Purgatory

August 13, 2003

[Through A Dark Mirror] - Through the rabbit hole

Writers: Barb, Rob
Characters: Eric
Date: Day 4, early a.m.
Location: Above Molly McGuire's

Eric walked quickly away from Kate and Paul, silently fuming. It was past midnight and he climbed the stairs to Dannon's place above Molly's quietly, no sound marking his progress except his breath which was coming in short pants of anger. The apartment was dark and he could hear Dannon's light snoring coming from the room across from his.

The sword was still tucked under his now tattered coat. Once inside his room, he closed the door, shed the coat and drew the sword. It glimmered in the darkened room, the only other light from a street lamp in the alleyway behind Molly's out his window. The sword was still vibrating lightly, and he could feel its need to slash and hack. Its urge to be used, to be useful again after so long. Its desire for justice, swift and brutal. The gentle humming tingled his fingers and palms as he held it, and he felt exalted. The power of it and the knowledge that it could be wielded by no one else made him smile. Needs and urges and desires, he thought. The sword didn't judge him, didn't look at him like something once fine that had unexpectedly run amok. It didn't pity him. It didn't care what his motives were; it just was, waiting and wanting to be used for the purpose for which it had been forged.

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He sat on the edge of the bed, the sword in his lap, his face slack and his eyes blank. Feeling the blade's power, his power, and his anger intertwine. Paul was green, Paul didn't understand what needed to be done. And Kate, she'd always been weaker than he was, he thought righteously. All the Hunters were weaker than he, none of them had been through what he'd been through. He thought briefly of Tee but submerged the thought as quickly as it had surfaced. A couple centuries in Hell couldn't compare to a thousand mortal lives spent in torment. Lives lived as the victim and never having the power to change it, to fix it, to protect yourself or those you loved. That sort of powerlessness was overwhelming, the weight of despair crushing. If there was a common thread in the vile tapestry that had been his punishement, he chose not to see it. There was no deeper meaning. The point was that victims needed justice and it was his job, his purpose, to make sure they received it. He'd been helpless; he no longer was. That was all the meaning he needed.

He thought of the rush of power that had slammed through him the moment the sword had sliced into Trey. The minute the blade touched the demon, the power and his anger had merged into something he'd wrapped around himself like a shield. The anger felt good; it felt just. And power was something he'd not felt in too long. The taste of it was sweeter than he'd ever imagined it could be. Power and anger and justice. Knowing he was the only one who understood what needed to be done; the only one who could do it. The desire burned inside him, and he trembled. Grasping the sword hilt, he swung it up and around, admiring it, feeling the anticipation and the longing.

There was a black, viscous substance on the surface of the blade toward the tip, and Eric tilted the sword up to have a closer look. It was whatever foulness had leaked from Trey when he'd cut into the demon. At once both fascinated and disgusted, he extended two fingers slowly, touching the substance. The second he did, the four furrowed scars on his back screamed to life. The pain was like fire, burning, and he twisted sharply, bending backward as if to fold himself in half, the sword clattering to the floor. He flung both hands behind his head and grabbed his left shoulderblade, his mouth twisted in a silent scream. The back of his shirt was tacky with blood from the fight earlier, when Trey had grabbed his fist and the scars had burst open and exploded with blood.

But the scars didn't open this time, only burned and throbbed. Eric rolled off the bed, quickly wiping the demon essence on his jeans, and looked around as if waking from a dream. He picked up his sword and put it in the weapon stand across the room. That was weird, he thought. He looked at his watch and was startled to find he'd been home for nearly two hours. He stood for a moment, shaking his head. He had no real memory from the minute he'd entered the room. I must be more tired than I thought.

He rubbed his hands over his face and went to the dresser, pulled out fresh clothes, then left the room and crossed the hall to the bathroom. Dannon was still snoring lightly. Flicking on the overheads he squinted against the sudden bright light, and it suddenly struck him how long this day had been. No wonder he was losing time. Nearly twenty-four hours ago he'd stepped into Molly's for breakfast and nothing had been right since. He'd seen Lily, Molly, and Theresa at the counter as he'd seen them countless times before, and for a sweet few moments had felt normal. If not exactly happy, then contented and prepared to face the day.

Of course, at that point he'd had no idea what the day had in store.

Peeling off the ragged and sticky shirt along with the rest of his clothes, he stepped into the spacious shower, pressing buttons on the side of the stall to adjust the water. He just wanted to be clean again and sleep. It seemed like days since he slept. Years. He was more than weary. The crazy feeling of power and recklessness, of righteousness, the feeling that his will was true and was the only one that mattered had deserted him and now he just felt used up, empty and somehow wrong.

As the water flowed over him, he thought briefly of the last time he'd returned to Purgatory. Kel had still been in the pool as they'd called it, Eric remembered, referring to living a Mortal life. They'd been like brothers, and by some whim of the Fates had always arrived in Purgatory within a few hours of eachother. He'd checked Kel's status with Angel at the Depot, delighted to find his partner still toiling away in flesh and blood. Eric had rushed into Jack's and caused a great scene by grabbing Lily, swinging her into a dance, dipping her low and shouting how she just had to run away with him now, quickly, before Kel returned to Purgatory. He remembered her blushing face, swatting at him and laughing, while the onlookers cheered and shouted. He'd bought the house a round and had stayed at Jack's all night long, waiting for Kel.

He and Lily and Kel. They were an unlikely trio, and along with Theresa an even more unlikely quartet. Theresa preferred to handle her karmic hangovers alone, he now remembered, but Kel and Eric usually rode theirs out together at Kel's place, with Lily tending to them. He'd never had a karmic hangover like the one he'd had this morning. All that blood. The EMT at the Infirmary had said it was because his true form had been in storage too long; Eric thought that might be part of it, but the other part was the viciousness of the lives he'd led. It had to do something to you. It occurred to him that perhaps Theresa had been having hangovers like that for centuries; being in Hell probably did something to you too. No wonder she preferred to be alone.

Lily had recognized the signs this morning even before he had, Eric thought, getting out of the shower and towelling off. Well, she should. She'd had enough practice with Hunters and their little foibles.

Foibles, he thought, walking back into his room and not bothering to turn on the bedside lamp. His sword gleamed across the room in its stand. The foible. The weakest part of a sword, from mid-blade to tip. Pulling on sweats and laying down on the bed, Eric stared at the sword. The weakest part. The weakest link. Was that what he was now? Was that what he'd become? Images flowed and drifted in his exhausted consciousness, until his eyes finally closed.

He found himself in a verdant meadow, thickly forested on both sides of the worn trail he was following. He felt gr-- he paused for a moment, taking stock. Yes, he did. He felt great. He felt like he could walk all day. Whatever had been troubling him was gone - he couldn't even remember it now. Nothing was left but an innate curiosity, a feeling of happy anticipation, and a solid knowledge that all was right with the world. He breathed deeply the clean air, and ahead he saw the road split, one lane branching left, the other right. There was an ancient and gnarled tree in the center of the fork in the road.

A few minutes later, he reached the tree and stopped, looking up at it. Grace was seated on one of the sturdy lower branches, dressed in her usual white, the diamond as large as a duck's egg that clasped her cloak together sparkling in the sunlight, her gleaming silver girdle embedded with pearls. She looked at him and a warmth spread over him, through him. He grinned back at her.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she replied, a serene smile on her face. "I've been waiting for you. I'm pleased you finally made it."

"Which road do I take?" he asked.

"Where do you want to go?" was her response.

"I don't know," Eric answered.

"Then," said Grace, "it doesn't matter."

Eric laughed at her answer, and she laughed with him. At the sound, joy filled him, washed over him in waves. He pondered the paths, then bowed toward Grace. "My Lady," he said gallantly, then started down the left lane. A few steps later he stopped. With each step, the joy seeped away. He didn't want to leave her. Turning back to the tree, he looked up and said, "Will you walk with me a while?"

"There is nothing I'd like more, Eric," she said, "and we will, soon. We've much to discuss. But just now you've got to wake up."

"Wake up?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, Eric, wake up." She waved a hand toward him. "Wake up!"

Back in his bed, his eyes flew open and he saw Trey leaning over him.

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June 26, 2003

[Playing Fetch] - Home again, home again

Writers: Katt, Barb
Characters: Reid, Harold, assorted NPC's
Date: Day 4, early a.m.
Location: Nick's Too, The Strip

Turning away from the window that over looked the scene of the Strip below, Reid's eyes traveled once more over his room above Nick's Too. On the Mortal Plane a room like this was known as a studio apartment. Reid just thought of it as 'his room'. It was vast and mostly empty except for a few things; one item of which, a large library table that stood in the center of the room, was completely covered with various odds and ends cluttered on its surface. Books, a comic here or there, a few other small items, stacks of papers with vast lists upon them, most of the list items crossed off in red or black ink. The red signifying those items that he had found himself. There wasn't a lot of red-ink markings on those pages compared to the number of black, but what there was, he would be the first to point out, had been an impressive number for only one Fetcher to have found. Looking at those papers now he had thought, Finders-keepers, with an impish little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. A saying he had quipped to another Fetcher once when they had been after the very same item, but Reid had gotten to it first.

April 28, 2003

[Through A Dark Mirror] - Get Away

Writers: Rob, Barb
Characters: Eric, Paul, Kate
Date: Day 3, late
Location: The District

Kate came barreling through the crowd, Nick at her heels. She shoved Paul and Eric down the sidewalk and back toward Turnkey Park. She looked pissed. Paul was completely in touch with that emotion.

"Get them out of here, Katie, I'll take care of the crowd," Nick said, turning back to Kitty's and leaving Kate to it.

April 27, 2003

[Shades of Grey] - Holiday

Writers: Tom, Barb
Characters: Khayyin, Theresa
Date: Day 3, late
Location: The Manor

Khayyin stood, staring at himself in the mirror and feeling foolish. "Do you know what you're doing?" he asked, for perhaps the fifth time. The small smirk he gave his reflection by way of answer was indication that yes, he did in fact know what he was doing. He chuckled. Hell, he was settling their bet and getting a date, all at the same time. Something in the back of his heart and mind was mildly offended by the cavalier thought. If it were conscience, its voice could be ignored, pushed back with the ease of long habit.

February 17, 2003

[Playing Fetch] - Occupational Hazards

Writers: Barb and Katt
Characters: Reid, Harold
Date: Overnight of day 3-4
Location: The Mortal Plane

Parker almost believed he was driving through another world entirely from
the one he knew. An alien world, devoid of high risers that blotted out the
blue of the sky. No honking cars and no gray-black clouds of tail pipe
exhaust from never ending metal lines in tunnels and on bridges. The only
line here a long empty stretch of road that wound itself around and over one
of the frost-covered mountains, offering a view of the tops of emerald tress
beyond the guardrail along one side of the road. He had finally gotten away
from all the shouting and the wild gestures that went along with the buying
and selling of stocks. The warm summer sun, not his usual ticker-tape
induced stress, caused the beads of moisture on his brow and upper lip that
he occasionally wiped away.

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Just what the doctor ordered, he thought to himself with a smile. It was
the first honest smile he'd worn in months.

Driving with the windows down, his left forearm resting on the frame of the
door, he didn't notice the sun turning his bare flesh the shade of a lobster
dinner. He did, however, notice the lack of pressure and tension - two
things which normally followed him around wherever he went. Silence was
indeed golden; the calm and tranquility of the Montana landscape had quietly
assassinated his constant companions some miles back, and Parker had left
them gasping their dying breath on the roadside. Only the purr of the car's
engine and the whisper of wind at his ears as he drove kept him company now.

The unexpected shrillness of his cell phone ringing jostled Parker out of
his silence-worship. Glaring at the offending device on the seat beside
him, his first thought was that is sounded like someone stomping on a rat.
His second thought was how stupid he'd been to bring it with him. He tried
to ignore it, but squealing was insistent and finally he took pity on the
tortured rat and picked it up. Foregoing the traditional greeting, Parker
flipped the phone open and said, "If this is bad news, I'm going to crawl
through this thing and drop kick you into next week!"

A hint of a grin curved his lips as he listened to his shocked and
sputtering assistant. "Ah... okay, see there? That isn't bad at all.
Congratulations, you saved yourself. Didn't need me after all, did you?"
Pause. "Yes, I'm aware of that, but are you aware I'm on vacation?
Vacation! V-a-c-a-t-i-o-n." Another pause, after which he said, "You
idiot," and began to laugh.

"Look, you did the right thing. We want them to sell because...
Ahhhhhhggggg!" A wasp flew in the open window, directly into Parker's
mouth. Something that felt like a hot needle drove through the back of his
tongue. "Ahhhgggg!" he said again, taking his hand off the wheel and
spitting into it. He stared at the wasp, completely nonplussed. Its
stinger was still pumping uselessly in his palm.

And since Parker had never been stung by a bee of any kind in his life, he
had no way of knowing how violently allergic he was.

His assistant was yelling his name into the phone. He flung the wasp back
out the window and reclaimed the steering wheel. "What? No, I'm fine," he
said, but he felt far from fine. His words came out slowly, sluggish and
painful. His tongue protested any movement with hot jolts of fire - it felt
like it was growing exponentially. He opened his mouth to say so and found
that his tongue now flatly refused to work; it had enough of that for the
day, thanks, and it had swelled to fill his entire mouth. The best it would
offer was a pulsing throb that matched his heartbeat; and it expanded a
little bit more with each rhythmic thrum. He could now feel the sides of
his face swelling, along with his chin and neck. He dropped the cell phone
and began frantically tugging at the collar of his shirt.

What the hell was happening to him? What kind of an idiot chokes on their
own tongue? Angry now that one hand on his collar wasn't getting the job
done, his other hand joined the party. He might have to claw through his
own throat and rip out his tongue in order to breathe, he thought angrily,
and if that's what he had to do, then by God, that's what he'd do!

A sound pierced his desperation, and he looked up and saw a semi-truck
heading straight for him. He'd crossed the center line without even
realizing it. He spared one hand and latched onto the steering wheel.
Giving it a good hard crank and stomping the brakes, the car swerved madly
in a deafening shriek of tires.

The Semi gave another blast of its air-horn, almost a cheerful bon voyage;
it heralded the flight of Parker and his little sports car as they plowed
through the metal guardrail along the side of the road, right over the edge
of the embankment and into space.

* * * * * *

Harold sat on a boulder in the ravine, checking his watch. Any second now,
he thought, with cheerful anticipation. He'd seen his share of bizarre
deaths, many of them his own; but it was always a treat to witness a fellow
Fetcher's death. The spectacular way Fetchers died was legendary in
Purgatory. Knowing Reid, Harold was sure he wouldn't disappoint.

He heard the blaring horn of a semi-truck from above and looked up in time
to see a tiny sports car fly over the edge of the embankment, a piece of
guardrail just ahead of it like a leash. Right on time, Harold thought,
checking his watch again. Chronos had put him out here a minute or two
early so he could observe the manner of death, but watching the car sail out
into the air, Harold found he was a little let down. Car accidents were
so... blasé.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, the fun began. The car appeared to
hover momentarily and a body shot out of the windshield like a little mortal
projectile. Something was wrong with it - Harold could see that from all
the way down here. It had a nasty, bloated look to it, and even better, it
was still alive. He knew that because the deathometer around his neck
wasn't beeping. He sat up a little straighter, a delighted grin spreading
across his face.

(Who was he again? Harold checked his manifest quickly - ah, Parker
Montgomery, a middle-aged stock broker from New York, circa 1988. Oh, for
Grace's sake, who did Reid piss off to have drawn such a life? He'd never
live it down.)

Harold focused his attention on the unfolding scene. Both car and body were
dropping like rocks out of the sky, and gravity and trajectory were hobbies
of his. He studied their paths, running calculations in his head, and
figured the body would hit mere seconds before the car did. Both were
turning over and over as they fell, and Harold laughed out loud as he
imagined what this Parker person was seeing. Car, ground, car, ground, car,
ground.

His calculations were correct. Parker hit the ground and bounced a good
thirty feet back into the air. In the three millennia Harold had been
Fetching, he'd never seen a body bounce like that. He decided it must have
something to do with the swelling, which was indeed remarkable. It was a
wonder it hadn't burst like a water balloon on impact. These mortal forms
were pretty darn sturdy. Amazing.

Unfortunately, the car was on its way down to greet him and Parker slammed
up into it before the pair of them began their final descent, the poor
bastard plastered to the roof of the car like a bug on a windshield. The
impact when they hit was outstanding, in Harold's opinion, one of the best
he'd ever seen. The only thing that would make it better was if... and then
he heard the soft *fwump* of gas igniting as the car went up in a ball of
flame.

He stood up on the boulder, applauding enthusiastically and calling out,
"Bravo! Bravo!" This one only proved that Reid had earned his 3rd Levels.
He walked around the wreck, admiring Fate's handiwork. He couldn't wait to
file his report - when it appeared in the Daily News this evening the entire
Fetchers Annex would have to buy him and Reid a round at Jack's.

He'd have liked to study the trajectory of the body and the car
independently of each other and figure the odds of them landing in the same
spot, but with the explosion there'd be no time for that. He'd have to do
it post-mortem, so to speak, from the archival records at Angels Unlimited
when they were available. The smoke, if not the truck driver Reid had
avoided taking with him, would alert the rescue folk from this era. He
needed to get his protégé out of that mess and get them on their way as
quickly as possible. As if confirming the immediacy of this plan of action,
he heard faint sirens in the distance.

It was only then he realized his deathometer wasn't beeping. Holy cow,
Harold thought, the guy was still alive! He couldn't pull Reid out of the
body until it was dead, and he hated emergency crews with a passion - to him
they were just competing with Fetchers for business. And Fetchers were
nothing if not competitive. Reid knew that; Harold wouldn't be surprised if
the little pork rind was hanging onto the Mortal Coil just to annoy him.

He circled the wreck impatiently, pacing and growing more agitated by the
minute. Die, already! Overhead he heard a helicopter approaching as the
sirens grew louder. Brilliant. At this rate, he'd be stepping in and out
of mortals in order to retrieve his partner.

The helicopter he'd heard swung into view just as the deathometer went off.
Harold snatched at it, pressing buttons to alert the Infirmary's Mechanized
Storage Unit, and the ring on his right hand started glowing, indicating the
ready presence of Reid's true form. Diving through the flames, he reached
the remains of poor Parker Montgomery just as the chopper landed. He stuck
his hand into the mortal form and began fishing around. He could hear the
rescue crew shouting behind him, and dug deeper. Finally, he found it. The
ring emitted a spark and Harold clutched the essence, yanking it out of the
body with such force the two of them flew backward a good ten yards and
landed flat on their backs at the foot of the rescue helicopter.

At that moment, three emergency techs jumped out of the chopper, their
booted feet moving right through Harold's chest as they ran for the scene.
He grunted, feeling the impact even if they didn't. He *hated* it when
mortals touched him. Turning his head, he saw Reid in his true form laying
on the ground beside him, blue-green eyes dancing, laughing like a maniac.

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