Roman

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

_{Location: The House}

#2.03

^{_{______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖐, 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖔𝖔𝖗, 𝖕𝖚𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖜;
𝕾𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖇𝖚𝖙 𝖓𝖔 𝖘𝖚𝖇𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖊𝖓; 𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖌𝖔.
𝕬𝖉𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖉𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 - 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖉 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗 - 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖆𝖘 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖍 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖆𝖓:

"𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖕 𝖚𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖔𝖓𝖊! 𝕷𝖊𝖙 𝖚𝖘 𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊! 𝕷𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊, 𝖘𝖔 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖇𝖊𝖉, 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖊."

---

"So you just woke up here?"
John picked his way through strange rooms and over twisted furniture, occasionally stopping to lend a hand to Astra, who nearly always refused his assistance with a proudly independent defiance in her eyes.
"No, I woke up at home this morning, like I said." He answered, pushing through another door and noting that the rooms, while certainly not getting any less bizarre, didn't seem to be getting any weirder either. Perhaps they'd plateaued - exactly this strange, and no stranger. "But between stepping out after brekky and stepping through the front door to this place, it's all blank. Like I blacked out."
"Blacked out? What, you're like, a drunk?"
"A little bit, but that's not really the point." John replied, combatting Astra's teenage barbs by laying bare the uncomfortable truth they poked at. It worked; Astra immediately looked like she'd been caught with her hand in the biscuit barrel. "I was definitely sober, if that has anything to do with it. I'm not that far gone, yet."
Astra stayed quiet for a little bit. Good. She'd been making mostly inane chatter for most of their journey so far, and John was glad to have a minute's peace and quie-

"Well I woke up here and I was hoping you were the same and since you were apparently 'sent' to help me, you might have some answers, but you seem absolutely clueless."
"Yep. You're welcome for getting rid of that monster, by the way."
"That thing left because it wanted to. You weren't hitting it that hard."
"Nevermind. I should've let it eat you."
Astra scowled at him and crossed her arms, pouting.
"Well if you really think so maybe I should just wait here for it to find me again and let it finish the job this time."
John sighed. "Come on, I don't think we're far now."
"No."

John pressed the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose and considered if either Nergal or Mammon or anyone else for that matter would be able to hear his pleas from inside the House and agree to take his soul in exchange for teaching him patience.
"Astra, get a grip. We need to get out of here."
"I'm not going anywhere with you until you apologise."
"I'm very sorry."
"And mean it."
"Astra!" He was exasperated and irritated and unable to mask it from his voice. Swinging wood at a monster was so much more straightforward than navigating the varying emotions of a fourteen year old girl. She didn't respond, only kept pouting. "I'm sorry, really. Of course I didn't mean it. I'm just a little stressed. I'd just like to get us both somewhere safe."
"Hmm..." Astra hummed, tapping a finger against her lips and making a show of taking deep consideration of John's apology. "Apology accepted. Barely."
"Brilliant. Can we be getting a move on now?"

John ushered Astra forwards, directing the way back as best as he could remember it while they weaved through hallways and ducked around doorframes. The strange configuration of the decor began to settle in against John's senses and he could feel it becoming almost routine; he wondered if, when he got out and returned to his apartment to crawl back beneath his sheets and file this whole sojourn into the same 'Do Not Disturb' folder as his jaunt through Hell, his own conventional arrangment would strike him as equally outlandish.
"Quit hurrying me." Astra said, complaining after one too many gentle pushes.
John raised an eyebrow and stepped around her to lead instead. "Don't you have any sense of urgency?" He snapped back, feeling tension uncoil in his chest as the rooms started to become more familiar, while an equal amount of careful anticipation wound its way around his ribs in his anxiety's stead.
"You're in such a rush!"
"Yeah! I am! That black thing might come back, and I'm fresh out of bannisters! And even if it doesn't, I'm quite keen to get out of here! I'd quite like to be having a drink or sharing a smoke with my mates right now, rather than running around getting stuck in some more spooky shit I don't have the wherewithal to healthily cope with! Aren't you anxious to get back to your friends or your parents or literally anywhere other than this fucked up house?"

Astra didn't answer. John glanced back at her, and slowed his pace when he noticed her eyes were looking down and away, anywhere but back at him, and the smugness in her expression had been replaced by a soft sadness.
"Aren't you...?" He asked again, plaintive and trailing off. "You must have someone who'll be looking for you?"
She shuffled on her feet, uncomfortably shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Her mouth opened and closed a few times trying to start a sentence, but was unable to produce a sound; eventually, she found her voice again, but now it was a lot smaller.
"I don't...know. I woke up in one of these weird rooms. I wandered around lost for a while, then that monster found me and I ran. And then you showed up and I don't remember anything else!"
She'd started slow but her words got quicker the longer she went until it was all just tumbling out of her mouth.
"I don't remember any friends I don't remember any family or my parents I don't even remember my own name! You asked, and I said 'Astra', but I don't think that is my name it felt more like it just came to me when you wanted it, like something just gave it to me like a badge to wear because I - you - we needed one in the moment! I don't remember where I was before I woke up or even remember if I was before I woke up, I don't know if I'm 'Astra', I don't know if I'm anyone else either! I don't. Remember."

She sounded small and sad and confused and afraid. John looked at her and all he saw was a frightened girl. He reached an arm out to put a hand on her shoulder while she looked at the floor, averting her eyes, and he felt incredibly awkward doing so.
"Look...the house or whatever's in it took my memories as well, so that's all it is. We know whatever's going on is messing with our heads. Probably on purpose to get to you exactly like this. I'm sure as soon as we get out we'll both remember everything. I'm confident. This house is obviously weird in some pretty severe ways, but it's also just a house. I've been through worse."
"Sure you have." Astra replied, glancing up at him, sullen but having calmed down after her outburst, at least enough to dredge up some sarcasm; John felt oddly grateful to be taking potshots from a teenager again.
"I walked through Hell to save my sister from our family." John said, literal as anything and with all the gravitas of a funeral dirge, but eliciting only an eyeroll from Astra regardless at the sheer triteness of the sentence. "I can manage a weird house to save our own arses."
"Whatever you say, John." She replied, shrugging off his hand and wiping the threat of a tear from the corner of her eye. John smiled; youthful derision was better than existential breakdown. Astra smiled back, slightly. "Let's just go," she continued, with all the intonation like she no longer had patience for his delay. "Sooner we leave the better."
"I knew we could agree on something." John remarked, drawing another withering glance, and then gestured forward.

-

"You got a last name, John?" Astra asked. They were close to the antechamber now, and the rooms were settling down as they backtracked; the pantry was right around here, with a tear in its rear wall like a rip in a pair of jeans, and then they could follow it back through to the utility room, then the kitchen and the dining room, hallway into antechamber, and then getting the Hell out of this House.
"Why, you shopping around?" He questioned back, flicking a smirk in her direction at the same time. She reached out to hit him.
"No. Just wondering. I can't remember mine. Did the house take yours too?"
John smiled sympathetically. "It didn't, sorry. Mine's Constantine."
"John Constantine..." Astra mulled over the name, swirling it around in her head. "Feels familiar, but I don't know why."
"Well, that's good, right? If something's familiar, it's attached to a memory somewhere. You've still got something rattling around the noggin."
"Maybe...I don't know if 'familiar' is right. It's more just...a feeling. Like it's important. Like it should mean something to me, even if it doesn't quite yet."
"You be careful. Don't be getting any funny ideas. You're far too young for me."
Astra pulled a face. "Ew, as if! You're not exactly much of a prize."
"Jesus, tell me how you really feel why don't you."
"Sorry. I'm sure you'll make some girl very happy one day. But you're not exactly my type."

John smirked, enjoying the banter. It was taking his mind off of things.
"What do girls your age like these days? All the women I know are a coinflip between a fridge-shaped fifty year old with a salt'n'pepper moustache, or a Korean boyband supermodel with the face of a seventeen year old and abs approved by committee."
Astra paused and closed her eyes with her hands to her temples like she was in deep contemplation.
"Are the Korean boyband supermodels blonde or brunette?"
"I think they probably wear wigs, so dealer's choice I suppose."
"Definitely the Korean boyband supermodels then."
"Oh? Which wig would you be picking?"

Astra didn't get a chance to answer. They pushed through the final doorway to return to the antechamber but neither had expected what they were now faced with.

The room was as John remembered it, except much larger, stretched out like someone had pulled at each corner, and the absence of all the furniture and ornaments he'd seen previously on his first entry, and the addition of a colossal hole torn into the floor. Floorboards splintered and erupted at its edges like something had exploded up from beneath the House, ripping through the ground and leaving a gaping pit in its wake. John could not see the bottom; the light faded shortly past the lip of the hollow and did not penetrate down further than a few feet. It was dark and musty and quiet, and for all appearances could have descended downwards forever. John froze at the edge, holding one cautious arm out behind him to ward off Astra even as she crept up to take her own look into the depths. He looked across the hole and saw the front door on the other side.
"That's the way out over there." He said, pointing at the door and ignoring the very quiet voice that urged him to pitch his body over the edge of his own voliton. He gave Astra a stern look. "Be careful."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious." Astra replied, but John paid it no mind. They picked their way steadily around the rim of the pit, pressing their backs into the walls and watching every footstep to make sure they didn't stumble on an uneven floorboard or slip on askew ground. Slowly but surely they circumnavigated the hole, and made their way to what they hoped was their freedom. Stood in front of the door, John held his breath and reached for the knob; a clammy palm wrapped around cool brass, and in one motion he twisted and pulled.

The door did not move. It was still locked. It thumped uselessly against itself and John put both hands on the handle and wrenched it back and forth, willing the lock to shatter and the wood to splinter and the entire damn thing to break open by force; all that actually happened is the door rattled and John got angry and then he kicked the door, hard, and hurt his toe doing so.

"What now?" Astra asked behind him, prompting John to sigh and rub his eyes. 'What now' indeed. He turned making his best effort to put on a steady, confident facade.
"Let's try upstairs. Maybe there's a window, or a balcony, or we can find a loft hatch and bust through the roof."
"We haven't seen one window trekking through this whole place so far and you think one will just magically appear upstairs?" Astra retorted, combative as ever.
"Got a better idea?" John shot back.
"You don't have a clue! You're grasping at straws!"
"Obviously! Obviously I am! Sometimes, straws is all you got, and you gotta grasp somethi-"
John hushed up as a crashing came from behind the double doors on the sidewall - the set they hadn't been through yet, and as such hid immeasurable unknowns. John pushed Astra behind him; he was torn between marching toward the doors and throwing them open and confronting whatever on the other side was tumbling closer and closer, or tripping over himself and the girl in desperate flight backwards and up the stairs without sparing even a single glance at whatever could be coming through those doors in pursuit.

He didn't get a chance to do either. Frozen in indecision, John and Astra both could only stand and watch as the crashing tore closer until the doors burst open entirely. Standing in the doorway was a panting, frantic-eyed, and considerably more haggard-looking John Constantine.

John - the one with Astra, that is - was utterly paralyzed. He locked eyes with his doppelganger, who stared back and looked...not surprised at all. If anything, this other John's face passed through only a moment of stony acceptance before settling into an expression that seemed mildly apologetic.
"What the fuck is going on?!" Astra yelled, suddenly furious and demanding, breaking out from behind John's half-hearted protective grasp and marching toward this newly-appeared double. Both Johns moved forward simultaneously.
"Astra, don't - I don't trust him - it - whatever-"
"It's you, what do you mean, don't you want some answers, don't you want to know what the fuck's happening-"
John stumbled in his dumbfounded haste. The other John was steadier on his feet - determined. Resolute.
"Astra please we've got to get out of here, this is all wrong-"
"Ask him some questions- ask you some questions- get some fucking answers-"

All at once the Johns were face to face, Astra jabbing a finger into the duplicate's chest and asking questions, making demands, hurling pejoratives. The doppel-John ignored her, only looking wearied and slightly sad at the first John. John suddenly noticed his double was holding the book under his arm.
"I'm really sorry about this," the duplicate John said. "You'll understand soon."
And then he pushed John and Astra into the hole.

---

𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜, 𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙, 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖌𝖔 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖚𝖕 𝖆 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊.
𝕰𝖓𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖉𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖗, 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖒, 𝖜𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙.
𝕾𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖚𝖓𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊, 𝖕𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖔𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖆 𝖋𝖗𝖆𝖒𝖊;
𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖌𝖔 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖚𝖕 𝖆 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊.

Roman's Scrapbin

do some cursory research into hypnosis techniques, strobe lighting, what kind of scripts and phrasings are used, what's feasible under hypnotic influence

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

_{Location: The House}

#2.02

^{_{______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔡𝔬.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬𝔭 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔬𝔢.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫'𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔤𝔬.
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

---

Where was he?

John looked around. He was completely lost. The House was utterly foreign to him; he didn't know where he was, why he was here, or how he'd come to be in this place. He tried to think back to the morning that had passed and the days leading up to it, but came back with nothing illuminating for his present predicament. He'd just been in the usual routine, making deliveries, catching beers with Chas and the crew. On Sunday he'd entertained Judith by attending Mass, standing in the back observing and taking nothing seriously, mentally ticking or crossing next to everything the paster extolled against how it lined up with what he knew. Then Monday he'd mostly lazed about, the weather too foul to bother being out; the couple days after that were extremely normal. But further than that, all a blank. He knew he'd woken up this morning, groggy in his sheets, and he knew he'd eaten breakfast - he could still taste the Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his mouth - but how he'd gotten from there to here...it was as if he'd lost time. He couldn't recall whatsoever. His awareness ceased on leaving the apartment, and only restarted here, now, in this House, holding an unmarked package and an envelope.

The room was some manner of antechamber, a welcoming hall that branched off into the rest of the House. To his left were a set of stairs, hidden behind a wall that closed off one side, said wall lined with bookshelves carrying tomes and knick-knacks from one edge to the other. A fireplace adorned the back wall with a sofa facing it and a couple sideboards on either side of the seat, a doorway offset from the hearth leading further into the House; behind the sofa, decorating the center of the floor, was a plush and intricate rug bearing circular designs in a deep, powerful red. To John's right were proud and handsome cabinet units flanking a set of double doors, and he supposed these lead to a lounge or reading room. The cabinets contained glasses, bottles, and more mismatched curios; while the furniture all married together toward a singular aesthetic, the accoutrement that populated the shelves and mantles and nooks were scattered and inharmonious. There were baubles and trinkets from nearly all genres of life; occult relics, urban bric-a-brac, religious paraphenalia, scientific curios and even cosmic novelties. It all occupied and decorated the singular space, sitting comfortably next to itself, but in constant aesthetical conflict, to the point where the incongruity of it all settled in as the overarching theme and retroactively made everything...fit in. It was a bizarrely decorated room. John was sure he would have seen the House from the outside, logically, before stepping inside, wanting to conceptualize how the House may be laid out, how the rooms might fit together - but he could conjure no image. Another item from his memory mysteriously missing.

Suddenly he realized his arm ached from holding up the parcel, hanging in the air in front of him in a stupour as he took in his surroundings. He shuffled over to the sofa, putting the package on the sidetable to the right of the leather-bound seat. The envelope lingered in his hand; neither it nor the parcel bore an address or a name. He sighed, frustrated by his own confusion, and turned the envelope over in his hands. The underside was similarly blank. He turned it back over, defeated and resigning to just sit and rack his head about where or why he might-

In small inked lettering, the front of the envelope had 'J. Constantine' scrawled in the bottom corner in spidery script. Had he missed that the first time? Had his thumb covered it? He walked around the table on which he'd rested the parcel and sat down on the sofa, carefully tearing open the flap of the envelope. Inside was a single-page letter, the writing upon it scratched in that same ink with that same spidered penmanship. He leant back against the couch cushions and ran his eyes across the words.

"ᴊᴏʜɴ. ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, ᴡʜʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ - ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ, ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ. ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴇᴀꜱɪᴇʀ."

John stood up, his eyes narrowing and brow furrowed. The letter creased in his hands as he tensed up, and he took quick, purposeful strides toward the front door. With his free hand, he grasped the doorknob, turned, and pulled. The door did not move. He rattled, yanking it back and forth, pounding on the wood as he tried uselessly to wrench the immutable gateway open. The door would not yield. With anxiety growing in the back of his head, he took a few deliberate, measured breaths to calm his racing pulse, and went back to the letter.

"ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴋᴀɢᴇ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ. ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ. ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴ ᴇʏᴇ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ. ᴏʀ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ, ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏꜱᴇ ɪᴛ, ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ, ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴋᴀɢᴇ ɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ."

John stopped there and went back to the sofa. The parcel rested innocuously on the sidetable where he'd left it, and now he tore it open with wild abandon, shredding through layers of brown packing paper and the whirls of twine it had been bound with. Inside was a book, old and hardy. The pages were thick and yellowed and smelt of the satisfying earthy musk only aged books smell of; and they were also blank. Empty. Not a single word had been printed upon them. He returned to the letter.

"ɴᴏᴡ, ᴀꜱɪᴅᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ, Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ. ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴɪᴍɪᴢᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ."

As if on cue, John whipped his head up as the faint echoes of a short scream filtered through to the antechamber from somewhere deeper within the House. John couldn't be sure from which direction it came from, but he was suddenly filled with a sense of urgency. His pulse quickening again, he finished the final passage of the letter.

"ʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ: ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ. ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴛʀᴀ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ: ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ. ꜰɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ. ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ - ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇɴ."

"ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ."

The letter ended there, cryptic and infuriating but at least having provided some kind of direction. John cast it aside, eyeing the tome that now lay on the sofa amidst scraps of brown paper and string, wondering what the hell 'fill the book' meant; and then there was another faint scream, and John cast it out of mind, darting toward the closest door and throwing it open. A darkened hallway stretched out before him, more doors standing innocuously on either side of the corridor. He didn't give himself the time to think about direction or the logistics of it all; he just took a breath, and dove headlong into the bowels of the House.

---

John pushed through rooms and doors that had long since given up the pretense of arranging themselves according to accepted architectural convention. Initially, each chamber had felt ordinary; the antechamber's rear door had opened to the hallway, which gave access to a dining room, then an attached kitchen, then a utility room with accompanying pantry. It was extravagent, and painted the internal blueprint for a mansion of considerable scale, but it hadn't been unusual, not at first. Since then, though, every new threshold passed pushed the House and its rooms further and further beyond the pale, like it was struggling to keep up with how people built homes and what rooms were supposed to look like. Tables and chairs grew into each other and fused together, legs bleeding into the floorboards. Cabinets jutted out at strange angles, half-clipped into walls and doors fitted askew. Light fixtures sprouted smaller lightbulbs along their brass limbs like budding fruits on young trees, lampshades stretching across the gaps between metallic branches like skin across bones. The floors came at increasing angles and soon forgot the differences between carpet, boards, tile and linoleum, discarding the boundaries where traditionally one material ended and another began. Even a flat plane became a mere suggestion. The doorways too struggled under the pressure of maintaining an acceptable reality; the frames sat bent, the doors themselves shifting beyond the boundaries of their jambs. He couldn't afford to pay any of it any mind.
One problem at a time, Johnny, he thought. You've walked through worse.

Another yelp, close now. He'd been following the noise of someone fleeing; short sharp screams, pounding footsteps, the crashing of furniture and glass and the slamming of doors. Whoever he was after was running from something, but he was slowly catching up - just a few more rooms and he'd-
John threw open the next door, breathing hard from the effort of his pursuit, and saw another door rocking on its hinges, swinging from the force of whoever had just wrenched themselves through. With a burst of speed conjured from an invisible reserve, he gave chase and careened through the open doorway, nearly pitching over as the room beyond lurched at a near-diagonal incline. At the end of the room was a girl, and chasing the girl was a strange, onyx-skinned creature.

Its head was the shape of a large egg, scaled-up and sprouting bat wings out of either side, only a single unblinking eye centered in the front as its sole facial feature, though ascribing a face to this unnatural being was doing it more credit that it deserved. The body beneath was like an artist's first sketch, basic and near-formless, the proportions all wrong and nothing filled out; the only distinguishable characteristic was a nightmarish maw, its belly split open across the middle to bear a mouth far wider than the boundaries of its crepuscular flesh. The girl slipped on the inclined floor and crashed to the ground, screaming as the creature bore down upon her, salivating. It hadn't noticed John yet.

Stairs sprouted sideways from the wall in here and the bannister struts splayed out, unconnected to the base of the steps like ribs erupting from a spine. Without hesitating, John seized upon a strut and wrenched it from the wall; the mixed sound of creaking, cracking wood and wet tearing flesh behind it finally alerted the beast to John's presence, but with the element of surprise and the swiftness of his movement it was too late to stop him from smashing the improvised club down across the side of its neck. It spiralled off from the force of the blow, knocked off balance, and John followed up with another straight to the front of its head, aiming for the eyeball. It reeled back, pushed up against the wall and losing grip with its amorphous feet. It finally found purchase, sinking a steadying claw into the wall, and brought itself up to full height as John manoeuvred himself between the creature and the girl, intending to shield her bodily if he had to. The monster raised its other arm to ward itself against John's impromptu weapon; balance restored, it lashed out in a sudden flash of strength and speed and caught the strut between ill-defined fingers, stopping John's attack utterly in its tracks - and then crushed the wood in its grip. The club shattered completely, sap-like ichor oozing through the thing's palm from the splintered remnants. John froze, and the creature took a long, terrifying moment to size him up, its maw dripping with spittle in anticipation and appetite; and then, without a warning or a sound, it slunk away, drifting smoothly backwards and melding into the wall until it disappeared entirely with a final gurgle.

John let go of the breath he'd been holding, and allowed adrenaline shakes of fear to course through his body and wrack his bones. Quiet moments passed as he anticipated a return, but the House was still. He turned and offered a hand to the girl, still on the floor and staring up at him with dumbfounded shock.
"I'm John," John said, "and I think I was sent to help you."
The girl looked at him even more strangely at that, but took his hand and pulled herself up all the same. She looked to be about fourteen by John's reckoning, with a mousy face yet to fully mature and dirty blonde hair that fell past her shoulders with little shape or intention to its styling. Pale blue eyes shone through holding a quiet fear, and an uncertainty about her erstwhile saviour.
"I'm Astra," she said, introducing herself, "and I'm really glad you got here when you did."

Astra looked uncomfortably at the patch of wall where the creature had sunk away. The wallpaper seemed to have developed a new damp stain behind its twisting, labyrinthine pattern.
"What was that...thing?" She asked, fear making her voice shudder and goosebumps cascade down her arms.
"Don't know." Answered John.
"Do you think it'll come back?"
"Don't know."
"What about where we are? What is this place?"
"Nope."
Astra began to look irritated.
"What do you know?" She demanded, exasperation creeping in, fright forgotten in the face of frustration.
"Very little, I'm afraid." John said, curt and honest. "But I know the way back. I think we should get out of here."

He reached out his hand again, to lead Astra back to the antechamber and hopefully find another way out, or discover that with her return the front door would be mysteriously unlocked and allow them egress. Astra regarded his proffered palm and the man it belonged to with a healthy amount of suspicion and skepticism, and then huffed; it was this, or diving deeper into these snaking hallways until all semblance of reality fell apart around her. She put her hand in his, and followed John back the way he came.

---

𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢, ℑ'𝔪 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥.

𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

I think I'd rather be English than American.

Though it's close.

@Lord Wraith

Six of one, half a dozen of the other. We're catching up.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

_{Location: Chicago}

#2.01

^{_{______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

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.

---

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 du jour 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 too long, or someone cocked their head at too much of a funny angle, or the delivery he was entrusted with smelt of too 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 comfortable. 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.

---

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, this one was "Tinder for Deliveries". If people wanted stuff shipped within the city (or sometimes the state), they could entrust it to the great institution of the US Postal Service, or they could pay a premium for a vetted and organized courier company like UPS or FedEx. Or, this app pre-supposed, they could instead 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 not 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?

"I'm workin', Johnny." 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.
"Take off for the day, lad. Need a ride."
"Ha! I may be a taxi but that doesn't mean I'm yours. What's wrong with the bike?"
"Trip's too far and my legs are tired. Got a drop-off needs doing."
"So much for mister 'calves of steel'. Less beer, more pasta - like how marathon runners do it."
"I'm serious. Big drop-off."
"I'm serious. On yer bike, son. Literally."
"Split the fee with ya."
John rolled his eyes as he heard Chas snort down the phone, and took another bite of his sandwich.
"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."
"That's a big word. Gonna cross that off your calendar?"
"Fuck off, John. I'm working. I'll catch you lat-"
"It's twenty thousand dollars."

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.
"Well, that'll pay for a new fender, at least."
"I'll text you where I am. I gotta say, Chas, this one feels a little...weird. Could be bad voodoo."
"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."
"I'm just saying. It gives me a strange feeling is all."
"We can exorcise feelings, John-o. Cash is a wonderful balm."
"Alright, alright. I get the picture. I'll see you soon."
"Yes you bloody will, lad. Twenty thousand! We could buy a dryer that actually dries, instead of mildly warming wet laundry..."

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 frightened.

---

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.

"Looks off to me." 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.
"Looks completely normal." He surmised, and John sucked his teeth in response.
"Exactly. This parcel and this letter," he said, holding up both in demonstration, "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?"
Chas raised an eyebrow.
"Don't know why you're so insistent on poking holes in the easiest twenty large either of us will ever make."
"Because don't you think people with our history should be wary when something seems too good to be true?" John shot back. "Or is a year long enough to forget everything that happened in Liverpool entirely?"

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

"I understand the impulse. I do. But sometimes, things that seem too good to be true just seem it, and they are 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."
John stewed, unable or unwilling to answer.
"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, like I strongly think it is, I won't even ask you for my half."
Chas nudged John with an elbow, and this got both of them to crack small grins.
"Alright," John relented. "Two ticks."
"Gotcha." 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 click.

---

ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 ℑ'𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

He is English afterall...

@Colonel Sep

A grievous insult these days. Best watch yourself.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

This is maybe the second time ever I have a sheet ready before the IC of a game goes live so just let me enjoy the moment.

Roman's Archive

_{Location: Hell}

#1.10

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

"You know, John, I have lived for over forty-nine thousand years. Nearly fifty centuries stretch out behind me. I've walked Earth since the first great cradle of civilisation and seen nearly everything there is to see upon that rock. But over the course of those millenia, I think I have learnt one lesson above all others: humans are so surprising."

Nergal crept forwards out of the dark, appearing with no more aplomb than a vulture landing softly beside a starving man. He bore a wicked smile, and leant over John's dead body to neatly pluck the bloodstained cross and rosary from what remained of his ragged throat.
"So dramatic of you, John, but I can't deny its efficacy." He mused, running a black tongue across the surface of the wooden icon, lapping up John's blood. Nergal sighed, sated and satisfied. "That Constantine vintage does have such a uniqueness to it."
All the while, John watched on with a faint spectral awareness; he perceived Nergal simultaneously looming over him like a fat child over a freshly-opened packet of crisps, and also from behind the demon, regarding his unfurled wings and flicking tail and the way he stooped and twitched his fingers in anticipation. Nergal hadn't let a single second go to waste - John's corpse was still warm, rivulets of blood still trickling from his throat down his chest and face, staining his features with streaks of crimson until John could barely recognize himself. Oddly, John found himself compelled to speak, drawing breath into ethereal lungs and producing sound from lips that did not move.
"Quick on the draw, Nergal."
Nergal smiled wider, continuing to address the cadaver even as the words echoed around him from all directions and none.
"Oh, hello Johnny. Good to see you're still with us for the foreseeable. Hell is tricky in that way. Yes, I never miss my opportunity; though you've done far better than I expected. Family is oh-so-complicated, isn't it? I think you'd know more that more than most by now."

𝕋ℍ𝕀𝕊 𝕀𝕊 𝔹𝕌𝕋 𝔸 𝕄𝕀ℕ𝕆ℝ 𝕊𝔼𝕋𝔹𝔸ℂ𝕂-

"Do pack it in. You've no horse left in the race now; the prodigal son has been slain by the other prodigal son. A nice straight-forward gambit played out well, and now you've got nothing. You're just a pack of ghosts."

𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕃𝔸𝕌𝔾ℍ𝕀ℕ𝔾 𝕄𝔸𝔾𝕀ℂ𝕀𝔸ℕ 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ℝ𝕀𝕊𝔼 𝕐𝔼𝕋-

"Hell is tired of you, dears. We've our own machinations to be getting on with. Now, do fuck off. I've business to attend to."
Nergal clapped his hands in two short sharp raps, and there was a strange slurping, sucking sound; and then a pop in John's dead ears as the atmosphere shifted, and he was left with the feeling of a sudden absence.

"So what now?" John asked, feeling lighter and lighter by the minute. The blood flowing from his body's neck had finally ceased, and now what little heat remained in his cadaver was leeching out into the ground. Nergal rubbed his hands together greedily.
"Oh, quite simple, John. I collect, and that's the end of the whole mess. I'm impressed with how far you came, I have to admit; I'm almost tempted to grant you reprieve. Ah, alas - a deal is a deal."
"Certainly is," John replied, non-chalant, "and I don't want anyone saying I don't make good on my debts. So - here you go. One Constantine soul."

Nergal licked his lips, bending low and repeating once more the brushing motion across John's body like he'd done so with Gary's on the bridge, so many lifetimes ago - and came away with a misshapen, speckled, dimly-lit orb of...something. Nergal inspected it, and his features lost the slimy smile he'd been sporting, his expression twisting into one of contemptuous rage.
"What do you think you're doing?!" He demanded, and somewhere off in the distance, John picked up the grin Nergal had discarded.
"I promised a Constantine soul, musha. Not mine. Jacob's is as perfectly good as the next one - take it or leave it. Maybe if you'd had the good sense to be a little more precise..." John replied, revelling in parroting Nergal's facetiousness back at him in this small moment of triumph.

Nergal raged. Apoplexy took him over, and he thrashed about, flailing his limbs and clawing the ground and tearing the trees of the grove up by their roots. He slammed a fist against the stone block Cheryl had laid upon mere moments ago, and the entire thing split in half, sundered by the force of the blow. The demon slumped over the cleaved rock, furious and beaten. He heaved breaths in and out, and eventually raised his head to look at John's body over the lip of the slap with a terrible wicked gleam in his eye; slowly, carefully, he drew himself up, marching on the corpse with malevolence in his gait.
"Think you're clever, do you? Think because you're a Constantine and you got one over on your disgusting undead fetus of a brother you can play hopscotch with Hell? You are a speck, John Constantine, and you are playing with powers far, far above your station."
"We made a deal. We both made good on the terms set out."
"Undoubtedly. A bargain struck and a debt paid. But you're dead, Johnny-boy, and you've got a litany of missteps on your soul that He does not look kindly on. Suicide. Murder. Another suicide. So debt paid or not, you'll find that you're due down here, and if you're going to insist on being so insolent about it, I think I'll just ferry everything along and take what's mine in the process. After all - what can you do to stop me?"
"Not much," John admitted, watching Nergal raise himself to full height, splaying his wings in a show of force, brandishing a vicious claw to strike John's spirit down for good, once and for all, and claim it as his own, absconding with it into the dark corners of Hell to inflict atrocity after atrocity upon it as due recompensive for perceived slights...except none of that happened. Instead, there was the briefest of flashes through Nergal's upright figure, and he made an odd, strangled, throttled coughing nose; and then his body peeled apart from tip to taint, bile and blood splashing out of the newly-bifurcated halves. Mammon rose out of the mud, ooze already scouring itself from his distinct scarlet hide, those golden spikes already shining through. In his hand he hefted a magnificent greatsword, gilded and jewel-encrusted and as wide and tall as John was himself.
"He might have something to say, though."

Mammon picked one half of Nergal from where it had collapsed in the muck and regarded it with open disdain, an expression matched by the bisection of Nergal's face as the singular eye whipped around to spy its slayer.
"Most ill-mannered miscreant," Mammon rebuked, carefully running the edge of his blade between the skin and flesh of the portion he held. "Even in the bowels of Hell, a bargain struck must be duly honoured. 'Tis the only thing left that remains holy. Befoul my kingdom no longer, wretch."
The blade finished its smooth motion, cleaving Nergal's hide from his body, and Mammon dropped the flayed muscle back in the dirt as he began to fashion his leathery skin between delicate claws. Once finished, Mammon held a longcoat out before him; the mud had stained Nergal's once soft-red skin an earthy, clay-like tan, and when Mammon concluded inspecting his work he nodded satisfactorily.

John watched him cautiously from his diaphanous, far-off hiding place, feeling the call of some deeper misery pulling him away, try as he might to resist; and then Mammon snapped his fingers again, and there was a powerful wrenching sensation, something seizing upon the absolute base foundations of John's very being - and then he woke up, dragging air desperately into his lungs in great ragged breaths through the tear in his throat that gurgled and spasmed as it knitted itself back together. John sat up, shaky and disconcerted, wary of Mammon. Mammon simply tossed him the coat.
"Thou hast impressed and amused me two-fold, John Constantine. Once with thy promised vanquishing of thine detestable kin, and once more with thine trickery of Nergal. Rare is the human who gambols with devils and exits favourably. Thou hast truly blazed through Hell like so few before thee."
John sat in the mud, pulling the coat on over his cold, sodden arms. It sat comfortable and warm against his skin, exuding a faint sense of bolstering. From the inside pocket, an eyeless lid batted fruitlessly back at him.
"So what's the deal? Back to life and a new coat to say, 'thanks for kicking those arseholes out my front yard'?"
It was, but Mammon would never admit it.
"Believe what thou wilt. I need give no reason." He replied, in a tone that told John not to question him further. John was more than happy to oblige, not wanting to look a gift demon in the mouth. "Thou art still stained in your soul, John Constantine, and bound hither when next your fate arrives; of that, Nergal didst spake truth. But until then - there hast ne'er been a Laughing Magician so entertaining. Thine predecessors were all so frightfully dull. If thou art to be truly the last of thy line - Hell would benefit from what trouble thou canst yet conjure."
"Then I'll thank you once again, Lord Mammon." John answered, aware he'd pushed his luck as far as it would go. "You have been most gracious."
"Indeed. My magnanimity hast reached its boundaries. Get thee gone, wastrel; I wouldst say thine business here is concluded, and mine with it. Shouldst we meet once more, be assured - I shalt not indulge thee thusly again."

And with that, Mammon clapped; John blinked; and when his eyes fluttered open, he was back on the bridge, having returned from Hell with a coat, a scar, and a sister once more.

---

_{^{TWO WEEKS LATER}}
John, Cheryl, and Chas all sat around Chas' kitchen table in his flat in London, steam drifting up from each of their mugs, fresh tea cooling off in the ambient air. On the countertop next to the kettle sat a small ceramic urn filled with ashes. John felt a squeeze around his fingers as his gaze lingered on it, his sister reaching across to him. He dropped his eyes from it and looked at her instead, taking in every pore of her soft, warm features. In the two weeks since she'd woken back up on the bridge in Chas' arms, she'd been struggling to re-adjust, as well as re-align with all that had happened in her two years away; yet, slowly but surely, she was coming back to reality, able to leave the flat and be among people again, even if John made it a point to never let her out of his sight. She couldn't blame him for it. His story had been bizarre and difficult to swallow at first, but Chas corroborated as much of it as he could, and the rest of the tale John told with such solemn conviction that Cheryl didn't have it in her heart to disbelieve him. The scars across his neck and the coat that never left his back both seemed to endorse his apparent odyssey, and from what little he'd revealed about those two peculiarities, Cheryl was reluctant to probe further. Fragments of awful feelings and memories flitted through her mind when she did, and down that path lay Ravenscar. She was just happy to be home again; happy to know he'd never given up on her. Happy to see him again.

The wistful smile that had crept across her face as she'd looked over John faded as he pulled his hand back, cradling his mug with both palms and clearing his throat. His eyes fell to stare at his wrists as he began difficult, painful words.
"When it was teenage practitioners asking for sigiled autographs, or dumb yanks in suits begging for a quick transmutation, or even some half-breed with a few choice swear words, it was almost funny. A bit of notoriety. Splashing the surface of a new pool and seeing what came up to check out the ripples. But today...today an honest-to-God devil, no half-anything about it, came to me with a message from Nergal. And when you're wearing the skin of the demon that's sent someone to deliver a threat - it's no longer funny. It's something we need to take seriously. It's something I should have been taking seriously."

It had been almost enjoyable on first return; John's escapade and the things he'd come back with - trophies, titles, knowledge of hidden things - had illuminated a secret world previously darkened to him, a new layer and depth revealed that made everything seem so alive in a way he'd not thought possible before. Mammon naming him as some historically-significant figure certainly hadn't hurt, either; who would turn their nose up if they'd landed in some strange and fantastical new land, much like their old world but not quite, and at the same time some mighty king had declared them powerful and famous? John was but a man, and could not help himself revelling in it, even if just a little bit. But then, that devil had approached him with horrible intent, bearing a vengeful portent from Nergal and it had been like sinking into an ice bath. The mantle of the Laughing Magician was not merely one of fame; it bore with it a target pointed squarely at his head, and today he had been reminded that he'd already made at least one powerful enemy, and more than likely had inherited several more.

"So what's your point, Johnny?" Chas asked, taking measured sips from his mug while he watched John over the rim with a careful gaze. John met his stare, equally steady.
"I'm dangerous. I've got a target on my back, and I don't think anyone - anything - coming after me is going to care about collateral damage. I'm a bomb. I've got a blast radius. And you two are both in it."
The three of them shifted uncomfortably as John paused and looked pointedly at the urn on the counter. Even before his jaunt, John's curse had claimed one of their number already. The silence was clear; he wasn't about to risk what was left.
"I should have a say in this," Cheryl announced. "You spent two years ruining yourself coming after me, and now you, what, want me and Chas to hit the road? Or fuck off yourself and leave us behind? We're meant to help you, John. Protect you. That's what friends do."
John smiled. God, he loved her.
"You spent seventeen years protecting me, Cheryl. Ever since the first night Dad brought me home. I think it's my turn now. I spent all that time searching for you and I found you. I can't accept, after all that, that I might be responsible for you getting hurt. Even accidentally."
Chas huffed, and both Constantines looked at him.
"What's even your plan? You can't just tell us to fuck off. This is my flat. And if you think you're gonna start living rough again I will drag you back here. Unconscious if I have to."
John chuckled, but he knew Chas was serious.
"I've scraped every account I've ever had. Pooled all my cash. Pumped the last out of my UC payments. Even got into some of Dad's money, which I really hope he's going ballistic about somewhere. And I bought myself a ticket."

John put a hand in the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small white envelope. He opened it up and fished out the contents, laying it in the center of the table: a one-way plane ticket from Heathrow to New York City. It was leaving tomorrow.
"Oh, you bastard." Cheryl said, exasperated. Chas raised an eyebrow.
"How were you planning on getting to Heathrow with no money left?" He asked. John cleared his throat, seeming to shrink in his seat.
"Well, uh, I um, I thought you might be able to give me a lift...?" He answered sheepishly. Chas huffed again, and then stuck his hand in his own jacket pocket; in one quick motion, like playing a game of cards, he slapped his own ticket down on top of John's.
"You ain't as slick as you think, fancy title or no."
"Oh, you bastard!" Cheryl yelled. "And what the bloody fuck am I supposed to do?"
Chas stood up, walking to the front door of the flat and unhooking his keys from a little rack that hung on the wall. He tossed them to Cheryl, who fumbled as she caught them and then looked dumbfoundedly back up at Chas.
"As the only one of us who got a job after everything went to fuck two years ago, I had savings. Last week I paid a year upfront and stuck your name on the lease. John's got a right to protect you, but that doesn't mean the little spunk-stain can't have anyone to look out for him."

Cheryl stood wordlessly and moved to hug Chas, who welcomed her in with outstretched arms. After a moment, John stood up too, and the three of them embraced quietly, no more words needed.

---

♫

The next day, John and Chas hefted hastily-packed rucksacks over their shoulders as they scanned the departures board for their gate number. Cheryl sat quietly nearby, picking nervously at the skin around her fingernails while she bounced a leg.
"There it is," Chas said, breaking the tension. "B47. We're up."

This was it. John exhaled a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. Beyond the glass walls of the terminal building, the sun was beginning to set, and John couldn't stop the feeling that the light was fading from a life he'd only half-lived for twenty years, and would now never have the chance to do properly. Beside him, Cheryl stood up, and though John had tried to steel himself, the wetness in her eyes as he turned cracked through him until, in all of a single deleterious second, they were sobbing in each other's embrace.

"H-harder than I th-thought it'd be." John choked out, and Cheryl just squeezed him in response. He squeezed back, and in that moment, focused for an instant; between them, something ethereal and invisible snapped, a hidden tether severed and cast away. Synchronicity - the silent power of the Laughing Magician. Without having to worry about causality, Cheryl would be safe. She could be happy.
"No one's finding you now unless you want them to. You'll be safe. For good." He said, pressing his forehead against hers. She nodded and wiped her cheeks.
"I'll miss you two." She said. John felt a hand on his shoulder.
"We'd better not miss it." Chas said, and John nodded.

On the steps up to the cabin, John looked back, just for a second, to the window at the terminal gate. Cheryl waved, and for a tiny calamitous moment, John was seized with the overwhelming urge to dive from the stairs, hit the tarmac, drop his bag and sprint from here back into the building, see her one last time, give her one last hug, share with her one last goodbye; and then someone walked in front of her, and once they passed, she was gone.
"C'mon, Houdini." Chas said, stood above him up the steps at the cabin door, holding a hand out. "Let's go."
"Alright, mate." John, answered, taking the hand offered in his own. "Let's go."

Roman's Archive

_{Location: Hell}

#1.09

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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.