the ride in the truck is silent.

ashe looks stern, stoic, maybe a little bit tired. she'd just picked you up after getting a call from the hospital about your mother's death; ashe being your mother's first call priority.

it had only been a day that ashe had waited for you to pack your limited belongings, helping you (albeit begrudgingly) pile it onto the back of ashe's beat-down but well-loved truck. sure, you knew of ashe from your mother's photos and yearbooks and stories, but you'd only met her a handful of times.

so it was awkward. there's not even the sound of the radio, instead; it's plain silent. ashe is steering the truck on the highway, with only a few other cars and vehicles in sight. ashe is planning on taking you to her home, but it's not even a home, you could say. it's more of a hideout, close to the areas where she and the rest of her deadlock gang hang out. it makes sense, honestly, when you think about where a notorious criminal would live.

ashe glances at you every now and then, scrutinising you. thinking about you. trying to read your emotions and mood through your face.

surprisingly, you don't even seem the nearest bit upset about your mother's death. even ashe feels like she's mourning more over her closest friend than you are. there's a small voice in the back of ashe's mind that's telling her that she regrets making that promise; regrets promising her best friend that'd she'd take care of you and protect you if your mother couldn't; no matter what, ashe had told her.

...but ashe knew what a handful teenagers were. especially teenagers nearing adulthood. she was in for a storm.

"we're here, sugar. c'mon, i'll help with your bags," ashe finally says, unlocking the truck to jump out; opening the back and dragging down some of your belongings.