
“I won’t freeze. I did it last winter too. You just weren’t here then.”
“Would this have gone better if I was?”
“Too late to figure that out now,” he says, staring at the bright red glass in his hands. He wants to smash them, twist them up and throw them out and never look like one of these terrible creatures ever again.
“I’m sorry,” Barclay says, and Indrid lets him keep that in his own mouth. It feels too raw to say. “I should have come back sooner.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says dully. “Too late now.”
“We found a place,” Barclay says, changing the subject. Indrid can see it clear in his mind, in the woods, ski hills, limited people. “I think you should come with.”
“Bold move, Barclay. Who says I don’t like my little radiation bunker?”
“You’re miserable, and not just because of the bridge. I can feel it. You know I can. Indrid, don’t lock yourself up here. It’s cold. You hate the cold. At least this place has heat.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t,” Barclay says sadly. “But I wish you would.”
Indrid doesn’t say anything, just sits there quietly. He drops his head onto Barclay’s shoulder eventually and Barclay wraps an arm around his shoulder, soaking him in body heat.
“Okay,” he says eventually, hoarsely. “Okay. I’ll come for a little while. I might not stay.”
He can feel the relief radiating off of Barclay when he says that, and he keeps his repeated words in his own head. “I’m glad. You don’t have to stay, but at least for the winter. At least until it gets warm enough to travel.”
He nods but doesn’t move.
“We can stay here tonight, though,” Barclay says quietly. “If you want.”
“I do. I can’t leave right now.” He can feel the screaming, feel the dead in his mind. Shivers from more than just the cold. Barclay’s other arm comes around his front and he leans into it.”
“You could have come with us,” Barclay says.
“Don’t like the people like you do,” he mutters. “Hate it here.”
“I know,” Barclay says quietly. “But we all miss Sylvain.”
Indrid doesn’t speak any more for the rest of the night. Barclay doesn’t push it, pulls the glasses from his hands eventually and tucks them into his bag. He doesn’t sleep, just doses in the warmth of his arms. He’ll have to get up in the morning, start the trek to wherever it is that Barclays found for all of the rejects to live. The ones ousted from their home for petty crimes similar to his. Similar to Barclay’s. But for now he thinks about the future, imagines better scenarios that are less cold. Maybe a space heater or two. Ones where he doesn’t have to fight to save these idiot humans from their own destruction.
It’s comforting.