_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Beyond the boundaries of Mammon's court the mud grew thick and hard and crusted over until the bog disappeared and in its place lay a dry and barren salt flat, sterile and dead, not even the insects and plants of Earth's deserts present to breathe tiny life into its colourless, desolate plains. Dust kicked up around John's boots with each step and the muck caked to his clothes and skin and hair was finally beginning to dry out, cracking and flaking and bringing with it a new itchy, chapped sensation, a fresh discomfort. Hell never let up. Ahead of him, the wolf-fiend padded along, its misshapen form heaving left and right, naked flesh slapping against the dirt as it lead him on a merry hunt, occasionally stooping over awkwardly to sniff and snort in the dirt with its lupine snout before pivoting direction. All the while it paused regularly to look back at John, regarding him with beady black eyes, almost salivating. John was very sure that only Mammon's word was preventing him from being wholly devoured.
The ruined cathedral that housed Mammon's court, crumbling yet still ostentatious and intimidating, had now shrunk from view behind them completely, and with its disappearance John now felt truly untethered from even tenuously 'recognizable' landscape. In absence of landmarks and features and flora the very ground began to crack and split open, fractures in the dry mud growing and deepening into fissures that rent the earth asunder, opening to further depths below them until all that remained were the chasms and ravines plunging into an inescapable darkness. The wolf-fiend was treading around the edge of one rupture, its nose twitching and sniffing feverishly at the surface of its depths. John caught up and peered carefully over the lip, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness and discern even some minute detail; alas, the blackness was impenetrable. He could see nothing. The wolf-fiend stilled and pointed down - the meaning was clear.
"You're joking, right? I'm not bloody Bear Grylls, mate."
The wolf-fiend stayed pointing, but it added a snarl to the mix by way of motivation. Its bared fangs dripped with appetite.
"Alright. Heard." John said, morose, and they began their descent.
The deeper they descended the more John felt a terrible sense of dread pooling in his stomach and clogging up his windpipe until it felt like it was going to spill from his mouth. A keening fear, sharp and potent, accompanied by the undeniable feeling of deja vu; these dark cliff faces were familiar beneath his ragged palms, and as they approached the ground at the very bottom of the ravine the feeling only compounded itself exponentially. When John's boots finally touched slick black earth his knees almost buckled beneath him as terror gripped every facet of his mind. He strained, listening, expecting a sound but finding none. There was no thudding left down here; no further butchery needed. As they walked, John knew what to look for before they could even see, before the darkness parted and a singular soft glow broke through the gloom like a lighthouse atop a rocky shore, and indeed once illuminated there it was, John's dreams revealed as premonitions, his fright now justified: a grove. A circle of burnt and blackened trees. A mound of soil, writhing with insects and the carcasses of small, torn-up animals. The block. Oh, God, the block.
ℍ𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕆 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕎𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝔹𝔼𝔼ℕ 𝕎𝔸𝕀𝕋𝕀ℕ𝔾.
An invisible force seized John's entire body and pulled him inexorably forward. He struggled, leaning away and trying desperately to turn back but he was dragged all the same, his heels gouging lines in the dirt as the trees and the mound and the block grew closer, closer, ever closer; there was a canine whimper to his side and John turned his head to see the wolf-fiend being dragged along beside him, thrashing and barking and snarling to no avail. As they approached the block, John and the wolf began to rise into the air, now free-floating and removed from all purchase, unable to reach or grasp anything that might offer resistance to the compelling force that directed them forward. This close, John could see a figure lying on its back upon the slab, a dirtied white shroud draped over their form. Their chest rose and fell softly in a slow rhythm, but otherwise they displayed no movement except for a subtle and disturbing writhing and distention across the surface of their belly. John's heart simultaneously broke and soared. This was her. He'd finally actually found Cheryl.
𝕎ℍ𝔸𝕋 𝕀𝕊 𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝔹𝕃𝕆𝕆𝔻-ℍ𝕆𝕌ℕ𝔻? 𝕄𝔸ℕ'𝕊 𝔹𝔼𝕊𝕋 𝔽ℝ𝕀𝔼ℕ𝔻, 𝕆ℝ 𝔸 𝕄𝕆ℂ𝕂𝔼ℝ𝕐 ℙ𝔼ℝℍ𝔸ℙ𝕊?
John hung restrained in the air as the wolf-fiend slowly drifted closer still to the grove, inspected by a hundred invisible eyes. Its growls and barks petered out and changed to discomforting, frightened whining, and then to pained yelps and finally a repulsive, disturbing wet gurgle as spit and blood dripped from its jaws as its body cracked and folded in on itself, ankles forced backwards until the soles of its feet hit its calves, then the knees snapping the wrong way and tucking shins into thighs, legs splaying and splitting sideways as they parcelled up against its torso; all the while its arms mirrored the horrific manipulations and finally, when it was all done and every joint and bone twisted and snapped and sundered, skin torn under the pressure of impossible movements and severed arteries gushing forth - the wolf alive and screaming through every second - its head turned and turned and turned, a cork turning on the screw, more flesh rupturing, more blood spilled, until the entire thing came loose with a wet tear and a pop. The body went limp and collapsed beneath the head still aloft, crumpling to the ground below, askew and discarded like a ragdoll, completely unrecognizable as its once-humanoid form in the wreckage it had become. The head spluttered its last and ceased, spine dangling beneath like some red-stained ivory necktie. It too dropped, rolling and tumbling away into the darkness. John vomited down himself.
𝕆ℕ𝔼 𝕆𝔽 𝕄𝔸𝕄𝕄𝕆ℕ'𝕊 𝕋𝕆𝕐𝕊. 𝔸 ℙ𝔸𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕋𝕀ℂ ℙ𝔼𝕋 𝔽𝕆ℝ 𝔸 ℙ𝔸𝕋ℍ𝔼𝕋𝕀ℂ ℂℝ𝔼𝔸𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼.
Whatever was commanding his body, John now felt the full pressure of its attention fall upon him. He felt flush, suddenly sweating in fear. Damp warmth spread across the groin of his trousers.
ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼, 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕄𝔼𝔼𝕋 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔹ℝ𝕆𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕆ℕ𝔼 𝕎ℍ𝕆 𝕊ℍ𝕆𝕌𝕃𝔻-ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼-𝔹𝔼𝔼ℕ.
John began to float down, drawn towards the block and the shrouded figure. He tried to resist, desperate to struggle and thrash and flail as he was pulled near, but his legs remained stiff, his arms pinned to his sides. Only his eyes spun wildly in their sockets, searching this way and that for whatever hands now dominated it.
"Don't! Don't fold me up like the wolf Jesus Christ please-"
ℍ𝕌𝕊ℍ, 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ. 𝕎𝔼 𝕊ℍ𝔸ℕ'𝕋. 𝕎𝔼 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝕍𝔼𝕊𝕊𝔼𝕃 𝕀ℕ𝕋𝔸ℂ𝕋.
The writhing beneath Cheryl's stomach grew wilder and more twisting, as if whatever snaked through her belly now became more and more impatient. John caught a glimpse of some gaunt, all-too-familiar face imprinted through the skin and against the shroud, and shut his eyes, screwing them closed tight until they hurt, willing the image to disappear from his mind; when he reopened them, the shifting roiling madness in his sister's flesh was moving, pathing upwards from her belly past her lungs - horrible popping sounds bursting from her sternum as it crawled up her ribs - pushing bones and blood vessels aside to finally come to a rest at her throat, wrapped around her esophagus. Cheryl's whole body spasmed, and then one hand seized the edge of the block in a white-knuckle grip before she rose, unsteady, the shroud covering her still but falling across her features as she sat up, some grim parody of a sheet-ghost, instead creating the effect of a macabre death mask over her obscured face. She drew a pained, rattling breath, and then spoke in a nightmarish blend John would never forget.
"Hello, brother." Said Jacob through their sister's mouth. "I have been waiting a long time to meet you properly."
Even through the shroud, John was close enough to smell Jacob's breath, stinking of death and rot.
ℕ𝕀ℕ𝔼𝕋𝔼𝔼ℕ 𝕐𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕊. 𝕐𝔼𝕋, 𝕄𝔸ℕ𝕐 𝕄𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝕊ℙ𝔼ℕ𝕋 𝕀ℕ ℙ𝕃𝔸ℕℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝔹𝔼𝔽𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔹𝕀ℝ𝕋ℍ.
"And my death at your hands. Did you enjoy it? Did it make you happy? Do you even remember?"
John floundered, unable to answer.
"I remember. Choking in the warm dark wet. Spat out of our dying mother. A corpse birthing a corpse. You're cursed, John. You've always been cursed. Even since conception."
ℍ𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕊 𝔸ℝℝ𝕀𝕍𝔼𝔻 𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕃𝕀𝔼ℝ 𝕋ℍ𝔸ℕ ℙ𝕃𝔸ℕℕ𝔼𝔻. ℕ𝔼ℝ𝔾𝔸𝕃 𝕎𝔸𝕊 𝔸 𝔻𝕀𝕊𝔸ℙℙ𝕆𝕀ℕ𝕋𝕄𝔼ℕ𝕋 𝔹𝕌𝕋 𝕎𝔼 ℝ𝔼𝕄𝔸𝕀ℕ 𝕌ℕ𝕀𝕄ℙ𝔼𝔻𝔼𝔻 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕊𝔸𝕄𝔼. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕃𝔸𝕌𝔾ℍ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝕄𝔸𝔾𝕀ℂ𝕀𝔸ℕ 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℝ𝕀𝕊𝔼 𝔸𝔾𝔸𝕀ℕ.
"Yes. Your intrusion in an inconvenience at worst, just for the effort spent in holding you. Sooner than we'd planned for, and Gary certainly was useless in the end, but I suppose you've solved that little hiccup for us. No more subtlety; no more shadow manipulations. Now we have all the pieces, and all that's left to do is fit them together."
Jacob laughed in a low, throaty chuckle, relishing every moment.
"Isn't it exciting, John? Death isn't so bad. You'll have plenty of time to get used to it. Just like I did."
Pain erupted across John's body. Christ, it was like nothing he'd ever felt; no beating from Thomas or scalding shower at Ravenscar or self-destructive blade across his thigh could compare. Hidden needles pierced his organs, bypassing the skin directly to sink deep into the soft flesh within his body; a thousand stings and slivers, like swallowing shards of glass - spines pushing through bone into the very marrow itself, tearing at him in his most hidden and intimate places. He grit his teeth until they began to crack, the agony simple and pure and too much to even yell out or writhe; no, to express his suffering would be a way to cope, a way to alleviate it, and this was something Jacob would not allow. Sweat poured from his skin and he began to feel like he would go into convulsions, but still the black-and-white strobe behind his eyes offered no relief - any seizure his body threw in response he was made to feel in full consciousness. There would be no passing out, no simple lapsing into blackness, nor would the pain kill him through shock, even as his heart pushed past the cusp of bursting. Jacob just hurt him in a singular, clarified way. Pain. Pain. Pain.
ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝔽𝕌ℕ. 𝔻𝕆 ℕ𝕆𝕋 𝕂𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℍ𝕀𝕄. ℕ𝕆𝕎 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕎𝔼 𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋 𝔻𝕆 𝕀𝕊 𝕎𝔸𝕀𝕋.
Cheryl- Jacob- the dead twin wearing the skin of the sister - whatever the body was now, it whipped its head around, the shroud fluttering and rippling with the movement. It addressed the unseen voices, its own words brimming with impatience and outrage.
"Wait? I have spent nineteen years waiting! What is there left to do? Everything has aligned. He's here, now! We have everything we need! We only have to flush him out and let me be put in. This is it! This is what it's all been for!"
ℕ𝕆. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆𝕋 ℝ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋. 𝕐𝕆𝕌 ℝ𝔼ℚ𝕌𝕀ℝ𝔼 𝕄𝕆ℝ𝔼 𝔾ℝ𝕆𝕎𝕋ℍ 𝕐𝔼𝕋; 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝕊𝕀𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ'𝕊 𝕊ℙ𝕀ℝ𝕀𝕋 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℕ𝕌ℝ𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝕌ℕ𝕋𝕀𝕃 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝔸ℝ𝔼 ℝ𝔼𝔸𝔻𝕐.
"NO! We do this now! You give me this now!"
The pain eased off, even slightly, even for a second, enough for John to breathe and let his vision return and think. Jacob was in the fits of pique, thrashing Cheryl's body about, the skin twisting and raging as he ravaged through her flesh, seeming for all appearances to be in the throes of a tantrum. He ranted furiously, hurling curses and abuse; he was demented, out of his mind. He was at the cusp of everything, and being flatly denied in his fated moment.
"Near two decades I have spent as a wastrel! A wretch! An ethereal nothing, scheming and plotting and waiting, always waiting! Two years I have supped from my sister, nursed from her - what could be left?! What alignment remains?! Transform me! Deliver me! You'll deny my destiny no longer - now hand it to me!"
ℕ𝕆. 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕊𝕀𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ'𝕊 𝕊ℙ𝕀ℝ𝕀𝕋 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℕ𝕌ℝ𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌, 𝕌ℕ𝕋𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℝ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋.
A single, terrible, inevitable idea popped into John's head.
"What if my soul fed you?!" He blurted out, and Jacob ceased in his frenzy, attention returning to John. The pain ebbed, but did not stop. From beneath the shroud, Jacob breathed heavily, hungrily.
"What if you didn't empty me out? What if I let you in, and you took the vessel you wanted, but without needing to wait?"
𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻. 𝕎𝔼 𝕄𝕌𝕊𝕋 𝕆ℕ𝕃𝕐 𝕎𝔸𝕀-
"Quiet!" Barked Jacob, before replying to John. "Why would you do that, after all this effort and coming all this way to kill me, again?!"
The pain ratcheted back up, Jacob vindictive and angry and venting his frustration on John's body. Through gritted teeth, John tried to answer.
"Didn't...come here to kill you...only came to save. Cheryl. Eat my spirit...don't need hers. Can let her go!"
𝕋ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 𝕀𝕊 ℕ𝕆 ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻.
"I said shut up!"
Slowly, very slowly, Jacob lifted one of Cheryl's hands - bruised, scraped, knuckles split and nail caked in filth - and pulled the shroud off. John screwed his eyes shut once more, unwilling to let the first sight of his lost sister after two years searching be her piloted by this evil creature masquerading as his brother. He felt her- him- it creep close, rancid breath hot on his cheek.
"You would do this? For her?"
"Swear...to return her...unharmed. Back to bridge...where she can be found."
𝕎𝔼 ℍ𝔸𝕍𝔼 𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕋𝕀𝕄𝔼 𝕀ℕ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻.
"Why shouldn't I wait, and just get what I want anyway?" Jacob hissed. He was holding back, but John could feel him being reeled in.
"Nineteen years...in the pits of Hell. Ever...eaten? Drank? Had...a beer, a ciggie? Treated yourself...to a wank?"
Jacob licked his lips. He began to softly pant, appetites of all description igniting in his core.
"I'm all of that...and more, Jakey boy. Get some...rain on your skin. Take a dip in the...river. Have a stroll in the sunshine."
𝔸𝕃𝕃 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼 𝕎𝕀𝕋ℍ ℙ𝔸𝕋𝕀𝔼ℕℂ𝔼.
"I just return Cheryl, and you let me in? Right now?"
With herculean effort and his eyes still screwed shut, straining against chains he could not see but felt heavily, John pushed a hand out toward Jacob.
"You let Cheryl go free...I let you in. And you walk out of Hell...tonight."
Jacob dragged a rough tongue up John's face, laughing in a sinister murmur that gave John goosebumps.
Everyone has an angle.
𝕀𝕋 𝕀𝕊 𝔸 𝕋ℝ𝔸-
Jacob seized his brother's outstretched hand.
"Deal."
A light drizzle had settled across Liverpool, slicking the ground and muffling all sound, even if ever-so-slightly on both fronts. It wasn't a particularly cold night, but the rain didn't exactly warm Chas as he came to, sprawled out across the Runcorn Railway Bridge. He head hurt and he felt groggy, but other than that his lungs breathed and his heart beat and his body moved with minimal protest as he dragged his arms underneath him and pushed up, unsteady at first but quickly getting his bearings back as he got to his feet. Headache aside, he felt alright; he surveyed the bridge again, thinking there was something he was forgetting. Something important. His eyes fell to Gary's still body, and it all came crashing back to him.
"John?!" He called out. Vague recollections swam around his head - some odd, uncanny stranger poring over Gary, John scrambling on his knees towards them - but he was alone now, just him and the corpse. He sighed, that deep sadness settling back in as his gaze lingered on his old friend's dead body.
He turned to look down the bridge. He assumed no one had passed by already - one corpse and one unconscious man were tricky to ignore, even in these callous times (or so he hoped, at least) - but there remained the slim risk someone still might. The night had plenty of hours left to wile away before sunrise, and there was no telling what else it might yet have in store. Chas couldn't see anyone currently, and he hoped it would stay that way. He still didn't have a better idea than dropping Gary into the river, but now that the panic and the terrible moment had passed, he was no longer sure he could stomach such an ignoble end for one of his oldest friends, regardless of however wretchedly it had all ended. He pivoted on his feet to look the other way, just to make sure they were safe from both directions, at least for now, to make sure he had some time to think and plan and figure out where the fucking hell John had gone-
There was another figure lying prone on the bridge a little ways down, just outside of the pools of light provided by the barely-there bulbs. Chas rushed over, worried that it was John, that he'd found a similar fate to Gary, that after two years and a return to this bridge he'd finally gone and bloody done it while Chas was out cold...
He slowed as he approached and began to make out details and features. Chas couldn't help but drop to his knees at the figure's head, dragging their unconscious body into his lap and overflowing with joy to see the soft rise-and-fall of their chest and feel the shallow pumping of their steady pulse in the skin at their wrist. Chas couldn't believe his eyes, and soon he couldn't see out of them either as tears welled up and spilled over. The drops splashed down onto the figure's face, whose eyes flickered and slowly opened, peering up at Chas.
"Fr...Francis?" She croaked out, her voice hoarse and quiet.
"Hi, Cheryl." Chas replied, and then he just held her for a while as they wept.
I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of soft-light nothingness. I cannot see - my senses are blinded, numbed - but all around me, pressing against my skin, I feel the presence of another.
Everything is dark and John feels too full. Claustrophobic in his own body; not enough space to stretch out. Something else filled the space, pushing and needling him. Nudges and prodding became shoves and elbows and then blows were raining down upon him, accompanied by quick-flash stabs from an invisible blade. Jacob was relentless in his assault, and John summoned every last ounce of strength he had to raise a bulwark against his brother. Jacob railed against him, bringing forth all the hatred and anger and envy the dead twin had harbored for the last nineteen years, two decades of wrath and ambition and the poisonous prophecy of the Laughing Magician whispered in his ear bolstering his fury. He wailed at John, feral raving about his destiny, promised power, the deal struck between brothers. John didn't want to lose himself, but Cheryl was safe, spirited out of Hell back to Earth, the deed done, the mission complete. He could feel his soul slipping away. The sense of his own body started to fade, growing distant from him like his limbs were stretching out. Jacob was slithering into the cracks, worming his way in around John's receding edges. He was pulling the body on like a glove, sliding his fingers into place, gliding across the surface of John's diminishing will like oil on water to seep into the spaces left behind. The battle between the brothers raged and John knew, slowly, surely, steadily second by second, that he was losing. His false deal and sly intentions didn't matter; Jacob was simply mightier than him, and he supped on John's soul from a gilded cup to replenish his own.
Quietly, John accepted that these were his last moments. The plan had failed. He'd struck the bargain and Jacob had taken it and now, regardless of his designs, he was set to forcibly make good on the conditions of his own deal. Welcome to the consequences of your actions, John Constantine. They were bound to catch up with you one day. You lay down with devils, you get up with your soul leeched away into senseless oblivion.
He spent his final thoughts lingering on the few golden memories he had left.
He thought about Gary, sharing drinks in his bedroom and shuffling through CDs while arguing over bands and albums, getting messy in the put and throwing each other around at gigs.
He thought about Chas, sharing a quiet cigarette in brief retreat from burgeoning chaos, indulging in a vulnerable moment in the night while several beers deep, belly-laughing over unflattering impressions of their much-loathed parents until their faces were red and tears streamed down their cheeks and they clutched at their ribs trying to catch their breath.
He thought about Cheryl, about days spent under the summer sun running about the docks and watching the light play off the surface of the water, about a camera roll filled with imperfections that John would still hang proud in a gallery for all to see, about nights shivering in the bathroom, door locked, his sister gently washing and dabbing fresh welts across his back. About being taken into her arms as the proud bravado fell away and he sobbed into her shoulder.
Jacob was battered by this tide of overwhelming, alien feelings and memories, unable to parse or categorize, lost amidst waves of emotion he had no point of reference or comparison for. It all confused him, confounded his mind and muddled his purpose; for only the briefest of moments his steady advance against John's consciousness ground to a halt completely and John found himself suddenly back in full control of his faculties. He had precious seconds - there would not be another chance once Jacob recovered and resumed his assault. He concentrated, focusing all efforts on a singular limb. The rosary still hung from his neck, and he could faintly feel the weight of the cross still resting against his sternum. With stiff fingers and a hand battling the resistance of a hundred generations of ancestral Constantines, John wrapped his palm around the wooden icon and pulled outwards; distantly, he felt the chain snapping and beads spilling to the floor.
𝕁 𝔸 ℂ 𝕆 -
Jacob snapped out of his fugue, pushing the confusing, troubling feelings away, returning his attention to subsuming John with distractions dispelled; but it was all too late. It was already in motion. With one final burst of control, the hand that clutched the cross plunged it into John's throat, and then tore itself across.
John spluttered. Jacob screamed, furious, impotent. Blood rushed forth, staining John's chest and the ground beneath his collapsing body. The last sputters of John's life petered out, a single rattling breath expelled; and then John died.
Antlers
Pirouette
GreenGrenade
shylarah
Eddie Brock
Supermaxx
Captain Uni
Sep
Anciek
Natty
