#slight dumbass john wick

[cringefail-clown]

considering how ult!dirk is vastly different from the dirk we know and love because of the influences of the splinters that merged to make him Him, including bro and therefore, through cal's meddling with bro, also equius, caliborn, hal and half of gamzee i fucking guess, its interesting to me to think about how merging with signless would change kankri if he went ultimate.

like yeah, thats troll jegus. maybe hed make kankri less insufferable, his whole thing was how you should love thy troll neighbour, he was a great dude. but also thats the guy who, with his dying breath, yelled out a fuck you so influential it rippled through paradox space so hard it gave karkat a major case of voice volume always set to Loud since basically his birth.

now imagine this guy, who spent his whole life trying to change the troll society for the better and died hoping his descendant will finish his work, somehow coming to earth c and witnessing this fucker with anime shades manipulating the narrative into the path of trolls living under the dictatorship again. i think no matter how much of a pacifist you are, that shit is gonna make you fucking livid. like the kankri part maybe would have some reserves and wanting to at least try and talk dirk out of his dumbass plans, but signless would sit on the backburner with his rifle ready to go full troll john wick on his ass.

tldr signless gave his last fuck and it was so influential trolls made a religion out of it, and now he has zero of them left, instead having a hold on about 300 different guns in his sylladex and a raging vendetta against dictatorships.

(also slight tangent but this part of meat epilogue made me burst out laughing on my reread:

"no i aint making troll bible part 2: electric boogaloo with this shit, im not a fucking idiot")

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 4

AO3

In which Helen fights for control from her kidnappers and John is met with deadends.

(The action will pick up in the next chapter

Waking up in a cell is a little easier the second time around Helen discovers.

She wakes up, freezing again, on the floor. Not that there was any other place to be. The cell was still empty.

The guards were different when she woke up but she barely paid them any attention. Instead, she managed to crawl to the little stall in the corner of her cell. Indeed, she was grateful to find a bathroom. The contents of her stomach were emptied into the small toilet and she wondered, idly, if it was the sedative that made her feel so.

She wished there was a window, or any other sort of indication of what time it was. What day it was.

Was it still Saturday? She wasn’t sure.

She wondered if it was Sunday and what would happen tomorrow morning when clients started arriving at her office to find it locked and empty?

Priorities, she tells herself.

No, she wasn’t worried about a few people missing their appointments. Not when her hands were still bound together and her throat burned from the acid of her vomit.

They’d live.

And so would she.

John was coming, she knows. It may take him some time to find her. Helen was certain she was hidden somewhere that wouldn’t be easy for him to find. But she was also positive that John wouldn’t stop until she was safe.

That brought her some comfort.

But even with that knowledge, she wasn’t going to stop trying to get herself out of the mess.

She tries to engage the new guards in conversation, but they kept their mouths shut. Probably warned by DeLuca, she thinks.

Still, one of them disappears upstairs and returns with a tv dinner that he slides through the bars to her, along with a bottle of water. They undo the bindings at her wrists but refuse to give her silverware. While she can only imagine what other uses John would find for a spoon or a fork, she wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a utensil in a fight.

At least DeLuca isn’t planning on starving her. That was a plus. Especially since John would kill him either way.

She closes her eyes.

John was probably a wreck. He didn’t do well with things being out of his control and his emotional regulation skills were lacking.

This, she thinks, is really going to stunt the progress she’s made with him. Months of building up to him addressing his issues with self-esteem and his own feelings of self-hatred, only to have her kidnapped by his enemies.

It would take months more to work through the blame he was going to feel and probably years before he could even start to forgive himself.

The guards change not long after she wakes up. The new guards are told: “She’s been fed. Mostly quiet. DeLuca says not to interact with her.”

They listen. They ignore her attempts at small talk and don’t even look at her. The only moment of interaction comes when they hand her another meal a few hours later with a gruff, “Here.”

She falls asleep again after she eats. It’s almost too cold to sleep but she manages, blaming the exhaustion on the sedatives.

When she wakes up again, the guards have changed.

Nick, the man who had sedated her is back, along with someone new. The kid is younger than Nick. She’d place him in his early twenties at best. His face was still a little soft around the edges and the scarring from acne hadn’t found its way to clearing up just yet.

“Morning, boys.” She says, “Or is it night?”

“It’s two pm.”

“Hey!” Nick says, “DeLuca said not to talk to her.”

“What harm will talking do?” The new kid asks, looking over at Helen with a naïve sort of interest.

Nick shrugs, “Guess she’s some sort of psychiatrist.”

Wrong, Helen thinks, but doesn’t comment.

“She got inside DeLuca’s head yesterday. Kinda eerie, to be honest. Started spouting all this stuff about his parents and I guess it was true, because DeLuca was pissed. Bastard still hasn’t come back.”

Helen resists the urge to smirk at that.

“Why didn’t he just kill her? What’s she in for?”

Helen perks up a bit. She knew, obviously, that she was here as leverage or bait or something altogether nefarious to entrap John. But the more she could figure out about the details, the better off she would be.

“You ever hear of John Wick?” Nick asks, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Heard of him?” The poor kid almost sounds excited, “The man’s a fucking legend! I heard he killed three guys who started shit-talking him in the bar with a fucking pencil!”

Helen hadn’t heard that little tidbit, but she wasn’t surprised. John’s versatility was arguably his greatest strength. It made sense that it converted to weapons.

Nick hums, “Yep. And that’s his girl.” He throws a thumb in her direction.

The kid’s head flies over, staring at Helen in shock. She gives him a finger wave and the kid looks back to Nick, “That’s the boogeyman’s girl?”

Nick nods and starts to toss out the cards, “DeLuca’s been talking about getting a jump on the Camorra ever since he took over the Syndicate. Can’t help but wonder if this is his ploy.”

John had referenced the Camorra before, a number of times, but she couldn’t recall him ever mentioning the Syndicate. Nevertheless, she now had a name to put to the organization and its face that held her captive.

“But, it’s the boogeyman! You don’t mess with the boogeyman!”

“Sound advice,” Helen pipes in, “I suggest you relay the message to DeLuca before he gets you all killed.”

The kid pales and Nick shakes his head, “Don’t listen to her, Frankie.”

But Frankie was already listening. She just needed one in. “He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to spend your last hours on this Earth in fear. Play your game.” Helen tries her best to give her a sweet smile. “Have fun with your time.”

“Hours?” he echoes.

“I mean, maybe you’ll get lucky. You might have a few days before John finds this place and razes it to the ground.”

“Disengage, Frankie.” Nick warns but even he looks uneasy.

John had mentioned his reputation a few times, but this was the first time that Helen had ever seen it in action. She knew John was not one for dramatizing but still, it was a little strange to see grown men becoming uneasy at the very mention of his name.

Frankie lowers his voice but she can still hear him echoing in the empty basement. “Look, man, you know I’m all in for the cause but I don’t know if I want to be involved in this.” He shoots Helen a glance, “I don’t want the Boogeyman coming after me.”

She almost felt sorry for the kid. Rationally, she could probably justify his actions. Write it off as a kid looking for a place to fit in, a world to survive in. He was mousy and largely unintimidating. The idea of mafiaso protection probably appealed to him, gave him space to live. But, she acknowledges, it’s harder to feel bad for someone who is keeping you locked in a cage.

“It’s a little late for that, Frankie. You and Nick are already involved.”

Nick shifts uncomfortably at the use of his name. Good, she thinks. She wants him to be anxious. She wants them both to afraid of what was to come.

Poor Frankie hadn’t even been here five minutes, she thinks, and he was already ready to bolt. She had a foot in the door, now she just had to hold her ground and push through.

“Look,” Helen offers him a small smile, “You seem like a good kid. Single mom?”

His eyes widen and he nods. “How did you know?”

An educated guess, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You did whatever you had to do to help her. How many siblings you got?”

“Don’t—” Nick tries but it’s too late.

“Two.”

“Still in school?”

Again, he nods.

“Good.” Helen says, “I hope they won’t have to drop out when you aren’t around. It’s hard for kids who drop out to catch back up. Sometimes you never do. Right, Nick?”

Nick tenses immediately.

She hums and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall.

“Nick, man—”

“She’s just getting into your head. Let it go.”

Helen huffs a small laugh at that.

“I don’t know. How’d she know about my mom? And me dropping out? I didn’t say anything that—”

“It’s all just lucky guesswork. Calm down.”

If her eyes were open, she would have rolled them. “Guesswork, huh?” She glances up. It’s not much, she thinks, but it’s an opening, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make a little wager about that?”

“Not a chance.” Nick is quick to say but she can see the curiosity behind them. It’s reflected in Frankie who, with less experience and far less intelligence is quick to ask, “What kind of wager?”

Nick shoots him a glare but doesn’t cut her off.

“I’ll read you. Both of you. I’ll analyze your lives based on what I’ve already seen of you. And, if I’m wrong, on either of you, I’ll shut up. I won’t say anything for the rest of the night.”

“And if you’re right?” Nick asks.

“I get a phone call.”

“Not a chance.” Okay. She expected that. She could compromise.

“A text, then. I’ll keep it short. No more than a minute.”

“DeLuca would kill us.” Frankie says, shaking his head.

“DeLuca doesn’t have cameras here.” She gestures around, “And I wouldn’t be worried about DeLuca killing you when John’s out there looking for me.” She pauses, “I’ll sweeten the pot. Win or lose, I’ll ask John not to kill you.”

She’s met with silence as Frankie looks to Nick to take the lead.

Nick looks indecisive and she takes that into account. She watches the way he glances towards his phone. He’s considering it.

“You’re both part of this.” Helen leans forward, “DeLuca is arrogant enough to think he can get out of this without backlash. You’ve got to know that won’t be the case. John will hunt him down to the ends of the Earth, along with anyone else who played a part in this. Your only shot of making it through this alive is for me to interfere.”

She watches him swallow. Nick isn’t stupid. He’s probably the smartest of all the kidnappers she met but, Christ, he is lost.

John was like that, once.

Desperate for a way out, unable to find one.

“Will he listen to you?” Nick asks finally, “If you ask him to spare us, will he listen?”

She can’t make the promise. Truth be told, she’s never seen John truly angry at anyone other than himself. She doesn’t know how this is going to go.

“I am the only chance at stopping him.” She says finally. Not a promise or a guarantee. The honest truth, if ever there was one.

“Either way, win or lose?” Nick pushes.

“I give you my word.”

The moment lasts an eternity as she holds Nick’s gaze.

“I won’t give you a minute. You can’t touch the phone. You tell me the number, I type in the message. You get to send one word.”

“Three.”

He considers it, then he nods and she breathes easy.

“Start with Frankie.” He says and there comes that guard again. Keeping himself safe. Protecting his secrets.

She suspects but she isn’t entirely sure.

Frankie is an easier read, anyway. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Nick’s reactions to what she says to Frankie will give her everything she needs.

Helen exhales and looks to the younger boy.

She takes in the clothes, the demeanor. The way he sits, the little bit of excitement in his eyes that proved just how naïve he was. How in over his head he was.

“We’ve established the single mom. You’re the oldest. Different dad’s all around. Your mom’s a dreamer. She kept hoping that each guy would be different. They’d care. They’d stay. But they never did.

“You get that from her,” Helen softens her voice, “that tendency to daydream. It keeps you going on the bad days, but it also keeps you stuck. What do consequences matter when everything will be okay in the end, right?

“But you were smart. You did shit in school, but you were quick to pick things up and acing tests made up for the fact you probably never did you homework. But your siblings do. You prioritized their work above yours, made sure they did well. Because it was too late for you, even then, wasn’t it?”

Frankie’s mouth opens but she keeps going.

“Three boys,” That much is a guess but the subtle intake of breath from Frankie tells her she’s right, “Three growing boys need food. And clothes. Mom was running herself to the ground to keep going. So, you stepped up. Because you’re the oldest, and because you love your mom. And, partly, because she and your brothers are all you have.”

Frankie looks like he’s going to pass out at any minute but it’s Nick she’s watching, out of the corner of her eye.

Nick’s leg is shaking, bouncing with nervous energy and he’s staring at his phone, as if it’s the only thing in the world giving him strength.

She’s willing to stake everything that whatever his lock screen shows is his reason to get up each and every morning.

Turning her attention back to Frankie, she continues, “So you wound up here. It’s local and Italian, so it could be worse in your mother’s eyes. It doesn’t stop her from worrying, though.

“But you have your uses. You’re not street smart like the rest of these guys here, but just clever enough that you see things they don’t. Finding patterns and solving puzzles. It makes up for the fact you’re shit in a fight and you probably can’t even shoot straight.”

Frankie’s face breaks into a huge grin, “Holy shit! That was dead on! How did you do that?” He leaves his chair and comes to sit on the ground outside her cell. “I didn’t know psychologists did that.”

Her face softens, “Most don’t. Technically, we’re supposed to avoid making assumptions but, after a while, you learn to pick up on little things.”

Nick narrows his eyes, “Still seems like guess work to me. The fact we’re both dropouts isn’t written on our faces. You guessed based on the fact we’re involved in Syndicate.”

“It gave me an indication of your socioeconomic status,” she admits, “But, in Frankie’s case, it was the oldest brother, single mother combination that made me go in that direction. I used to do quite a bit of family therapy. There are roles that often come up in enmeshed families,” she explains, looking back at Frankie, “things like enablers who allow everything to happen, or scapegoats, who get blamed for everything.”

Helen tries to watch Nick’s reaction to the scapegoat. And sure enough, he stares at his locked screen.

“What am I?” Frankie asks.

“The Hero.” His chest puffs up at the label, “You try to fix everything, even the things that can’t ever be put back together. Which is how I knew you dropped out to help your mom. It’s what you do.”

“And Nick?” He asks, gesturing back to where Nick sat at the table.

Curious, but tense. Disbelieving, but with a hint of worry.

He had the most to lose from this expenditure.

“Nick,” she says softly, “was the scapegoat. And that’s a difficult place to be because you can do everything right but it doesn’t matter. I imagine you got in trouble a lot as a kid, didn’t you, Nick? You didn’t follow the expectations lined out for you. In your parent’s eyes, you made the wrong choices. Had the wrong friends. Played with the wrong toys.”

“There are no wrong toys.” Frankie says, tilting his head in confusion.

“You’re right.” Helen replies, not looking away from Nick, who is now tapping his fingers on the table in an attempt to appease the nervous energy. “But there were in your parent’s eyes. So you tried to appease them, to do everything right. Just how they wanted but you had already made your bed and they never quite got over it.”

Helen has to close her eyes at the flash of pain she sees in Nick’s eyes.

And she’s careful with her phrasing because she won’t be the one to bring it into the open, even if she needs to communicate to him that she knows his deepest secret. The one he pretends doesn’t exist.

“I’ll admit, I am unsure of what happened. But they found out. Maybe you told them, or they saw something they shouldn’t have, but they found out.”

“Stop.”

“They found out, and you lost everything.”

Nick’s hand reaches for his phone and his fist tightens around it, like a lifeline.

“I don’t understand.” Frankie says, looking between them.

Helen ignores him. “You didn’t have a choice but to leave school. You had to support yourself. Take care of yourself. And you found this place. The Syndicate. A family in its own right and they took you in. But this time, you were more careful. You didn’t let it show.”

“Stop!” Nick shouts and Helen does. His face is red, his chest rising and falling.

Helen swallows but stares Nick down until he brings is eyes to meet hers. “There is nothing wrong with you, Nick.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t know the pain of what you’ve been through. Your experience is your own. But I know what it’s like to be afraid and to feel trapped. And I know that nothing is going to change until you learn to accept who you are.”

Nick closes his eyes and rubs them.

And Frankie, bless his stupid fucking heart, looks back to Nick in a kind of understanding. “Oh.” He says and he looks to Helen and then again to his comrade, “Dude, I know how this place can be, but if it helps, I don’t care one way or the other. My middle brother is gay.”

Nick winces at the word and looks past Frankie to Helen.

“What gave it away?” He asks, voice heavy with emotion.

“Nothing that anyone else will pick up on.” She eases his worries, “I’ve been a therapist for nearly fifteen years. I know what to look for.”

Nick looks to Frankie, “You can’t fucking t—”

“I won’t say anything.” Frankie is quick to jump in. “I see how the world treats Gio and he’s only in high school.”

“The world can be a cruel place. As humans, we tend to have a hard time distinguishing what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as right. But we all have a responsibility to challenge those beliefs and I am sorry that your parents couldn’t do that for you.”

“I wasn’t a bad kid.” Nick mutters.

“Of course, you weren’t.”

“I just wanted my parents to love me.”

“Some parents aren’t made to be parents. And the fact they couldn’t get over their narrow world view has nothing to do with you.”

“I can’t come out.”

“You don’t have to.” Helen tells him, “You can live the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not. Half the world does, anyway. But I can guarantee you that hiding who you are isn’t going to do anything to protect your kid.”

Nick’s eyes widen and he looks to Helen in shock.

“You have a kid? How did that even happen?” Frankie asks.

“Tequila.”

“We’ve all been there.” Helen mutters, lifting her water bottle in a silent salute. “The guys start asking too many questions about why you never date, never have a girlfriend. They start teasing at the truth and you go out and find somebody. Anybody. And things happen, because things always do. And the next thing you know, you’re trapped in another web of lies. It’s easier to play along than to find a way out and, eventually, that web of lies starts to feel like home. And right now, it’s fine. But webs will always begin to unravel. I’d suggest you do it on your own terms rather than watch your world implode.”

Nick shivers, “You really need to stop.”

“Sorry. It’s hard to shut off, sometimes.”

“I can see why DeLuca sedated you.” He mutters and grabs his phone, “A deal is a deal. What’s the number?”

Helen tries not to look to relieved as Nick brings up a new text message. She recites John’s number, forever thankful that she memorized it. Just in case.

He types it in and shakes his head, “I take it this is Wick’s direct line?”

She nods, “Yes.”

Nick exhales, “I’m really fucking glad our shift is almost done. What do you want to say?”

Three words, she muses. They had agreed on three words.

She didn’t know if he already knew where she was, or who had her. Helen didn’t want to waste her one shot giving John information he already had but, she liked to think if he knew where she was, he would already be here.

“DeLuca of Syndicate.” She decides and hopes against hope that it is enough.

….

Dead ends.

After more than a day of searching, John had only been met with dead ends and more questions.

Winston was right. The answer to who would want to destroy the Camorra was apparently everybody. Which meant the only other factor they had to go on was by means.

Who had the resources to stalk and evade John Wick?

Again, the answer was more substantial than he knew what to do with.

They all had money. Especially, the higher up the food chain they went.

While Winston had been able to clear the highest-ranking officials of the High Table, there were still hundreds of smaller echelons to eliminate.

It hadn’t been going well.

John had limited the search to the Camorra’s immediate allies and their top adversaries, local and foreign. Winston was running it now but John could tell he wasn’t hopeful.

It had never occurred to John just how far the Underworld went. Aside from the major players, there were crime families and gangs that all held some sort of stake in his world. And New York was the fucking capital of it all. Anyone and everyone had ties to the city.

The Technician was still there, in his room. He had used the twin bed to catch a few hours of sleep while they waited for the phone to be activated and John had kept vigil. He watched the phone, waiting for any sort of call or message that wasn’t going to come. He watched the computer, hoping that something would pop up.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing, Mister Wick. If this guy had a modicum of common sense, he would have ditched her original phone and just taken the SIM card. He’ll probably keep the phone off until he intends to use it. Might even be removing the card and only using that when he needs it. Until it’s turned on, we can’t do anything.”

It had taken every ounce of self-control John had not to smash the Technician’s computer. To break the table the way he had done the chair.

He wanted to break something. Needed to see, and hear, and feel something smash apart. Something else had to break before he did.

Thirty-six hours.

It had been thirty-six hours since he had gotten the phone call and he was still no closer to finding Helen.

His stomach churned.

He’d never had trouble eating before or after a mission before. Nothing rattled him. Not blood, or entrails, or the crack of breaking bones. He could see brain matter spattered along a floor and go for a cheeseburger right after.

But this uncertainty, the not knowing… it was killing him.

Had she eaten?

There was a frost over the weekend. Was she someplace warm?

Was she scared?

Did she know he was coming?

He hears the door open and jumps to his feet, heading to the main room. The Technician was hunched over the laptop, needlessly running security cameras and traffic footage near Helen’s home.

John feared it wouldn’t be enough.

A table full of weapons brought by the Sommelier is prepped near the door that Winston is walking through.

He has a bag ready in case Winston is unable to find anything. In case he has to go after the D’Antonio’s.

Winston shakes his head at John, almost in defeat.

“We need to reframe our parameters.” The Manager says, “It’s still too broad.”

John leans against the table. He hadn’t been expecting much but anything would be better than the constant attempts to narrow their search.

What was he missing? What was he leaving out?

What if he went too narrow and ended up missing Helen?

“Have you slept, Jonathan?”

It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation.

He’s tried. But he can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Helen, bound and passed out on the cold floor.

He can’t remember how many coffee’s he had but it’s keeping him going.

“I suppose I should be grateful you’ve showered.” Winston says, obviously still disapproving. “Still, you won’t be any good to her if you’re strung out on caffeine.”

“I’ve tried, Winston. I just…” He trails off.

This is your fault. You should have protected her better. You should never have showed weakness. Should never have gone to her house. To her office. Should never have brought your fucked-up life into her safe one.

He runs a hand through his hair.

The sitting, the waiting, the hoping is doing absolutely nothing.

He has to fix this.

“I can’t wait any longer, Winston.” John shakes his head, “I’m going after Lorenzo.”

Winston responds in kind, “Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.”

“I can’t sit here doing nothing. If I kill the D’Antonio’s, this is over. She’ll be released.”

“You’re banking on an unknown enemy being honest.”

It was true, but what else was there to go on?

“He has no reason to keep her once they’re dead.”

“That you know of. This could just be the beginning of his plan.” Winston keeps arguing.

“It’s all ifs right now!” John can feel the anger brimming within him, “But it’s all I have! And Helen… she’s tough but she has her limits.”

Winston frowns, “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you became involved with her.”

“You think I don’t know that! I know that this is my fault but I will get her out of this. I gave you time, I gave the Technician a chance.”

“My time isn’t up.”

“You have a handful of hours and no fucking leads.”

“Um, Mister Wick…” The Technician pipes up, turning around in his seat.

“Then help me narrow down what I should be looking for. You know I can’t just let you go off to kill a member of the High Table.”

“You won’t be able to stop me.”

“Mister Wick!” The Technician shouts and both John and Winston turn to look at him, “You, um, sorry. But you just got a text from an unknown number.”

He holds up the phone and John takes it.

A New York number, that he doesn’t recognize, but opens all the same. The message is short, deliberate.

The miracle he’s been praying for.

DeLuca of Syndicate.

[alphinias]

39, jiara❤️

What color do you like better?

It took Kiara the boat ride to the mainland, trying to force JJ to remain still in the seat next to her, and almost two hours wandering around the mainland county fair, probably risking her life in rides that were two screws away from collapsing underneath her for the realization to hit.

Sarah was fucking trying to set her up.

It started out when the whole thing conveniently fell on the weekend of Pope’s mathlete tournament, which he assured them he was totally okay with because fairs made him queasy anyway, and this was just the only weekend Sarah was available. It escalated into her casually suggesting Kiara wear the brand new crop top that happened to be hanging at the front of her closet while they got ready, reminiscent of how they used to share clothes during her kook year, and Kiara had accepted, hoping to further solidly this new truce between them.

And now here she was, sitting across from JJ on the ferris wheel, their knees bumping in the tiny space. The wicked grin Sarah had shot her while they climbed into the cart had finally clued her in.

She should have known Sarah Cameron wouldn’t let this go. 

She’d asked her about JJ, once everything settled down with the gold and the whole thinking two of their friends were dead thing. She’d picked up on a vibe, she said. 

Kiara had played dumb, even though she couldn’t remain totally oblivious. She almost hadn’t noticed how much things with JJ had changed, but while John B was gone, they’d clung to each other like rocks in a storm. He was the first person she looked for in a room, the one she somehow always ended up drifting towards when there was a free space on the couch. 

If she needed a little time to figure out what that meant, then well, that was her business. 

“So, what’s going on there?” Sarah had of course asked. It had taken Kiara several moments to realize she was talking about her and JJ, and several more for her to realize that she wore the same conspiratorial smile she got when Kiara had a report back about a cute guy during her kook year. 

It put Kiara on the defensive immediately. “What?”

“You and JJ.” Sarah had rolled her eyes, like duh. “He’s into you. You know that, right?”

“No, he’s not. We’re just friends. He thinks it’s funny to flirt.” 

Kiara thought she had ended the conversation then and there. She’d thrown out her best threatening look and everything, even though just friends had lost a lot of its meaning over the past year. The water was muddied, and sometimes she had the tiniest inkling that maybe JJ did like her in a very not friend way, but she wasn’t ready to clear it up just yet. She may not ever be, but that was for her to decide. 

Sarah, evidently, did not think the same way, Kiara realized, as she watched JJ bounce his knee. 

“The ring of fire was so much better,” he complained. He shifted in his seat, and she wondered if maybe the confined space was bugging him. Either that, or it was her.

The cart had been silent for the entire three cycles they’d spun thus far, which was totally on Kiara. She had been too busy ruminating on Sarah’s meddling, and JJ, although he could sometimes be oblivious, at least had the good sense not to push her buttons when she was entering a mood. 

She bopped her knee with his. At the very least, this wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy spending time with him. “Yeah. Right. It's a miracle we didn’t die on that one.”

She just didn’t enjoy the fact that Sarah was looming over their time spent together, with her creepy matchmaker agenda. 

“That’s part of the excitement, Kie.”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Just be glad we don’t have to sit with Sarah and John B on this and watch them mack,” she said, and then immediately regretted it. She tugged a stray string on her shorts, afraid there was some implication that ferris wheels should be a couple activity hanging in the air. 

JJ paused. Slowly, his lips peeled back into a suggestive smirk, and she slammed her knee into his again. 

“Don’t even go there,” she demanded, but she was unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.  A slight weight eased off her chest. 

When the ride ended, JJ wandered off to get his second helping of some sickening fair food that made Kiara sick from just looking at the grease. That boy was willing to shovel anything into his mouth.

When Sarah and John B stumbled off the ride, Kiara did her best laser glare, hoping Sarah could read her mind. The effect was totally ruined when John B stumbled between them, demanding some of JJ’s deep fried oreos. 

“Sarah,” Kiara warned, while the boys were occupied. 

Sarah played dumb. “What?”

Since she couldn’t exactly rip into her with JJ standing two feet away, Kiara went back to silently stewing. 

She couldn’t decide if Pope was in on it or not. She didn’t think John B was, judging by the little huffs of frustration Sarah let out every time he participated in anything that drug the boys away from them for any period of time.

The next such case happened when JJ’s attention snagged on a carnival game. It was some ridiculously expensive competition for who could shoot the most targets with their water gun; there was an array of impossible to win stuffed animals hanging above it that Kiara could probably get for three dollars at the local dollar store.

JJ whistled. “Oh, whittle John B. I could kick your ass at that.”

Foolishly, John B engaged, as he usually did. He shot a glance at Sarah. “Well, I don’t think so!”

Kiara stood, tapping a foot as they forked over ridiculous amounts of money to the man running the booth. She could smell the cigars off of him from where she was standing, but the boys were unbothered as they tested out their squirt guns of choice.

Sarah was equally unimpressed. “Baby. Why don’t we go in the mirror maze if we want to spend money? We can see which group makes it out first.”

If there had been any doubt about the setup scheme, it would’ve been gone. Kiara leaned forward to hiss in Sarah’s ear, “Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?” Sarah hardly even bothered to look innocent. She sent another pleading look John B’s way, and JJ mimed crying just out of her line of vision. 

John B scowled at him. There was a brief battle on his face, which male pride ultimately won. “Just- just as soon as I destroy JJ.” 

Slowly, JJ racked up points, John B cursing under his breath. It didn’t take Sarah long to grasp for another opportunity. “Hey, if you win, I want that mouse.”

John B gave a weak grin over his shoulder. “Oh- sure.”

“No way, man.” JJ flicked his hair out of his eyes. They lingered on Kiara for a moment, and then he turned back to his game. 

He won, predictably. Even more predictably, he was a sore winner, sniggering right in John B’s face. 

There was a moment of hesitation, and then JJ’s fingers were reaching for the stuffed animals. The man behind the counter scowled, but JJ had snatched two of them before he could stop him. 

JJ spun around. He held up a green sea turtle plush in one hand and a purple one in the other. Its shiny eyes on them stared back at Kiara, one of them sewn on a good two inches lower than the other, looking crooked as hell.

“Alright Kie. What color do you like better?” JJ asked, stone cold serious.  

A stupidly warm feeling bubbled in her stomach. She pointed a finger at the purple one, unable to even be annoyed at the stench of victory wafting off Sarah. 

JJ held the turtle towards her, but it was snatched out of his hands before she could reach it. “Sorry, kid. Ten more rounds for the medium size.”

Kiara left the stand with a five inch tall turtle under her arm. JJ kept glancing at it and looking down, like he was trying to hide how pleased he was. It was impossible to miss his grin, though.

She lifted the turtle up, letting the fair lights illuminate it. Suddenly, the way Sarah was looking back at them over her shoulder as she walked wasn’t so obnoxious. 

“Hm. I think I’ll call him Squirt.”

“Squirt? Like the fucking mermaid movie?” 

“No, dumbass.” Kiara elbowed him, and then she didn’t bother to move back out of his space when their arms brushed. His steps stuttered momentarily, but slowly, his grin widened.  “Finding Nemo.”

No. They didn’t have to decide exactly what was happening between them today, but Kiara very much wanted to someday. Listening to him ramble excitedly about the cyclone ride they were headed towards, she thought maybe that someday would even be a someday soon.

[acryofpain]

Whump Rewrites: Part 2

Excerpt from chapter 4 of John Dies at the End by David Wong.

•••

An hour later, I pulled my Hyundai into Shire Village. I couldn’t get a hold of John anymore, and every few minutes my phone would ring and then stop before I could answer the call, as if he was trying to contact me but failing. I resigned myself to the hope that whatever I had to do next would be apparent from a look at Robert’s place.

His trailer was one of only two that had yellow police tape over the porch and door, and the other one looked as if it had been abandoned months ago. I parked off in the grass across the lot and walked toward Robert’s abode. Nobody was there, or at least nobody that had come in a car. I knocked for some reason – brain still a little foggy and knee throbbing, producing a slight limp in my step – then went in.

They’d cleaned up the blood and guts. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me, since I should have known they wouldn’t just let entrails collect flies for twelve hours. Still, I recognized the room from the photos I’d been shown, the scene of Robert’s spontaneous explosion. The carpet was a few shades off from its original colour and the walls were forever stained a faded reddish-brown. And there was a smell, awful and organic, sharp and rotten.

I decided right then that I would leave and go home and watch some TV and drink a –

Thump.

I nearly pissed myself. It was a faint sound, from the other end of the trailer. The kitchen end. I stepped into the hall, expecting to see a flame-shooting vampire, a squid-clown hybrid, the Devil himself.

Nothing. Probably just wind. A micro-earthquake. Sudden termite migration.

THUMP.

It was heavier this time, violent. Adrenaline set my muscles on fire and, like a dumbass, I moved toward the sound. Definitely from the kitchen. In seven steps I crossed the Robert Marley estate and my shoes hit linoleum. I looked around at the counter, floor, and appliances, searching for anything that might’ve been out of place. No elves, no gremlins, no nothing. Not yet.

Dead silence. I realized I was holding my breath and had gotten a little dizzy, still not completely recovered from earlier. I realized I was not holding a weapon.

THUMP.

The refrigerator.

THUMP.

No. The freezer section at the top. The little door up there rattled with the sound, like it was bumped –

THUMP.

– from the inside.

Get out. Get out, David, go, go go, go, GO GO GO

With one last thump, the freezer door flew open. A small, shiny, frosted metal canister zipped out and bounced off the panelled wall above me before falling to the carpet, bouncing, and landing next to my shoe. I steeled my courage, then turned and ran my ass off.

In three flying strides I’d made it to the exit, but a half second before my hand would have ripped the knob off the front door, I happened to glance out the window and see a sedan parked out there where none had been before. Plain white, too many antennas.

Cop car.

Somebody getting out.

Morgan fucking Freeman.

He lit a cigarette outside his vehicle, ten feet away from me. I spun around, eyes searching for another way out, but even if there was one it would mean stepping over the possessed jar or whatever had come out of the freezer. It was now sitting on the tile, rocking back and forth, steaming faintly.

No thanks.

A glance back outside. My cop friend was still there, leaning against the car and blowing smoke into the air like some emotionally damaged black-and-white movie detective.

Pock!

A hollow snapping sound. The canister hopped an inch off the floor and so did I when I heard it. It did it again, jumping higher, and I let out a low whine of frustration.

The rumble of an engine emanated from outside and I had the vague idea that maybe, just maybe, Morgan had changed his mind and was now leaving. But with a glance out the window I spotted the news van that was pulling up next to the cop’s cruiser, and he was straightening up, looking a little more than disgruntled with his visitors.

POCK! POCK! POCK!

All of a sudden being arrested didn’t seem so bad – even if it had to be on live TV – and I should have ducked outside with my hands raised high in surrender. Fear kept me velcroed to the doormat, though. I could hear the muffled voices of Morgan and a news reporter having a terse, forced-politeness contest, the detective very adamantly insisting that he had no comments about the tragedies that had taken place inside.

Without warning, and with an incredible, ear-popping snap, the canister erupted, two tiny black pebbles shooting out and ricocheting chaotically before clattering to a stop on the tile. My heart was trying to punch a hole in my sternum at that point and I craned my neck around to examine the scene outside, the cop turning right to me at that exact second to gesture at the trailer. I threw myself back down, cursing under my breath.

He saw you. Did you see the flicker of surprise on his face? He caught a glimpse of your head. Dumbass.

The two pebble things now sat innocently on the ground, unmoving. Waiting.

You know what those are, right?

Nope. No idea.

You know Robert had a stash of that soy sauce shit.

Faint voices, arguing outside.

He couldn’t just cram it under his bed. That shit moves. It has a will, an attitude. It bites.

And then I realized, all at once, what I had come here for. John led me here, of course. When I was on the stuff, the little hit in my bloodstream I got when it attacked my thigh, I could communicate with John. When it wore off, I could not. My one chance to save him lay directly before me, wicked as it apparently was. I picked up the pill-shaped... things, looking like two coal-flavoured Tic Tacs in my palm.

Suddenly, they launched themselves at me. I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until that moment and if I had known I would’ve closed it, I assure you. In an instant one was skipping off my tongue and I coughed, hacked, convulsed. It forced itself down my throat and I could feel it wiggling all the way down to my gut. I clamped my lips shut and slapped my hand over my mouth for good measure, pushing myself hard against the wall behind me as if that would keep the sauce away. The second pill landed on my left cheek and then there was pain, a bright, acidic burn that seemed to radiate down to my toes, mixed with the weird, buzzing itch that comes specifically with tearing flesh, the feel of whole nerve endings being torn from their roots and tossed aside. I tasted the copper flow of blood in my mouth, felt something moving against my teeth.

The fucking soy sauce was digging a hole into my fucking face.

I fell flat on the floor, thrashing and rolling like I was having a seizure. I forgot where I was, who I was, everything in my mind vaporized by a hydrogen bomb of pure panic. My face and shirt were wet and sticky with blood and I felt the second intruder crawl across my tongue and down my esophagus, my stomach wrenching with disgust. I heard footsteps outside the door now, felt relieved, knew I would throw myself at Morgan and beg him to take me to the emergency room, to pump my stomach, to bring in an exorcist, to call in the Air Force to bomb this whole town into radioactive dust and bury it under sixty feet of concrete.

And then, calm.

Almost zen.

Officer Freeman stepped through the door and stopped cold at the sight of me. I climbed awkwardly to my feet with my hand over my cheek as he glanced me over. He had two red plastic gasoline cans with him.

He’s gonna burn this place down.

And he’s gonna burn me with it.

He set the cans at his feet and lit another cigarette, likely because he hadn’t been able to finish his last one when the reporter – who he must’ve finally gotten to screw off – interrupted him. He smoked in silence for a moment, squinting past me like I wasn’t even there.

“So,” I began slowly, grimacing as the movement pulled at the hole in my face. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

He shook his head. “Same as everybody. You’re trying to figure out what’s going on. I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing with these here gas cans.”

“I think I know.”

His gaze landed on the blood dripping from my jaw and trailing down my wrist, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. I took it timidly and pressed it into place, stifling a noise of pain.

“Thank you. I, uh, fell. On a... drill.”

He didn’t acknowledge my lame excuse and picked up one gas can to screw off the cap, then started splashing the thick, rancid liquid around the living room. I watched him for a second before taking a tentative step toward the door. In a blur of movement, Morgan whirled, whipping his hand out. A revolver was now aimed right at my face.

“You leavin’ already?” I quickly shook my head. “Good. Help me.”

“I’ll, uh... I’ll be glad to. But first I want you to tell me what happened to John.”

“I figured he was with you.”

“Me? Didn’t he, you know, die?”

“Sure did. He was in the interrogation room and Mike Dunlow says to him, ‘look, we got dead or missing kids here so you’re gonna stay in this room until I’m satisfied or you die of old age.’ Your boy, when he hears that, he falls over dead. Just like that.”

“Yeah... that sounds like John.”

“And now he’s gone. Hospital says his bed is empty and there’s no sign of him anywhere.”

I carefully picked up the other gas can and Morgan put his gun away. My shoulders relaxed ever so slightly and I began to soak the couch, eyes flicking over to the cop every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t going to try and catch me by surprise. Gasoline dripped from the wallpaper around me, squished in the carpet at our feet, permeating the air. I eyed a half inch of ash that was hanging from the cop’s cigarette, watched apprehensively as it fell onto the floor.

It went out with a soft hiss.

He opened a closet and doused the contents inside and I half-heartedly splashed a few more things before I went down and tossed the half-full can into one of the bedrooms. The survival part of my brain was scrambling for a plan to get the cop’s gun or at least get it away from him, but in my current clarity of mind I understood the certainty of it all. Morgan was going to shoot me and leave me here, no matter what I did. I was just waiting for it now. It was an odd feeling.

The man moved over to the door, blocking my exit, and gestured to his gas can which seemed to be almost empty. “Pick it up and toss it out the door, into the yard.”

I hesitated. He put his gun on me again and I did as I was told, and he pulled out his lighter once more to ignite it. The gasoline fumes burned at my nose now and I was getting lightheaded, a bit unsteady on my feet. Man, I was tired. I hadn’t even slept the night before and then there’d been all this shit to deal with.

“Y’know, everybody’s gotta ghost story,” Morgan said out of nowhere. “Or something of the sort. And nobody thinks it’s real because they figure no one else saw what they did, but everybody’s got their story. Everybody.”

He gazed into the flame at his hand, like he was mesmerized by it. His gun was pointed downward and with a soft click his thumb pulled back the hammer, as if on its own.

“Now what I think,” he muttered to his lighter. “I think all that stuff is both real and not real at the same time. And I think the people who see it and the people who don’t are both right. They’re just like two different radios, switched to different stations. And I think somehow, through some chemistry or magic or voodoo, that faux Jamaican guy opened the door into Hell itself. He became the door.”

I nodded, opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“And me,” he continued, stare hardening. “I intend to close it.”

He raised his gun, and shot me in the heart.