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It is about half an hour out of Philly to get to the Mount Misery trailhead, and that half an hour is filled with talk about past hunting bags and biggest fish caught from the two men riding in the cab of the pick-up--some friends of Jano's by the name of Harold and JaMarque.
The back of the pick-up wasn't great for conversation either, with the wind blowing loudly along the highway. Jano seems to absolutely be delighted in that though, as most of the time he just sat straight up in it--his lips and eartips changing colours in the cold. Every once in awhile a slick, corner-mouth grin would erupt in his lips and he even shares this intentionally with Wes.
Once they arrive at the trail-head, there are a few more shared words between the other two and Jano--who are apparently going to try an easier trail and find a nice fishing spot.
"This is one of the most challenging hikes around here, I hear--I haven't done it yet," Jano remarks to Wes as he tilts his chin up toward the incline of the trail.
Since her teenage years, Wes has been something of an outdoorsy type. The past few years, though? She's grown into a full blown survivalist.
"Believe it or not, I haven't attempted it either." Wes -- a rather slight, short woman in her early 30's -- doesn't really look like the sort who spends her days on challenging hikes, but looks can be deceiving sometimes, no? "It'll be good to get out of the city for a bit. I've spent pretty much all week arguing with my publisher -- and then my editor -- and I'm just about ready to throw my phone into a ravine."
Wes offers a yawn, beginning to do some light stretching. When finished, she double checks her supplies, and then tightens the straps of her pack. "... what made you want to trek all the way out here? You gonna throw your phone, too?"
The ghost of a smirk flashes across her features for the most minute of moments, and then it's gone and her gaze follows his up the incline.
It's something they have in common, this is a ritual probably repeated in other ways for the past couple of years.
Jano normally spends most of his time either gardening, volunteering for some community project or another, or...weird Hisil stuff and who knows what that's about--but it's no real surprise that he knows his way around a campfire. Although he teaches classes in urban survivalism, the mountains and trees are his preference.
He is wearing a light day pack with a plastic tube circling around from the back and magneted to the straps on his chest. Otherwise, his clothes are rather non-descript except for the wide-brimmed black hat he wears to keep the sun off his heavily winkled face. About ten years older, he is also not very tall at just 5'8" inches, but his short legs don't stop him from putting fire into his step as he starts up the trail.
"I didn't even bring it with me. I forget it most of the time--and when there is a river, I always dive in--so forgetting your phone isn't very helpful. What are you writing about?"
"Oh, what I'd give to shed the terrible chains of responsibility for even a single night." Wes offers this in a deadpan as she follows after Jano. She reaches for the little nozzle on her camel back, tucking it between her lips for a sip of water -- but more to fret over the plastic tip with her teeth.
"Unfortunately, in this instance it's more about what I'm not writing. I don't usually take Big Two gigs because I hate arguing over interpretations, but DC offered me the opportunity to write a fan favorite character and I jumped on it." She tucks the nozzle back underneath the strap of her pack, and frowns. "There're some writers in this industry who do well with the shared universe stuff -- like Tom Taylor. I love that guy's stuff, he really gets it -- but I saw all this queer subtext when I read these stories as a kid. I'm trying to write the characters as I know them, but publishing isn't ready for it and they just... keep sending everything back covered in red lines."
As always, she's stubborn as hell, and ready to die over the smallest of hills.
Shortly into the trail, Jano crouches down to pick up a small brown stone which he brushes off and then licks with his tongue before inspecting it more closely. He nods as he listens along to Wes describe what she's writing about and eventually passes the stone along to her, his only explanation a single word: "Quartz."
He likes a strong pace--but maybe he developed it to make up for his shorter legs, which probably don't make hiking much easier for him--and pushes himself forward with short bursts of energy--he knows that Wes won't have a difficult time keeping up.
"Stories were always something that were...ways of living, ways of teaching--still are, I shouldn't have to explain that. The...commodification of them is startling, but intriguing. All of the little details, and who owns what," he sticks his index finger in his mouth for a moment and then lifts it up in the air...and in that moment the breeze picks up, whipping his hair around the back of his neck and cheeks. "But it makes me think of Big Rock Hand from back home. Everyone thinks they know a Big Rock Hand story, and what kind of stories are acceptable to tell. But Big Rock Hand doesn't belong to anyone, and neither are the stories."
"Huh," Wes palms the quartz without hardly breaking stride in her winding rant, scratching at it with her thumbnail. "That's pretty neat." The stone disappears into the pocket of her cargo pants, and she continues to follow, meeting the quick pace. For all her complaining and grumbling, she's bo slouch on the trail.
"Yeah, I mean. I'd love to give away my stories for free, but the creative end of comics already isn't a business you get into for the money, and I've gotta pay rent." There's a pause for a wordless grumble. Probably about capitalism.
Wes tilts her head at Jano, chewing on her lower lip in thought. "Huh. I'm... actually not familiar with Big Rock Hand. What's the story there?" A beat. "Or, rather. What's your Big Rock Hand story. If it's acceptable to tell."
"I don't have a Big Rock Hand story--but this story is true: There was once a big commotion on top of Ouachita. Lots of shouting and shaking and blustering. Fire Ant's house was crushed and, angrily, she went to the top of Ouachita to see what was happening. There was Big Rock Hand, eating big holes out of the sky and spitting them on the ground. Fire Ant said what are you doing, but Big Rock Hand didn't hear her, so she bit Big Rock Hand's toes until they turned bright red, and they hurt so bad that instead of the sky, Big Rock Hand bit his toes off and spit them into the ground instead."
He tells the story with a straight face and a severe tone, pausing to consider the rest of the story as he stops on the trail again to crouch down and pick up another rock--drab and brown like the first one before he licked it.
"And then there is the story about the River Feet and Big Rock Hand's toes, but that's entirely different. What about the story that Taylor is ruining? Tell me the story that matters to you."
He licks this stone too--but instead of crystalline sparkles, it just turns a shade of rose that hints at orange. He does not name the stone this time, but also offers it to Wes, with a curl of a smile at the corner of his lips.
Wes offers a little puff of laughter, rolling the second stone around her palm for a few moments. "Alright, alright. I get it, now... but that's like public domain. Nobody owns those stories because nobody's thrown enough money behind making sure their name stays on the thing until entropy wears away the mark of civilization."
Wes pockets the second stone. Surely she has dozens and dozens of collected pieces just like these at home, but she pockets them all the same. "Oh, naw. Tom Taylor isn't ruining anything. He's writing the Suicide Squad right now, and it's brilliant. He's politically savvy, and has this biting snark that really sings in the mouths of certain characters. He seems to really get the source material in a way I don't, and he uses his privilege to put new queer characters into the collective canon." There's a deep breath, and she chews on her next thought for a long moment. Then she mulls it over, and chews on it again with her eyes locked up ahead.
"Unfortunately I can't really talk about the story that matters to me in specifics, because I'm currently under an NDA, but I've been fighting for the character I'm writing to marry their long-standing partner. In the main canon. It matters to me tremendously, because it was one of the characters I grew up on. I really resonated strongly with them as a kiddo."
She tilts her head to the side, and sighs. "Indie comics are easy. I like my little pond. I'm the biggest fish there. I decide what does and doesn't go in the book. I know my interpretations are rigid, but why hire me to write your book if you don't want my perspective?"
"Public domain, eh?" Jano responds with two raised eyebrows, but no smile on his lips. He seems to consider that for a long time--and even into listening to more details about Taylor and NDAs and the other complications of having a writing career.
"I do not read a lot of comics--but I know that is the one where Adam Beach is in the movie," he laughs then, the seriousness of his expression temporarily fading. The bottom of the hike is not as difficult as the top, and so bursts of speed are not as challenging--at least to two more seasoned hikers--and so Jano moves into them quickly, though with a conspicuous wind at his back.
"I'm not going to call up some publisher with the information about your legal red tape surrounding the ability to tell story. And this isn't my career--but I can tell you this, from my own, very different perspective...if they ask you to do a the job, but then don't want you to do it your way...you're there to make them look good." A brief beat, "Consider Bancroft. Consider whose name it is easiest to assign the failure to--perhaps this is not exactly the same--but this experience, it is known to Iminir--of being a figurehead."
He stops then, turning to face her, and stares with a gaze that is a little over intense. "Do not back down from the story that matters to you. You are the storyteller. If they demand change, tell them change is not coming. The story is written. That is all."
"I know you won't, but I'm trying to form good habits. You know how I tend to just talk and talk once I get going..." Wes is a little bit slower to take the tail end of the hike, methodically approaching it without the aid of anything conspicuous. Just her own two legs, and all the grumbling in the world.
Jano's back is turned, so he doesn't see the way her expression twists when Bancroft is brought up -- but he would definitely notice the conspicuous lack of grumbling as she clenched her jaw.
"Okay, fine. That's fair." She stops in her tracks, looking up at the older man's face, meeting the intensity of his gaze with her own searching stare.
"They'll probably never hire me again, but fuck it. You're right. They hired me to write stories like Ada fucking Weston. The story is written, and if they don't like what I'm doing then they can hire someone else."
... and then all that tension seem to bleed away in a sigh.
"Thank you for the advice."
"You are wanted for being Ada fucking Weston," he says, repeating the words in just the way she said it, emphasis on 'fucking'. "Your name carries power and strength and desire. Your name carries your accomplishments and power. Give them what they want--and if they wilt beneath the overbearing rays of the sun as you shine down upon them with the very essence of life then let them fail. They were not meant for you anyway." The fervor in his voice grows with each sentence, and by the end, his eyes have grown wide and his lips curled back into near a sneer of disdain--though the disdain is very clearly not directed at Wes, and almost just as clearly not directed toward her publishers.
He breathes for a moment and then turns around and continues to walk--though this time at a slower gait. He says nothing for some time afterward.
Wes averts her eyes towards the ground, reaching for her water again. It's easy to mull over a thought with something to focus on, and this poor, abused nozzle is the only thing at hand right now.
She takes a deep breath, following after Jano with her hands stuffed into her pockets like a lost puppy. For once, the Cahalith seems content with the silence, and her eyes start to wander -- leaving the trail beneath her feet to look out at the ground the pair have covered thusfar.
"It's beautiful up here," Wes finally breaks the silence, chancing a glance at Jano. "Can't believe it's taken me this long to make it out this way..."
Silence--or at least the relative silence that the woods and mountains offer--is one of the reasons many people claim to love getting into the outdoors. But in the long space between speaking, the sounds of the forest are loud--the birds, the crinkling underbrush as animals skitter through and away from the two of them, perhaps aware of their predatory natures, the breeze rustling through the leaves. Eventually they come to one of the first rounds with a good view of the mountain valley and it's sprawling trees--many leafless this time of year. Jano does not look back at Wes as she speaks. Instead he takes his own nozzle to his sleeps and drinks slowly.
"I thought it was going to be colder today."
There is another long moment of silence.
"It seems like it is very far out of the way, but where I grew up, everything was very far out of the way. Do you appreciate it? What we have here? What we are able to smell?" He flares his nostrils, taking in a deep breath. "Taste? See?"
"I'm from Texas," she shifts the nozzle off towards one corner of her lips, looking out at the view. "It's always cold as far as I'm concerned."
She tucks her fists into the pockets of her hoodie, closing her eyes and letting the feeling of the cool air, the symphony of wildlife sounds, and the crisp smells and tastes of the misty morning. Her nostrils flare as she inhales, holding the breath for a few moments of absolute silence before letting it all spill free once more.
"Yeah," she says at last, squinting against the sun when she opens her eyes. "This is pretty much... exactly what I needed."
Wes unzips her hoodie about half-way down to free the old Canon SLR hanging around her neck by a worn leather strap. She pauses to snap a few pictures of the view, catching the mist hanging low over the barren trees -- and the glittering sunrise.
She lingers for a few moments, using the viewfinder to magnify the details of their magnificent view.
The breeze picks up here where there are less trees to break it and protect them, and even though they have a lot of elevation to go to come anywhere close to the summit, they have still gained some significant ground, and the wind is colder for it. Jano closes his eyes and breathes deep, inhaling and exhaling with the wind, as if summoning it from his own lungs.
His eyes are still closed when he speaks. "This is your heritage. Your blood. Your soul. It is not shadows and darkness and fear. It is not blood and rage and slaughter. It is not death and secrets and whispers. It is not a hundred thousand other pointless things. It is the first breathe of air. It is the sky opened up and infinite. It is not just what you need, it is who you a--"
He opens his eyes when he hears the camera snap and stares at it, and then her, for a moment before turning his gaze away and closing his eyes again. He lifts his hands, palms up, and holds them out before him, tilting his head back and his chin up. He breathes.
"Sorry."
A ghost of a smirk dances across Wes's lips. The kind of thing that might imply that this isn't the first time she's seen that look. It also might imply that the shutterbug isn't actually all that sorry about it.
She lets the camera gently rest against her sternum, zipping up her hoodie once more. She closes her eyes, turning up her palms just like Jano, clearly trying to imitate his pose and posture. As if doing so might give her the ability to wax poetic about existence in the way he so delightfully does.
She breathes in unison with him, letting the experience wash over her. For real real this time, not for play play.
This time, Jano will have to break the silence. Wes is being good.
Jano is more than comfortable in silences--and this one lasts for some time--but even with eyes closed, one can feel the sun slipping away, its brightness dimming, the meager heat it offered slipping away from where it once warmed the skin. The clouds billow in, growing dark and rumbling, erasing the loveliness of the clear morning and stealing their view from them as suddenly, with a loud, echoing CRACK, thunder and lighting peal across the valley and a torrential downpour bursts forth from the sky out of seemingly nowhere.
Jano opens his eyes then, already soaked to the bone so much that even the stiff brim of his hat sags around his head. He crouches down then, facing Wes and shouts above the thunderous rain. "Now. Let's begin."
And with that he turns on his heel and starts racing up the trail, a river of water already sloshing down the center of it, which he hops back and forth over as he runs against the deluge, laughing into the rain as it drenches his face.
As the first droplet of rain hits her, Wes's nose wiggles at scent. When the lightning illuminates her eyes through the lids, she does not flinch. When the thunder crashes through the air, she doesn't startle. When the sheets of frigid rain come pouring down, she doesn't budge.
The Cahalith doesn't quite meet her mentor's enthusiasm, but his call is heeded all the same. Wes's eyes open to the sight of the magnificent, terrible storm, and after a moment of taking it in...
She tears off down the trail after Jano, lips peeling back into a feral grin as she darts along in his wake
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