Being remembered by a man for the better part of his lifetime usually takes something terrible: terribly good, such as saving his life or providing for his family, or terribly bad, the examples of which are too many to list here. Being remembered by a god, and an old one for whom one hundred years is only long because the world goes through a cycle and an entire generation is born and dies in that time, takes something terrible, but more of it.
Coyote remembers his first time staring down the barrel of a gun. He's never cared to know the name of the model or if it still exists in an antique enthusiasts' paradise somewhere, but he remembers looking as though from a great distance into the two round, dark holes, like they were eyes, dead and crow-eaten, and the bright orange flash before the stink and pain and sound that he would come to understand meant a piece of his human shell had been blown away. Later, he remembers the gun up close, chucked up under his chin as a cold metal reprimand, his pulse hammering as the hammer drew back. He was much stronger then, even/especially in those times of crisis, and made for excellent target practice, living faster than he could die. Most importantly, writhing in the dust and his own blood, he remembers being at Guns' feet.
And still, almost before he received the informal invitation, he knew he was coming.
It seems it just isn't in his destiny to meet with the new god unhurt, as Coyote leaves a long smear of blood in the formerly classy elevator as he is escorted to the top of the building by the key-holders. He doesn't look back, but keeps walking down the long hallway, and it feels a little like walking to his death. The sun couldn't shine here if it wanted to, although he has a feeling the inside boasts floor-to-ceiling windows and a spectacular view. Guns has always liked to see what he was shooting at.
The girls are already here; they are as good for telling time by as any watch, which Coyote doesn't wear. His movements are slow and deliberate, like he's trying not to pull stitches or perhaps a muscle. He moves to them, and then past, leaning on the wall opposite, next to the closed door, which he quietly hopes doesn't open so they can all go home. Flagrantly going against the dress code, his clothes belong to a westerner, torn jeans and snakeskin boots, low heels clicking against the expensive floor as he taps one foot then the other. His jacket is leather and the deep brown of dried blood, left open over his chest and stomach and the bandages wound tight and red, already in need of changing from the walk over. Two different shirts were bled through before he decided to make do without; his being in pain is too familiar to Guns to be disguised with anything material. With how he holds himself, it's apparent he doesn't want to be touched, which must be a first with two goddesses around.
The faintest of the bruises disappear against his dark skin, but there's an entire battlefield of them warring for space on his torso, and one or two or ten of them across his collarbone may or may not be hickeys instead. Obnoxious enough to have worn sunglasses at night on previous occasions, this time he has a reason, his eye split and swollen beneath them, but not so much that he can't stare at Lela and Onatah in their traditional garb. It may be costuming to their host for the evening, but to Coyote it is as natural as the dawn, and his eyes linger on their long brown legs before he takes another look around and frowns. "Where's Silver Fox?" When last he saw her, she was with Onatah, and he would have gone and dragged her here if he'd known that was the requirement.
Under one arm is a white cake box, and it crumples inwards with his sudden anger.