[ONC 2021 Grand Winner] After the events of Ragnarök, the God Vidar has settled in the nice and quiet city of Antwerp where he keeps an eye on the local paranormal community. Nearly a millennium later, Vidar is a grumbling bookstore owner by day and...
At ten thirty-four, a jet black van whipped around the corner, its engine growling. Not a wasp on wheels, but a black bear waking up from its winter slumber. With skidding tyres, Mo braked. He shot a few metres past Vidar.
Pizza box in hand, Vidar sprinted towards the van. Through the tinted back windows, only Mo's outline showed.
The door opened automatically. "Hop in, Wolfie."
Vidar sat down, plenty of space for his legs. He could look up without the roof scratching his forehead.
"Nice ride," he said.
"It's old as dirt, but it has a few interesting features," Mo said. He pressed a black button next to the radio. Instantly, an ear-piercing alarm began to blare. "A human looking at the source of the sound will see a police car, ambulance, or a firetruck."
Vidar hummed. A headache pounded at the base of his skull.
Mo made a sharp u-turn, then sped out of the street. "Don't ask me how I got this car—I did what I had to do to help a friend in need. This baby plus your Norse mumbo-jumbo should get us close to Reynaert. But be prepared. The place will be crawling with officers."
"Just me will be enough," Vidar grumbled. He pushed the now blue button, watching it grow yellow then red before turning back to black. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves."
"If you say so, Wolfie," Mo said. Then, as Vidar opened the box, he shrieked, "Hey, where's the rest of my pizza?"
"I ate it."
Mo folded the last remaining slice. "Last night before the full moon?"
"Uh-huh."
Pizza in his mouth, Mo jumped a red light, driving ninety where the speed limit was fifty kilometres per hour.
Vidar swallowed as acid burnt his throat. If anything, the Ifrit's driving style would suppress the insatiable hunger for a while.
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Masses of humans had gathered on the Green Square, the city's old cemetery, and now the beating heart of Antwerp's historic centre. The van shuffled through the street; the slowest Mo had driven since making that u-turn in Hoboken.
People stood outside the adjacent bars and restaurants, drinks in one hand, their phone in the other. Two teenaged boys climbing up the statue of Rubens received a scolding from a muscled security guard coming from the Hilton Hotel. They leapt down, right in a big puddle. The ground was still damp; it had rained earlier. As though this was an ordinary evening, the bells of the Cathedral of Our Lady chimed eleven times.
A police offer with an elaborate moustache beckoned Mo to stop.
"This is your moment to shine, Wolfie. His name's Maes," he said before lowering the car window.
"Good evening," Vidar said. He searched for the man's eyes, but the officer was too busy scrutinising Mo.
