#the internet has rotted everyone. you should not look up to me. i’m miserable

[egopathic]

I want to get drunk but I have to work :(

ok. this is going to be hostile but i am literally on the way to my full time retail job that’s 40+ hours a week. i do that while more stocked than your local pharmacy. that is because i am an addict and an alcoholic and have been since i was like 13.

you aren’t. you’re not an addict. yay. congrats. now will you PLEASE stop pretending you want to experience my very small, very sad life. be grateful you can show up in public without substances. you really, really do not want this, i promise.

[nanoland]

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave. 

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered. 

0 

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

0

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did. 

0

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark. 

0

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con��� constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty. 

0

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out. 

0

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head. 

0 

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried. 

0

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering. 

0

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”  

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued) 

[sunsetswurve]

Overcome / Numb (G.D) part 1

"Woah, hey, please stop working yourself up. Breathe. No like really, deep breath in. Hold it. Now let it out slow. Okay. Good. That's really good. Tell me what you're thinking, Sky, please. Don't keep whatever it is you're feeling in. Please?" Grayson was sitting across from me, hands on my shoulders.

Skylar Martins has been going through a lot, mentally and emotionally. She’s lost in her own head. Everything is getting worse for her and she feels like she’s all alone, even when people are asking her if she’s okay. Feeling like a burden and a problem, she’s set on her life being like this from now on because there is no way out for her. That is until an old friend pops back into her life, seeing through her lies and getting her to see there’s more to life than what she’s doing. 

A/N: Sooooo I’ve been going thru some rough stuff and this is the first time in a while I’ve written something. It’s been even longer since I posted any writing on the internet. Depression and anxiety are talked about. Suicidal thoughts are mentioned so trigger warning for that. Also, I’m not sure if this is going to be a friend!Grayson or like a relationship. heck I’ve always been bad at continuing stories so who even knows how far this will go. All depression and anxiety writing is from my own experience, I’m not trying to romanticize it or anything and i’m definitely not trying to make it that Grayson “cures” the main character. Let me know what you think, just please go easy on me <3

"Skylar, are you getting out of bed today? Don't you have work?" My mother asked from my doorway.

"Called out." I mumbled under my covers.

"You okay?" she asked, concern filling her voice.

"Yeah, I'm just tired and have a migraine."

"How are you tired? you've been in bed for the past 3 days. AND you've called out one day each week for the last month just to stay in your room. Do you even have sick time anymore?"

"Yes mom. Dont worry, I have enough hours. I just need to rest."

"Okay, we'll see when you lose your job for missing too much work. This isnt working Skylar. What’s going on?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." Lies. Truth was my depression was the worst it's ever been. I haven't had any energy to do anything.

"Have you been taking your pills?"

"Yes." Lies. I don't care to anymore. It's ridiculous that I have to depend on stupid pills to be a normal human. If this is who I'm supposed to be. What’s the point.

"Bullshit." She rolled her eyes and slammed my door. I heard her go down the stairs and the front door slammed shut also. Nice. Very mature, mother. See, I'm so miserable and annoying my mother doesn't even care anymore. Just leaves me here to rot. I sighed and rolled over, looking at my phone. It was 2 in the afternoon. This is what my life has come to at 23 years old. Alone. Stuck in my room.

I used to try. I used to have energy to try and fight this. But recently its gotten harder and harder to get out of bed. I can see everyone's worried looks and heads shaking with disapproval, but its like there's this wall between what I know I should do to help this and myself. I'm stuck in this cloud of self doubt, self hatred. I hate that I'm like this. I see myself getting worse and yet I just can't put myself out there to say anything to anyone or express what I'm feeling.

To be honest, I'm not even sure what I'm feeling. Numb, mostly. I'm just sick of being alone. I've always felt like I'm the third wheel in all situations. Always in a group of three friends, but the other two were closer and there was me. I've always been a shy person but after high school and stuff I went through in my first year of college, it got worse. I get nervous meeting new people, but I'm also nervous talking to people I haven't seen in awhile. I mean yeah, I have my family and even though I was that third person with friends, I still had friends. I'm also so close to my family. My cousin's been one of my best friends since I was born. But she's gotten pretty serious with her girlfriend so I'm pushed to the side once again. Not to mention they're talking about moving to the other side of the country. It's just gonna get worse.

I sound so selfish. But these are the thoughts that run through my head constantly throughout the day. Its all consuming. I'm alone. I'm alone. I'm alone.

With everyone in the house gone, I go downstairs and grab some cookies in the cabinet and sit in front of the tv. I'll be here for the next few hours until my parents and/or brother come home and then I'll head back upstairs. This is how it's been, avoiding everyone and eating junk to try and make myself feel less numb than I have been. I was switching on netflix when my phone buzzed.

"Hey Skylar, haven't talked to you in awhile. how have you been?" It was a text from Grayson. One of those friends I haven't talked to and don't freaking know how to talk to anymore because I'm a mess. I re-read the message a few times and wonder what I should respond with.

oh ya know, just wondering if I'll finally grow the balls to end my life or keep living in the hell I've created for myself. Oh yeah, that'll  go down swimmingly.

"Hey, I've been fine, just working. How are you?"

"Oh are you working today? Could use a hair cut haha ;)" people only talk to you when they need something from you, they don't really care about how you're doing, silly.

"I'm actually off today, Gray." I turned back to the television, desperately trying not to dwell on the thought that he only wants to know what I'm doing just so I can do his hair. I understand with being a hairstylist that people want me to do their hair but its like. Even the people I see constantly do this, they see my behavior has changed, I'm not the happy person I was before. They've asked me how I'm doing -- at the most inopportune times, mind you. But if you think there is something really wrong, you shouldn't want to ask me while you're on hold with our supervisor, this conversation WILL end up with me sobbing and I really really don't think you're ready for it, Margaret so of COURSE I'm going to say I'm fine. A few minutes later, my phone lets out another buzz.

"Do you want to hang out?" That's different. No one's asked me that recently. Not that I'm the best person to hang out with right now, with the buzzkill I've become. I don't answer. Let's add "flaky" to the long list of flaws I've developed over the passed couple of months. Sometimes it's just easier to act like nothings happening. I turn over on the couch and fall asleep.

..only to be woken up 20 minutes later to the doorbell ringing

The hell? We live on a secluded dead end, no one ever comes here unless its planned, like ever. I open the door to reveal Grayson Dolan on my doorstep with a small grin on his face.

"Gray, what are you doing here?" I ask opening the door more for him to step inside.

"When you didn't answer my text, I figured you fell asleep because you've always loved your naps" he chuckled, since he could tell from the look of confusion on my face that is exactly what happened.

"ohhh" I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I told you I haven't been the best with conversations lately.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks, taking in my disheveled appearance and greasy looking hair. Greasy looking because I haven't showered in days. Ya know, the things that happen with depression the internet and media don't tell you about when they're glorifying it for their aesthetic.

"Uhhh yeah. I haven't washed my hair in a few days. Look Gray I don't think--"

"No Skylar, really, are you okay? I was scrolling through twitter, saw one of your tweets and it's concerning."

"oh uh.. it's nothing, its just shit that comes to mind at night when I can't sleep." I say, hoping he doesn't press anymore. When I feel really low and don't know what to do, I let it out on twitter, no ones ever said anything before about it so I thought it didn't matter or they didn't care or whatever. It's been like this for years, so this really caught me off guard.

"Are you sure?" no.

"Yes." He gave me a look that definitely said he wasn't convinced, but shrugged anyway.

"Okay, so what are we watching?"

"Oh um, I'm catching up on Supernatural."

"Nice!"

"Gray do you even watch Supernatural?"

"No, but if you're watching it, I'll watch it with you. I wanna hang out and you're not busy. I miss you, so let's go! press play already." I gave him a weird look, this is different. Usually Grayson is really busy between doing stuff with Ethan and/or filming.

"What's going on? Where's Ethan? You two are inseparable."

"He's doing some stuff today. Tattoo and other errands. He'll be gone until tonight."

ahh, so he's just here because Ethan is busy and has nothing better to do

"What was that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just got this disappointed and annoyed look on your face. What are you thinking, Sky?"

"It's nothing."

"Listen, I know we haven't talked in months but this is not the Skylar I've known for years and I know you're not okay no matter what you're saying behind that fake smile. I'm not going to push it. You don't have tell me right now. But I'm here for you, even if we just sit and watch TV, okay?" My jaw dropped a little, I was not expecting this. Especially since we haven't talked in a while. But Gray has always been able to sense when I'm feeling off. So I'm not too surprised. But to still want to hang around me even if I don't want to talk, like damn, that's so sick of him.

"Thanks G." I say, smiling slightly and lean into his shoulder, a small gesture to show my appreciation. We focused in on the tv and got lost in it for the next few hours.

I didn't notice how many episodes we got through until the front door opened and my mother stepped in.

"Wow. You're out of your room AND someone is here? I'm shocked." She said sarcastically and turned to Grayson. "Hi honey, are you staying for dinner?"

"Hi Mrs. Martins. I'd love to."

"Good! I'm glad someone's been able to get her out of bed." my mother comments as I roll my eyes and continue to focus on the television. I could feel Grayson gaze on me though, I kept facing forward, hoping he would let it go and thankfully, he did. I couldn't focus back into the show though. He knows somethings wrong. But like he really knows. And I'm gonna have to tell him something soon or he'll just be wasting his time and get sick of me just like everyone else. I started biting my nails as I watched forward feeling anxious and sick of myself.

"hey do you still have your PS4?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Do you wanna go play some before dinner?"

"I don't really have any two player games."

"That never stopped us before. We can take turns doing stupid stuff on GTA?"

"Wow I haven't played that in the longest time."

"Lets go!" He said, standing up and waiting for me to follow him upstairs to where we have the playstation set up. I slowly stood up and went along with him. "Remember when we used to play online all of the time?" He asked as I set it up.

"Yeah, remember how angry Ethan would get when asshole twelve year olds would kill us before we could even do anything in the game and I had to figure out how to start a server for just us?"

"Oh man, back when we were living in apartments our neighbors would get PISSED at how loud he would yell."

"And I'd be up here swearing, thinking no one could hear me but one day my mother came up here PISSED because I dropped the f bomb like a million times in a minute."

"She lectured all three of us the next time me and E came over." We both laughed at the memory.

After some time, my mother called up, letting us know dinner was ready. My brother and father were both home now and we all sat down for our meal.

“Grayson! It's been so long since you've been over! How are you and your brother doing?" My father asked

"We're good, Mr Martins. We're working on some new video ideas and Ethan is getting stuff for it today."

"That's great to hear. Its nice to see Skylar out of her room and have company over for once. She's just been in her room for months."

"Dad. seriously?" I ask, do we have to talk about how I'm fucked up at dinner?

"Well she doesn't help herself if she's not taking her medications." My mom comments not looking up from her plate.

"Mom!"

"Skylar why aren't you taking your meds?" My dad turns to me, everyone turns to me actually. I feel my face start to heat up with all of the unwanted attention. My anxiety rising for being put on the spot like this when Grayson was here, or anyone actually.

"And we wonder why I'm finding excuses to not sit out here with you guys all of the time?" I say, rolling my eyes before standing up and hurrying up the stairs to my room.

----

I go into my room and throw myself on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Now he's definitely gonna know I'm not okay. He's definitely gonna walk talk to me about that and probably try to help. He'll stick around for a week or two, see how annoyingly sad and stubborn I am and give up. Just like everyone else has when I've been like this in the past. As if he could hear my thoughts, I hear a knock and Grayson quietly say my name, trying to not disturb the silence.

I look up but don't make a move.

"Sorry you had to awkwardly witness all of that." I mumble. He comes in, gently shutting the door behind him. He lays next to me, also looking up at the ceiling.

"You know they're just worried about you, right?"

"I know," I sigh.

"You also know I'm worried about you, right?"

"Don't be."

"How can I not? Your tweets are literally screaming that you're not okay. You aren't taking care of yourself and distancing yourself from everyone trying to help you." My eyes start filling up with tears and my breathing start to get heavy. My skin is on fire, feeling like hot pins and needles are stabbing me all over. "Skylar?"

I can't say anything. It's like the floodgates have been opened. I dont feel numb anymore but I feel everything. Hurt, sad, angry and frustrated. All I do is curl into a ball, sobbing and gasping for air. I feel Grayson try and pick me up to bring me closer to him but I push him away. It feels like I'm being smothered with nothing touching me at all. I know he means well but when I'm like this, touching doesn't help. I feel him start to pull away, probably to get my mother since somethings wrong and he doesn't know what he should do. but I grab his hand and shake my head.

"Panic attack. Stay. Give me a few minutes." I manage to get out between strangled sobs. He nods, staring at me with worry. I'm not surprised he's freaked out. Usually when I have panic attacks like this I'm not around anyone, so he definitely hasn't seen me like this before. My mother has only heard me have them because I used to call her when I was in college. That was when they started to get really bad. He doesn't let go of my hand though, it would be hard to with me squeezing it, trying to ground myself while focusing on my breathing.

It feels like an eternity, but it was probably just a few minutes later when my breathing slowed and the pins and needles sensation had left. I let go of Grayson's hand and wipe my face, groaning once it really hit me that I just had a panic attack in front of someone for the first time in so long.

"I'm so sorry about that Gray"

"Did you just have a panic attack?"

"Yeah, again, so sorry"

"Don't be! You know I have panic attacks too. I've just never seen you have one and you've always been okay with hugging and stuff so that just threw me, I didn't know how to help you."

"I usually have them at night or I'm not near anyone when they do happen. Uh, I uh feel like I can't breathe and my skin feels like it's on fire and I'm getting stabbed with hundred of needles all over my body so I freak out even more when people try to touch me when they happen.

"Jesus, Skylar. Why don't you tell anyone you're going through this?"

"I don't know" I shrug, "I don't like to bother people."

"Are you serious? You wouldn't be bothering anyone, you just need to tell people how you're feeling when they ask, because I know they've been asking. They're really worried. I'm really worried."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I just need you to take care of yourself."

"That's really hard right now, G."

"Then let me help, let someone help, stop locking yourself away and thinking you need to go through this by yourself." Tears are now streaming down my face and I'm quietly sobbing. He brings me in for a hug and kisses my forehead. We stay like that for awhile. "We're gonna get through this. I promise."

For some reason, that just makes me cry even harder. Why can't I take care of myself? I used to be strong and independent. Now I'm weak. I need people to take care of me at 23? What is this? What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Woah, hey, please stop working yourself up. Breathe. No like really, deep breath in. Hold it. Now let it out slow. Okay. Good. That's really good. Tell me what you're thinking, Sky, please. Don't keep whatever it is you're feeling in. Please?" Grayson was sitting across from me, hands on my shoulders.

"I, uh, okay." I take a deep breath again. "I'm just so fucking weak. And helpless. You shouldn't have to be making these promises and be worried about me." I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts and take a few more breaths. "Like this is sad. Ridiculous. How did I get myself in this situation. I don't get it. I don't know or understand myself anymore and I don't know how I got like this." My panic was turning into anger now. Anger at myself. The world. God or the universe or whatever seems to be in control of all of this.

"Stop beating up on yourself for like two seconds to see that people care about you and love you. Sometimes life gets hard and we need help. If I was in this position I would want someone to help me. I can't stand seeing you like this. I WANT to help. Life got busy and I was a shitty friend that grew distant. But I'm here. Your family is here. I know for a fact that if Ethan was here he'd be agreeing with me. We've known each other for years. I know you ARE strong. You just need a little help right now. The only question is if you're going to accept the help or stay stuck." He got a little louder, was it because it's Grayson and he's just loud or wanting to make his point come across clearly? both, probably. I took a few deep breaths, really calming for the first time in hours.

"Okay."

[simnovels-blog]

Descendants of the Sun - Evil meets Good

Week 1

Aiko didn’t know if she had to feel good or bad about the fact that she was getting along with Thornton Wolff. She was glad that this job wasn’t going to be super hard by the looks of it, but on the other hand, maybe Thornton would have been spared if she just couldn’t manage to become friends with him. The real question was if Izanami would forgive her for that though, and Aiko doubted it. So for now, she just decided to do the best she could. Aiko: “...and so we ended up moving from Moonlight Falls to Sunset Valley! It’s good to be in a new fresh town. I was really starting to get confused about who was my family and who wasn’t, haha!” Thornton: “See, this is why I don’t want children. I don’t want half the town to be filled with little Thorntons in a few generations, and especially not with little Morganas. Now that would be a nightmare, haha!” Aiko: “Huh? Isn’t she your wife?”

Thornton gestured to Aiko that she should come closer so he could whisper something in her ear. She was curious what he had to say, especially since it was about his wife who was standing in the way of Izanami’s plan (or was part of it, Aiko really didn’t know anymore). Thornton: “I shall tell you a little secret, since you’re new in town and can’t be a blabbermouth yet to anyone here. Morgana and I aren’t on very good terms. She really wants children, and I want none. We love each other, but our home hasn’t been a very happy place. Morgana can be quite a bitch when she’s moody!” Aiko didn’t really know what to say to that. It sounded like their marriage was already going downhill without the interference of her or Izanami. This whole plan might be way more easy than they had expected.

While Aiko became Thornton’s listening ear about all his marriage problems, Izanami was on her way to the gym to get her athletic skill going. She needed to improve it for her new job, so she decided to subscribe to the gym. Of course she could’ve added a gym to her dungeon, but she felt like a gym subscription was a good way to meet the people in this new town and to make them feel miserable about themselves by showing off her gorgeous body in public. At the gym, she bumped into no one less than Morgana Wolff! What a lucky encounter (for Izanami, definitely not for Morgana)!

Izanami: “Oh hey, aren’t you Morgana Wolff, the wife of Thornton Wolff? I don’t know if someone told you already, but it seems like your husband is getting very cozy with my aunt in the tavern down the street! If I were you I’d keep a close eye on your man.” Morgana: “Excuse me but who are you? And who do you think you are making such accusations about my husband?” Izanami: “Ohh I’m just new in town. You’re gonna love me! I’m not making any accusations though. Just telling the truth! You can go check out the tavern if you don’t believe me.”

Morgana wanted to walk away, but Izanami stopped her by blocking her path. She wasn’t going to let this woman off easily. Morgana was a Good woman. Izanami had read a lot about her. She never got into a real fight with anyone. She donated to charity every month and she did all the chores in the household without complaining, even when Thornton was always too busy with work to help out. Izanami hated people with the Good trait. If it was up to her, they’d all rot in a dungeon somewhere. Fortunately for Morgana, there was no space for her in Izanami’s basement. Izanami: “I wouldn’t put so much trust in a man who hits on younger women in a pub, mrs. Wolff. You better watch out, before you know it, he has a baby with someone else!”

Izanami said the last part on purpose, knowing Thornton hated kids and Morgana loved them. You’d be surprised about all the info you could find about all these Sunset Valley losers on the internet! Morgana: “Who do you think you are?! Being a complete stranger, barging in here like you own the place and then starting to insult me and my husband?! How about you get the fuck out of town? We don’t need an instigator like you among us!”

Izanami: “Oh my Morgana, getting all worked up? I heard it’s not like you at all to get mad at people! There must have been some truth to what I said for you to react like this.” Izanami really wanted Morgana to explode in front of everyone. She wanted the reputation of this little good witch to be ruined. She wanted people to see that no one was truly good. Everyone had some evil, some rage inside them. Unfortunately for Izanami, Morgana kept her calm. Morgana: “Ugh, you know what? You’re not worth the trouble. I don’t know who you are and why you think you need to do this, but I’m not interested. Go find someone else to trigger.”

Izanami didn’t expect Morgana to have such a strong good will. She’d need more time to crack her nut. But that was okay. As long as Aiko was doing her job, this woman would break down soon enough! Izanami: “Don’t think you can just walk away and be done with me. I moved to this town and I intend to stay. You will not be able to avoid me forever.” Morgana: “Is that a threat? Because I really don’t feel threatened. I know my husband better than anyone and especially better than you. None of your words got to me even the slightest. Now get out of my way, I’m going home.” Izanami: “Ohh you silly goose. You have no clue about what’s to come!”

Morgana left, bumping against Izanami’s shoulder on purpose as she passed her. Izanami grinned at that hostile gesture. It was a sign that she did piss off the woman enough to ignite some aggression inside her. She may not show it yet, but soon enough, Morgana would be a raging monster and the whole town would witness how ‘good’ she really was!

[yessoupy]

here, have some random-ass MLB zombie apocalypse shit i wrote in 2011 and will never finish. zito and lincecum, as ever.

He's been scraping by for months. He's amazed he's made it this far unscathed. Pillaging the pharmacy the week before had literally saved his skin; the rash that had started on his hands had become infected and had threatened to shut down his already taxed immune system.

So now, as healthy as he thinks he'll ever be, he huddles by his shopping cart (with working wheels, he'd taken the time to be picky) loaded with valuable medical supplies and facing down his death. The marauders are a dozen strong and he's a lone wolf, until now self-sufficient and capable.

Now, cornered. He knows they only want his supplies. But without them, he may as well be dead. He won't last a day without something to use to barter, without being able to tend to cuts and scrapes. He considers offering up the only thing he'd been able to salvage before the apocalypse struck – a survival guide printed off the Internet.

He's read it cover-to-cover a dozen times, has everything memorized anyway, but he thinks these guys probably have no use for instructions on how to build a windmill.

His hands are inching up over his head in reluctant surrender when the gunshots sound. He is stuck between covering his head with his hands and clutching his cart closer to him. He does both, one arm protecting his skull and the other hand catching itself in the hard red plastic.

After a period of time passes – during which he fingers the cheap rosary around his neck, praying for each plastic bead – the guns stop firing and he realizes he's been left unharmed. He forces his hands to disengage from their dedicated tasks and creeps them up over his head.

“Please don't kill me!” He's not above a little begging, four months into the apocalypse and without anyone or thing familiar.

“Wasn't planning on it, Timmy.”

He jerks his head toward the voice, familiar in a way he hasn't let himself think about since abandoning his condo in Seattle, since burying his dog in a forest with tears streaming down his face, since walking into his father's home and being greeted with nothing but rot. “Where are you?” He doesn't see anyone down the alley.

Then, out of the darkness, emerge three figures. Two are completely unfamiliar, only friendly in the way they move fluidly and not like the jerking undead masses plaguing the continent. The third has a stride old to his memory, shelved with his condo and his dog and his father.

“Barry?”

–

They have a colony going, it turns out. Of all of them, Tim didn't expect Barry to be the one leading a refugee settlement. They've taken over a library, an interesting choice, and while Tim isn't exactly sure it's the most strategic of locations, he can understand the romantic line of thinking which led Barry to surround himself with a now-dead civilization's literature.

It becomes decreasingly odd to refer to the life he had four months ago as one of a lost time. The walk from the dead marauders to the library was quiet, covert, and zombie-free. He's having trouble believing that he's here now, seated on an honest-to-god couch, clutching a plastic cup of actually clean water in his hands. Barry is next to him, but an arm’s length away. Tim is confused. Shouldn’t this kind of reunion be more … exuberant?

But maybe Barry’s moved on.

“We haven't seen any live ones for weeks, Timmy, you're a revelation. I mean, besides those pirates. But they don't count. They're less than human in the soul.”

He wants to ask how many dead ones they've seen, if the count has decreased down here, or if it's just as plagued as Oregon. Instead, he sips at the water, unable to break months of conditioning that required him to cherish every drop of water that came his way.

“It's okay, Timmy. We have plenty where that came from. Hydrate. Take a nap if you need to, then we'll get to negotiations.”

Tim is startled. “Negotiations?”

“For your medical supplies.”

“I don't understand.”

“We want to negotiate with you and your people for some of your supplies in return for whatever it is we can offer.”

“My people?” Tim is confused, operating under the assumption that he'd just found his people.

Barry stares at him. “Yeah, you and your group.” Like this was some ordinary thing, negotiations and roaming groups of people trading for goods. Tim thinks that maybe it is, that maybe that's how things have worked out for the rest of the continent, that he's just been missing out on the camaraderie and something resembling life from Before.

He shakes his head. “I'm by myself, Barry.”

Barry's eyes go wide. “What?”

“I've been by myself this whole time.”

There's a beat of still and silence before Tim finds himself wrapped up in Barry's arms, unable to save his cup of water from falling to the tile. He doesn't hesitate in bringing his arms up around Barry in reciprocation. “Z?” Tim asks in confusion, hands clutched in his heavy shirt. His throat gets tight and his eyes burn, and he's forgotten what it's like to get choked up. This is the kind of welcome he’d been expecting since he saw Barry’s figure in the alley. He feels like he's dying.

“It's been awhile since you've been touched, and it's important. Very important. With things so unpredictable out here, you have to keep the mind level. Twenty seconds of skin-to-skin contact on a good day, Timmy. That's what you need to feel human. In days like these, we should all hold hands.”

As Barry's hands move up Tim's bare arms, he gets the impression that Barry's given this speech before, that he's one in a long line of refugees who've stumbled upon Barry's colony and into his unique way of seeing things in the face of disaster. “How many of you are there?”

Letting loose that goofy grin  he'd had in Oakland, Barry squeezes Tim's shoulders and releases him. “Only one of me, baby.”

Tim scowls. “You know what I mean.”

“Today, with you, ten.”

“Have you found anyone?”

A pained expression flits across Barry's face and Tim regrets asking. Barry shakes his head. “Just you.”

“Do you know about anyone else?”

Barry schools his features into detached blankness. “Heard from Buster before the grids went down; he was in Georgia. You know what happened to Georgia.” Barry isn't asking, and Tim does know. Word travels well among the survivors. “Cainer, I'm sure he's fine. He's got guns, the survival instinct. Jonny'd left for San Juan, he might be alright on an island.”

He knows from Barry’s voice and the look on his face that he shouldn’t ask any more questions about Before, but he can’t help it. He wants to know. “Madison? Freddy? Cody? Vogey? Anyone from Oakland?”

The last remaining light in Barry’s eyes flares out. “Timmy, it's better that we not talk about who and what we don't have.”

This is the kind of advice he'd rather not have to take.

–

They all work, have jobs. Their compound works like a well-oiled machine, and they even have a few of those, too. Tim proffers his survival guide as some kind of offering besides his medical store, but nothing in it is anything new to those who live in a library. They assure him that the medications, the pharmacy he's been hauling around with him, those things are enough.

He tries to help: picking up a shovel when he sees someone else digging, grabbing a bucket when he sees someone going for water, answering the hail for an extra set of hands whenever he hears it. Most of the time, though, he's gently told that he's more hurt than help, to go rest, comb the stacks for a book about this or that.

Angry, hurt, and feeling emasculated when Sally firmly tells him No, I don't need your help building this generator, Tim seeks out Barry.

“They don't let me help,” he says, trying not to whine but failing miserably. “I try, and I want to, but they send me away.”

“You need your rest, Timmy,” Barry says easily, eyes locked on the task before him on the main circulation desk.

“I've been resting for days. It's more than that. They don't trust me, Barry.”

“What?”

“If they don't trust me to dig a hole for a latrine, how am I supposed to live here? How can I be safe when we're attacked?”

“You dig a trench for a latrine, Lincecum,” says Anthony, walking through the workspace, his arms loaded down with pilfered supplies from the junkyard down the street.

Frowning at the mechanic's receding back, Tim points. “See what I mean?”

“Well, he's right about that, Tim.” Barry finally raises his eyes and Tim sees a deep sadness in them that flickers away in a flash. “What did you do before?”

“Before? Barry, you know --”

“No, I mean before you found us. How did you survive?”

Tim shrugs, mildly embarrassed. “I just … did. I had that guide, I lived by it.”

“You found no one else? You didn't spend time with any other groups?”

“No! I told you --”

“It's just that they find that hard to believe.” Barry raises an eyebrow at him and turns his gaze back to his work.

“Barry, I don't understand.”

“They think you're a spy.”

Tim can't help but laugh out loud. “A spy? For who? The zombies?”

Barry shakes his head and Tim can sense his impatience. “No, for the pirates, or the government, even. It's too neat, how you showed up on our doorstep with those supplies.”

“It sounds like you count yourself among them,” Tim says defensively. “You know me, Barry.”

Barry attaches a panel to the piece of machinery he's been working on this whole time and Tim suddenly realizes what it is: a window-unit air conditioner. “Tell me how you got here.”

A chill works itself from his heart out to his limbs. Flashes of his living nightmare take over his vision and he shakes his head vigorously. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to relive it,” he bites out.

Barry makes one last round with the screwdriver along the edges of the panel, tightening each screw. “I believe you, Tim,” he clarifies, looking up again. “I was so happy to see you, but ever since Casper ….”

“Everyone keeps whispering about him when they think I can't hear. Who was he?”

“Casper was my partner.”

Tim blinks. “And they got him.”

Barry nods, that sadness crossing his face. “Want to help me install this in the back room where we put those batteries this morning?”

“Yeah, sure. I'd like that.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Barry promises.