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Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

_{Location: The House}

#2.04

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𝕸𝖞 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖆 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙-𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖆𝖘𝖍 𝖘𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖊,
𝕾𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊.

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊:
"𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓, 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐."
𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐.

---

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰?

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬?

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰; 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰, 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡?

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣-𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔶𝔠𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔩 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔴. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔤𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔱.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤.

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔰, ℑ 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔞 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔩.
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯-𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔶.

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫, 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩, 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲; ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢, 𝔴𝔢 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

𝔉𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫.

𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.

---

John didn't feel himself hit the ground, but he was certainly pretty bloody sore. Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself up with one hand and rolled his protesting body over, lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling. He was on the rug, the rug having apparently reappeared once more in place of the hole, and though he couldn't see from his angle, the intense red circular pattern emblazoned upon the threads haloed him quite neatly. With languished movements, he pivoted his head about the room, checking that all had returned to normal, or at least what passed for it in this House. Everything seemed in order; the hole was gone, the furniture back in its place, the front door still quietly and obstinately shut. John pulled himself to his feet, silently registering that Astra was missing, but could not find it in him yet to do anything but collapse onto the sofa and sink back into the cushions. His eyes bore into the fireplace, sifting through long-cold ashes, and then pulled up, up, past the mantle and settling on the mounted bow and arrows proudly displayed above the hearth, modern and powerful in their construction. Hmm. That hadn't been there before.

The eclectic decor John had noticed the first time he'd passed through the antechamber was absent entirely and instead replaced with items and artefacts that felt just as disconnected as the previous jumbled collection but yet somehow also more pointed and deliberate. John swivelled about on the sofa as he swept his gaze across the room, cataloguing the new ornaments; they seemed in some way significant, though he could not summon even a fraction of personal relevance or grasp a shared correlation between a single pair of fresh relics. Including the new bow and quiver above the fireplace, there were eleven curios now spaced evenly around the room, and John spent several minutes examining each one, trying to discern the reason for their sudden appearance.

A chunk of otherworldly rock laced with hints of crystalline green sat on a small plinth next to an imposing and taxidermied black bat, wings posed as if spread in flight and snout contorted into a frightening snarl. Between them was a replica sword, or at least John hoped it was a replica, old in its styling but masterfully crafted and well-maintained. On the wall hung a length of thick, indomitable steel chain, crossing over itself against a backdrop of delicate but artfully-made green silk, upon which was inked the stylised symbol of a dragon. Moving his eyes back to the fireplace, resting upon the mantle beneath the bow stood a hand-carved statue of distinctly Egyptian artform, a righteous figure bearing the skull of a heron. The statue was flanked by headdresses of equally sophisticated taste and expense; one was a tiara of rich gold, elegant and cultured with a large shining diamond acting as the statement centrepiece, while the other spoke out in deep crimson, harsh-angled bands lashing about themselves to form a woven circlet dotted with rubies. Looking now toward the other side of the room, only a few items were left: a small scale-model of a nuclear warhead, sat upon mirrored glass that by some trick or illusion of the mind showed a humble microscope in its reflection; and a worn pair of old-world revolvers, well-used but well-loved, crossed in front of a simple, but powerfully symbolic weapon - a humble wooden stake, hand-hewn from a shard of strong ironwood.

John didn't have a single idea what any of it meant, or if it was indeed supposed to mean anything at all.

He stood up from the sofa. The longer he sat, the more he felt the strange sensation of being watched, and he was struck by the realization that he simply couldn't waste time sitting around being stared at by inanimate objects. Astra was still missing after their impromptu fall, and her absence weighed heavily on his conscience as he was seized with the fear that something else might find her before he did, and this time he may happen upon her too late; that dark, hungry thing may return, or even worse, whatever doppelganger of his stalked these halls that had cast them into the hole to begin with. He shivered at the thought of that harried duplicate, unable to shake the feeling that something far more sinister and perverse than he realised was transpiring within this House. Spurred on only by a deep fright beginning to take root at the base of his spine, John pushed against his own aching and bruised body to cross the room, leaving through the same double doors his own double had burst through previously - wholly unprepared for what new horror he might find beyond, but launching headlong into it nonetheless.

---

It didn't take long for the House to turn on him once more; now that the illusion any of this was even remotely 'normal' had been shattered, the environment seemed almost eager to disturb him, delighting in subjecting him to wickedness. No longer was the House satisfied with mere distortions - now it engaged in depravity, pushing John through rooms that would turn stomachs in an abbatoir, let alone a home. Floorboards gave way to metal grating suspended above yawning abysses, the walls covered in blood and viscera and gore displayed to sickening extremes. More rooms even further in changed track, swapping carnage for revulsion, dingy mould-caked plaster the only dressing for floors smeared with excrement, furnishings reduced to stained mattresses and tarpaulins. Those dim-lit dungeons were themselves transfigured into stone caverns, the rock slick and slimy and the air fetid, hot and reeking of soured meat, rancid, beastly. When John's surroundings shifted one last time to sterile linoleum and faded-white corridors, he found himself missing topsy-turvy rooms with impractical decor and impossible blueprints very deeply.

These hallways were well-known to John; he had trodden these floors for eighteen months in a previous lifetime, piecing back together what had been left of his mind with little help from staff more concerned with ridicule than repair. Ravenscar was unmistakable; time had done nothing to distance him from what he'd experienced there. Cautiously walking these halls, he relived the scalding showers and ice-cold hoses, the scorn of the nurses and the stomach pains from weeks on gruel, the bruises inflicted by bored orderlies; bile rose in the back of his throat, and in swallowing it back down he flashed forcibly to choked consumption of pills meant to numb and sedate, medication designed for pliability rather than care. Cell doors lined either side of the corridor and John could hear ghostly moans and soft wails, occassional metal crashing, the distinct creaking echoes of a door swinging open and closed again to be followed by low, fleshy thuds. This was not a place of healing, and the House knew. The House inflicted harm, and revelled in it.

John's terrible reminiscence was interrupted by lilting sobs distinct from the background noise of haunted memories. Little hitches and cries, clear distress stifled into sniffles for fear of being heard. It was the weeping of someone who wished to hide, lest the root of their woe sought them out. He followed the sound carefully, quietly, treading softly to conceal his footsteps so as not to frighten away whoever he was looking for, and as he approached, he peered through cell door windows and feeding slots to determine the source of the noise; only after checking a good seven or eight cells did he find her.

Astra was huddled into the far corner, facing away from the door and doing her apparent utmost to shrink herself away, minimize the space she occupied in hopes of disappearing entirely. Her clothes were more ragged and soiled than when John had last seen her before the fall, but John could not suppress the feeling of immense relief at having found her again, and seemingly unharmed at that. Gently, he opened the door and crept in, keen to have them both alight this twisted place.
"Astra, Jesus. I'm glad I found you," he began, resting a hand on her shoulder as he neared. Her entire body flinched and went rigid before she whipped her head around to look at him; in the next second she was up and on her feet, rushing across the small cell to sequester herself against the opposite corner. John didn't move.
"Don't touch me! Who are you?! How did you find me?!"
"Astra, it's me, you're okay-"
"I don't know you! How do you know my- I don't even know if that is my name!"
"It's John - John Constantine - we got separated by the fall-" as he spoke he took slow, tiny steps toward her, opening his arms and displaying empty hands to show he meant no harm, bore no weapon.
"No!" She screamed, wild and frantic.
"I'm just trying to help you- us- I'm just trying to get us out of here, but we lost each other after the fall. Don't you remember?"
"You're not real! You're a trick! A clever game - just going to hurt me again! I won't let you!"

She was away, throwing the cell door open and flying through it, sprinting down the corridors. John gave quick chase, painfully aware that pursuing her would only further cement the false suspicions in her mind, but seeing little alternative available. If he lost her down here in these transmuted nightmares he might never find her again, nor forgive himself for doing so. They fled and flew in sync, hunter and quarry, John desperately flinging pleas and promises ahead of him while Astra only shrieked back to leave her alone, let her be, quit his chase and go back from whence he came. Around them the corridor began to loop, the same cracked tiles and stained floors passing by again and again, uncaring for whichever way they turned, whatever direction they picked; every new corner was merely a fresh iteration of that same hallway, inescapable. As they looped, the lights began to dim, fluorescent tubes blinking out one by one until their flight was illuminated only by the bare, worn-out bulbs within the cells, casting striped shadows through barred windows out onto their shared path - yet even these began to burn out with each new repetition. John was sure they'd ran for miles, yet they'd not moved an inch, every footfall plunging them further and further into recurring darkness until they were sprinting through the black.

John didn't see the wall before he slammed into it, mid-stride but managing to twist just as he made impact and baring the brunt of the collision with his shoulder. He yelled out in pain as he felt the joint pop out of the socket, bouncing off the ceramic tiles and tumbling to the floor, eliciting another agonised cry as he landed awkwardly on his freshly-dislocated shoulder. He gingerly cradled his arm, breathing heavy on his back, exhausted and in pain before summoning the strength to sit himself up and blink in the black. He waited for some time for his eyes to adjust, but the grainy darkness was impenetrable, blinding him on all sides. John sighed. He could no longer even hear Astra - and now he barely knew which way was forward, although he suspected that sort of thing didn't matter much here anyway. Whichever way you went, you went the way the House wanted you to go.

To this end, he carefully stood up, removing his jacket and fashioning a rudimentary approximation of a sling for his arm, hissing through his teeth every time a movement jostled the shoulder. Once secured as best as he could manage, John reached his free arm out into the darkness and crept forward on shuffling feet until his fingers brushed the wall in front of him. He pushed his palm against the tile, and the slowly began to move sideways, keeping his hand against the wall for orientation as he guided himself further down the dark corridor. John walked like this for a long while, listening out for Astra again; around him, the air shifted and grew colder, and he felt his breath fogging in front of him even if he couldn't see it.

-

He walked for what may have been five miles or fifty feet before stumbling, falling against the opposite wall. He hadn't fallen far, but paid it no mind, preoccupied by the hot bark of pain from his shoulder; still the darkness prevailed, and he was still unable to see. He reached out and found the wall again, progressing onwards steadily - until he began to feel the other wall brush against his shoulder once more. He winched and shrank in closer, bending more at the elbow, carrying on; slowly, he felt the wall encroaching again. He pushed himself into his palm. Still the walls drew together. John tutted; the corridor must taper and end here. He had walked all this way into a dead end.

He pivoted, a slow one-eighty turn until he faced the way he'd come, and set off to find another route. The walls grew closer. John did not allow himself to panic. In a darkness so deep, how could he really tell that he'd turned around? Another pivot; the passageway grew narrower still. It pressed against his shoulder and he grimaced, feeling the dislocated joint grinding against itself; John flattened his back against the wall and sidled along. Closer - tighter - the wall pressed on his belly and chest, made it hard to breathe, hard to move; he was becoming stuck, wedged between concrete in the silent dark. He reached an arm out for purchase, searching for a way out, an opening, a door - anything to pry himself free, loosen the architecture from its vice grip about his body, a crevice or a handle; he found only a pinch point where the walls finally met. The House rumbled, stone scraping across stone reverberating through his ears.

Ever-so-faintly, he saw a light. A sliver, a fraction, a single pixel-thin line projected to his right over his aching shoulder. He couldn't reach it with his free arm, and in a panicked, excruciating movement, he pulled his arm loose of its sling and wrenched it up, feeling the joint slither and creak with stabs of pained protest until his fingertips brushed the smallest crack in the pinning wall. John shuffled sideways, trying to push his fingers into the gap; his breath was shallow and difficult to find, but he felt his hand find purchase, however miniscule. The House fought him every step of the way, but the crack was here for a reason, surely? Mercy, or a cruel joke, John cared not which; he just focused on worming his fingers further into the crevice, and the more he pushed the wider it seemed to grow until he was sidling into it entirely, pushing with all his might against the walls, expanding this new space. The House shuddered, wobbling him about as if spasming, retching. The light grew brighter, enveloping John whole - and then the floor convulsed, and with a great lurching movement, he was out.

He hit the ground hard and swore loud as the impact forced his shoulder back into place. He groaned, writhing on the floor in pain for the second time in as many...hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't tell; there was no tracking calendars or clocks in the House, and the passage of time seemed fluid and ultimately irrelevant. He was tired, and could feel his mind slipping away, lapsing into sleep. Perhaps he could just lie here, lie here and rest...the House could wait, just for a couple hours...

Any thought or temptation of sleep was expelled with a piercing scream that shook through John's bones and jolted him up, and was then cut off so suddenly that the silence left behind was far more bloodcurdling than any shriek could be. John shot to his feet, any feeling of pain or lethargy forgotten as he sprinted down wooden hallways and through carpeted rooms, the House architecture having returned to something cozy and warm, in mockery of whatever new horror it had now unleashed. He tore through the House to the source of the scream, and found it all-too-quickly.

A crowd of the black creatures loomed over something on the floor, tearing and gnashing at it. The egg-with-wings from John's first encounter with these strange beings was not present but there was no mistaking: though these monsters varied wildly in shape and size, some resembling human and some in contempt of anything approaching 'natural', they were all of the same ilk, kin to one another. They shared the same shimmering-black skin, and regardless of form all sported that same maw that split their bodies in half and kept going. There was a body beneath them, deep dark fears welling up within John as he caught glimpses through the frenzy. It was shredded, rent asunder, pulled apart. He saw a flash of dirty blonde hair, and turned away in a rush of unspeakable emotion. The creatures did not notice him, so engrossed in their feast, but Astra's corpse would not last much longer under their hungry mouths, and John did not want to be here when they began seeking another meal-

One of the creatures sank its teeth into a section of the wall and tore away a chunk of brick and plaster and what was left behind John could not say. The wall was gone. Only an absence truly fundamental remained; 'remained' was not even the right word for it, but John couldn't comprehend anything else. The creature took another bite of the wall and the hole grew bigger, a gap in the very fabric of reality; where this beast tore with its fangs, nothingness crept in behind it.

The others finished with the corpse, no more Astra left to eat and they too started in on the wall, moving to the floor, the corners, the ceiling. Everywhere the things dined, patches of nothing were left behind, not mere darkness or holes in the material but a true absence of anything. Their appetites swallowed up the entire room, until not a single feature was left; not the wall, light fixtures, furniture, coving, window lintels, carpet, floorboards, not the corners or skirting or ceiling nor switches or hooks or ornaments. Even the sparse furniture was consumed, until John stood on a precipice overlooking the nothing that had once been the room.

The House was being eaten.

There came from that nothing something deep and gutteral and ancient, so very very far below John, something akin to a laugh. There was no peering into that darkness, for there was no darkness. But still - in the last second before he turned on his heels and fled, shaken to his soul - he thought he saw something move down there.

---

𝕭𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊, 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑, 𝖔𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖑? 𝕬𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖞; 𝖉𝖚𝖌 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙.
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖒𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉.

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝖜𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊'𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓;
𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝕴 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊.
𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑.
𝕴'𝖒 𝖌𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓.

Roman's Scrapbin

Crime Mystery Thriller where celeb/VIP OCs are at a party and there's a MURDER and then the PCs are all suspects in the ensuing investigation, while also interacting with each other as they get to know other suspects/attendees of the party, and potentially launching their own impromptu investigations

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.