[CENTER][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/6lYUgmE829m06SMC6tG3qD?si=a743f9153294458a][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019ac7e8-9d61-7059-9994-7033a1ea72a9.webp[/img][/url][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=#696969][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [color=white][I]Chicago[/I][/color][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=#696969][b]#2.01[/b][/COLOR][/right][/sup][/indent][center][COLOR=dimgray][SUP][sub]______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sub][/SUP][/COLOR][/center]
𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝕴 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖆 𝖒𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙?
𝕴 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓...𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖚𝖒𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘 𝕴 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖞𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖎𝖓.
𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖔, 𝕴 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖆𝖒.

𝕴'𝖒 𝖆 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖗, 𝖙𝖔 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖞.

𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌, "𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊?".
𝕴 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙.
𝕴 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙, "𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙."

𝕻𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊...𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙.

𝕬𝖒 𝕴 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉?
𝕬𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝕴 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉?
𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙?
𝕴𝖋 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞...𝖉𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞?
𝕴𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞...

𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍.

[hr]
[indent][color=A9A9A9]It had been a little over a year since John had left England and his troubles and his sister behind; he'd seen his twentieth birthday in New York, shortly after arriving, and had spent it commiserating and drinking heavily, against his better judgement - trying to dull the pain so pure and clear that such a milestone was passing without the company of Cheryl, for whom he had fought so hard to bring home. Her absence was somehow crystallised into an even sharper relief by the knowledge that she was, in fact, out there once more, returned from her abduction, but now on the other side of an ocean representing a gulf some three-and-a-half-thousand miles wide. After Chas and John had both found New York to be unwelcoming and distateful to their appetites and attitudes, they'd moved to Chicago, the Windy City more aligned to their indulgences, and suddenly a year had passed and John's twenty-first was spent in Chi-Town dive bars and the local pizza joint.

After the move, life settled into a routine, much as it always does. Chas had little trouble renewing his driving licence for the relevant American bodies, and his time in the black cabbies of London had battle-hardened him well for the clichéd yellow sedans of Chicago's taxi fleet. He suited the work, finding distraction in the lives of his passengers, always able to spin a yarn over drinks and regale his immediate company with embellished tales and insights witnessed second-hand in his day-to-day. John had no such luck with his own licence, having never attained it in England and faring much the same on new shores; instead, he had a bike, and he used it to deliver, a 'gig' employee, transporting everything from food to parcels to court summons from wherever it was to wherever it needed to be. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid for rent and cigarettes, and it suited John as much as the taxi work suited Chas: he could smoke, and listen to music, and minimise his interaction with the general public as much as he liked. He could even manage a daily catharsis exchanging vicious insults with whichever cunt arsehole driver [i]du jour[/i] endangered his life with some dickhead manoeuvre.

The year had passed them by almost shockingly uneventfully. Despite the lurking fear of Nergal's recompense for humiliation, the move to America has seemed to succeed in its goal of allowing John to drop off the radar. There were times, inevitably, where a stranger stared at him from across the street a little [i]too[/i] long, or someone cocked their head at [i]too[/i] much of a funny angle, or the delivery he was entrusted with smelt of [i]too[/i] much incence that still failed to cover the hint of sulphur beneath it regardless; but he'd hung up the coat since the first couple months after landing, and with it seemed to have also hung up the title Mammon had 'gifted' him with as well. There were days, and some sleepless nights, that fright and anxiety crept in alongside morbid curiousity, and he wondered what might the Golden Wolf be doing, where might Nergal be reconstituting himself, which Hellish agents might be watching and reporting his every move - but as the Sun and Moon rose and set in a decoupled waltz, days bleeding into weeks and then months, the seasons pushing through the city and painting morphing landscapes across its streets and skyline...those anxieties ebbed away, draining out into the sea, so much so that John began to feel [i]comfortable[/i]. It was foolish; but what of mortal men isn't?

A year had at least been enough to make new friends, and John was thankful for their company on cold and dark nights. He hesitated to get too close, to open himself up, the image of Gary's stiffening corpse on the bridge in the dark back in Liverpool an ever-looming spectre that tainted every interaction and conversation - but he enjoyed their gathering all the same, a welcome distraction if nothing else. Chas did most of the talking anyway, and John was happy to let him. The longer Chas talked, the longer people kept putting beer in John's hands, and with the weak crap that seemed to be slung as standard in the states, John needed plenty to feel that familiar warm buzz. Benny Cox was the youngest, brash and foolhardy in a way that indicated he'd not yet felt hardship touch his life, but this unwitting naivety belied a keen academic mind that was currently engaged in studies at the University of Illinois Chicago. Frank North was older than any of them, a more steady presence in the group, and had been the first of them John had met - he'd purchased the bike he now made deliveries on from Frank, and whatever he'd paid, Frank had surely renumerated him twice over in liquid form by now. And then there was Judith Ashram, a beautiful contradiction, a sharp mind in her own right and dutiful student at the private Jesuit institution of Loyola University, but also a self-declared 'tantric practitioner'. There had been a short time after introductions that John had longed to heed her teachings on his knees before her, but he'd since cast such superficial fancies aside. He didn't need the complications. They'd instead formed quite the bond over long discussions of a theological nature, John keeping his own practical experience perfectly to himself.

So was the routine. Chas drove and John pedalled and they both explored the city in their own ways, and when they grew tired or the weather turned sour they retreated to a local hole-in-the-wall and sipped and smoked until they stumbled home and fell asleep. They'd put the past behind them, some memories easier to lock away than others, and avoided talking about Liverpool and what they'd lived through there. When John would dream of Cheryl, or Gary, or Nergal or Mammon or worst of all, of Jacob and his ancestors and that dark grove with that blood-stained rock, he'd jolt awake, shouting in his sleep; and then he'd pad quietly to the kitchenette, where Chas would already be sitting with two fresh-hot mugs and a pack of smokes. In the silence there was understanding; in the shared still hours, there was forgiveness. John would not deign to ask for anything more.

[hr]
It was late in the afternoon when John got the job post through to his phone. It was a neat little app, pitched by some new young upstart in silicone valley that Forbes called a 'mover and shaker' without even a hint of irony, whose grand contributions consisted of his parents' no-questions-asked angel investment and 'groundbreaking' ideas that mostly took the form of declaring various combinations of "[app] for [new function]", and letting someone else figure out the practicalities. Well, [i]this[/i] one was "Tinder for Deliveries". If people wanted stuff shipped within the city (or sometimes the state), they [i]could[/i] entrust it to the great institution of the US Postal Service, or they [i]could[/i] pay a premium for a vetted and organized courier company like UPS or FedEx. [i]Or[/i], this app pre-supposed, they could [i]instead[/i] post a listing of what they wanted delivering and where, along with the fee they were willing to pay to get it done (with a recommended nominal amount for those inclined toward having their pockets picked), and an enterprising freelance courier could 'swipe right' on their job and collect and deliver the package in the very same day. John couldn't believe it had taken off, but there was no end to the things people would pay for if you could convince them of how inconvenient [i]not[/i] paying for it really was.

In any case, this job was strange off the bat. The package was large and heavy and came with an accompanying letter, and the collection location was a P.O. box in downtown Chicago, and the delivery address was on the outskirts of the city in a neighbourhood John hadn't heard of. That in itself wasn't outlandish - John had only been here a year, after all, and Chicago was a big city - but the fee on the order was huge. Like, six months' rent huge. One parcel would pay for half a year's living and enough left over to have a good time while he was there. So all combined, it begged one very big question: why hadn't anyone else snapped up the job already?

[color=8B4513]"I'm workin', Johnny."[/color] Chas answered, his voice crackly and distant on the end of the line. John leant against a deli, phone held to his ear in one hand, a bell-pepper Italian Beef dripping gravy through his fingers in the other. A cigarette chaser was tucked behind his ear, ready for the post-lunch afterburn.
[color=BDB76B]"Take off for the day, lad. Need a ride."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"Ha! I may be [i]a[/i] taxi but that doesn't mean I'm [i]yours[/i]. What's wrong with the bike?"[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"Trip's too far and my legs are tired. Got a drop-off needs doing."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"So much for mister 'calves of steel'. Less beer, more pasta - like how marathon runners do it."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"I'm serious. Big drop-off."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"[i]I'm[/i] serious. On yer bike, son. Literally."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"Split the fee with ya."[/color]
John rolled his eyes as he heard Chas snort down the phone, and took another bite of his sandwich.
[color=8B4513]"I ain't that hard-up for cash, lad, and you need every penny for your share of the rent. I'm already subsidising your drinking."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"That's a big word. Gonna cross that off your calendar?"[/color]
[color=8B4513]"Fuck off, John. I'm working. I'll catch you lat-"[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"It's twenty thousand dollars."[/color]

There was the screech of tyres and the loud metal thump-and-crunch of some kind of collision, followed by extremely emphatic shouting and a chorus of horns. Chas fumbled, shouting his own swears across a muffled and scratchy line as his shuffled the phone about, desperately trying to find somewhere to pull over that wasn't half-way embedded in a sidewalk newspaper vendor, and once parked, he cleared his throat and replied.
[color=8B4513]"Well, that'll pay for a new fender, at least."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"I'll text you where I am. I gotta say, Chas, this one feels a little...weird. Could be bad voodoo."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"You don't want it, I'll do it. Twenty thousand? Christ, I'd deliver dead babies to the Pope himself for that kinda money."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"I'm just saying. It gives me a strange feeling is all."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"We can exorcise feelings, John-o. Cash is a wonderful balm."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"Alright, alright. I get the picture. I'll see you soon."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"Yes you bloody will, lad. Twenty thousand! We could buy a dryer that actually [i]dries[/i], instead of mildly warming wet laundry..."[/color]

Chas trailed off and John hung up, quickly texting his location for pick-up before finishing his sandwich. The bread and meat did little to soothe the strange blossoming pit in his stomach, and he lit his cigarette with shaky fingers, trying to figure out what the Hell it was that had him so [i]frightened.[/i]

[hr]
The house was pretty non-descript, all things told. Given the payment on the order John had expected either an area so upscale he could only dream of gazing wistfully through cold iron gates, or something so plain and unadorned that its constructed inconspicuousness wrapped all the way back around to a blindingly obvious mob affiliation. Instead, it was just...normal. A little bigger than your average outer-city two-bed but nothing extravagent; its most notable features were a porch, a window indicating an attic room, and its semi-detached nature. It bore a handsome facade, tasteful but understated, and held the airs of something once-proud that had since fallen into neglect. Paint peeled and wood was worn and chipped and there were clear signs of long-term weather damage, but none of this was so far gone as to make it unlivable by any means. The more John looked at it, the more banal it seemed, which only made his suspicion grow. 

[color=BDB76B]"Looks off to me."[/color] John said, not moving to undo his seatbelt or open the car door as Chas set the parking brake and switched off the engine. He leaned across John to glance up at the house through the passenger window.
[color=8B4513]"Looks completely normal."[/color] He surmised, and John sucked his teeth in response.
[color=BDB76B]"Exactly. This parcel and this letter,"[/color] he said, holding up both in demonstration, [color=BDB76B]"represent ten grand apiece, according to whoever put the job up. Don't you think wherever they're being delivered to should be a bit more...notable?"[/color]
Chas raised an eyebrow.
[color=8B4513]"Don't know why you're so insistent on poking holes in the easiest twenty large [i]either[/i] of us will ever make."[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"Because don't you think people with our history [i]should[/i] be wary when something seems too good to be true?"[/color] John shot back. [color=BDB76B]"Or is a year long enough to forget everything that happened in Liverpool entirely?"[/color]

He regretted it even before he'd finished getting the words out. Chas looked back at him with a stony face.
[color=8B4513]"A lifetime won't be long enough."[/color] He said quietly. The pair took a long pause. Chas drew a deep, steadying breath.

[color=8B4513]"I understand the impulse. I do. But sometimes, things that seem too good to be true just [i]seem[/i] it, and they [i]are[/i] actually true. Don't you think we've earned some good luck? I can't look at everything through cynicism, John. I wouldn't survive if I did. I don't know how you do."[/color]
John stewed, unable or unwilling to answer.
[color=8B4513]"Look - it's a parcel. I'm not going anywhere. I'll keep the engine ticking over and leave the door open. You get even a whiff of funny business, you ditch the package and dive back in and I'll have us both shot of here before your arse even touches the seat. And if it's all tickety-boo, [i]like I strongly think it is,[/i] I won't even ask you for my half."[/color]
Chas nudged John with an elbow, and this got both of them to crack small grins.
[color=BDB76B]"Alright,"[/color] John relented. [color=BDB76B]"Two ticks."[/color]
[color=8B4513]"Gotcha."[/color] Chas said, switching the engine back on and preparing for a quick getaway.

No one answered when John knocked. He didn't really want to wait around, but the job listing specified the parcel wasn't to be left outside, and either way he needed someone to verify and sign for the package or he wasn't getting a penny of the twenty grand promised. He knocked again, hearing the bangs echo into the house beyond the door, but still there was no answer. The doorbell didn't even work. John sighed. Too good to be true indeed. He thumped again, harder this time, venting irritation at half a day wasted through his fist as he pounded against the wood. The entire house seemed to tremble and creak in response, meek protest against his blows, before growing still once more. Nothing else sounded within the house, and John officially gave up.

He turned away, only to hear a low wooden groan peel out behind him. He looked back over his shoulder at the now slowly-opening front door; there was only a small grap between the door and the frame, and only darkness to be seen beyond it - but something felt strangely inviting, beckoning him in from the gloomy interior. 

Against his own good judgement and several hundred screaming instincts, John turned back around and entered the House. The door closed softly behind him, and locked with a near-inaudible [i]click.[/i]

[hr][/color][/indent]
[b][right]ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 ℑ'𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.[/right][/b]