Not literal, though I was naked and my skin was kind of gooey. I just found a few things that belonged to me. Like the last time, but more of them. And all of these were from Deerington.
Maybe I just haven't looked far enough. This whole thing is fucked up. I don't know how to describe it, but my body feels different. I feel different.
I've heard that around. Can't confirm or deny. I haven't felt right in who knows how long. On the bright side, I received copies of all the erotic fiction written in my name.
[ Insert a location yet-to-be decided. By the looks of it, it's secluded, possibly impossibly deep in a mountain and/or hill and/or a yet-to-be-decided bunker-like area. Details!!! ]
On my way. Do me a favor and check in if you don't see me in 20.
It's all so unsettlingly familiar. He can still recall all too clearly standing at the edge of Deerington with Booker and watching it all crumble to ash. They'd both been ready. Said their goodbyes, made their peace with the ups and downs of their respective lives and waited to be swallowed into the abyss.
Instead, Wes feels strange in his own body and much too much alive. He's relieved for the familiar names and faces he's seen thus far, but of the ones he's been looking out for specifically, very few have emerged. It's almost shameful how unused to being alone he's gotten. How much he craves just a casual conversation and fleeting touch. Brushing shoulders on the way through the cabin.
That's gone too, even if Blake's is somehow mystically here. He sees it in the distance, and with everything else utterly changed it's like a beacon. The rest, though, Wes has never been invited into. So he approaches warily and texts from just outside the ... whatever ... where it sits.
Blake appears a moment after the message, leaning out of a less-than-obvious entrance that seems to fade into its surroundings almost too perfectly. He'd seen Wes coming — all part of the security system — but even so, he looks around to make sure no one is coming before waving the tall man inside.
Good to see you he signs. Blake feels rusty, feels uncertain and on unsteady ground, but all things considered, he thinks he's a bit better off than his company. Without hesitation and the moment he has a chance, he embraces Wes and holds on tight for too long than socially acceptable.
Behind him, the cave sprawls. It's dark and vast, damp and occupied by what could only be described as an intense number of bats, most of which flutter aimlessly from their perches. There's a bike — a modified Ducati that looks downright dangerous — and a very impressive bank of monitors with screensavers on the screens save for a feed showing the area outside the entrance. Nearby, Blake's batsuit sits on the shoulders of a blank-faced mannequin with the helmet on a pedestal next to it.
When Blake finally pulls away, he gestures around before asking What do you think?
[ Anxiety here has been his worst enemy to contend with thus far. Mostly because it decided it wanted to screw him without buying him a decent meal first, passed out happy as a clam after, and left him lying there staring at the bloody ceiling. Seems to be a theme.
Still, he's been managing. Got a place with Herc. Navigating things with Zari. Building the shop up whilst trying to find what's left of the old one. It's not so bad. He's even slept a bit more than a wink or two after that anxiety bollocks wore off once October rolled in. It's why he's making the most of foraging while it's light out.
And why he stumbles back a step or two, barely swallowing a half-shout before he realizes just who is the lump he very nearly fell over on the forest floor. Hearing or no, he's still snapping: ] Oh! what is it with you twits and your wandering off to become wild men of the hellscapes we find ourselves in, eh?
[ Knowing that he probably didn't read much of that he settles for leaning in and smacking at the big man's shoulder and signing bastard at him angrily. ]
If there's one thing Wes can say for certain he's discovered about the strange physiology this place has granted him, it's that he doesn't need more of anything than before. Not food, not shelter, and certainly not sleep -- though the last of these things is the state he finds himself in when John comes galumphing through the place he's decided to stop and rest for a time.
More than anything, it's escapism. Something to do that makes the days a little shorter and the nights a little easier when he wishes he didn't have the full memory of Deerington in quite so vivid detail. There are few signs of the place they were before that can be found on his person, but what he's brought with him is mostly hidden in the underbrush. Not like the homes of Blake or Molly that showed up in all their glory right here in the middle of Trench. He'd been invited into both of them, but it feels too raw. And now it's been days since he's seen either of those two either, so the invitation may not even stand were he to tuck tail and go back.
He should've felt the footsteps approaching, but leave it to a lack of ability to stay dead to make a man relax his defenses a little bit. When the fist finds his shoulder, he sits up with a start and comes to his knees with a glower that might go halfway towards killing a man. And then he sees the familiar face, and relaxes.
They've all wound up changing in some way. Some more than others. John's mostly okay with his own outside of the fact that he feels like a bloody novice half the time. He's caught more things on fire or shattered them with ice than he ever did back home.
He'd be concerned to think what would happen were he to dabble in conjuring dead things were he to try.
There are things he remembers from Deerington that make the transition difficult but he's still got some good ones here. Makes it a little bit more soft of a blow. John's ire doesn't last in the face of what he realizes is happening here. His expression doesn't morph to pity, only because he doesn't let it. Men like them don't respond well to it.
He could drag out his Omni and respond that way but he knows he'd get more hell for resorting to that off the bat without trying what he'd been learning before.
You're not staying here.
Yeah, he's already put it together, mate. He likes none of it. He motions for the other man to get up and when he doesn't move immediately, he reaches out to grab his forearm to try and hoist the brick wall of a man up.
And who are you? Wrench shoots back, twisting one arm free of John's grasp in order to keep signing from his place in the mossy undergrowth of the wooded area. Fucking Fagin? Collecting all the stray children of Trench? It's a lot to sign to the other man, on one hand because it's half fingerspelled with proper names, and on the other because Wrench isn't slowing down very much when the other man seems to be making an effort to literally lift him to his feet.
I was almost asleep, you know? The tall man huffs a breath through his nose that makes him sound half-feral, and slowly comes to his feet. No thanks to John's hefting, he thinks to himself. He brushes a few errant leaves that stick to his jacket and turns up the collar of his undershirt a little higher around his neck before leveling a perturbed eye roll at his present company. What? You and Grady never discussed how we lived?
John's about to respond to that when Wrench goes off all rapid fire faster than he can hope to read or respond to. The bastard knows that too. What a twat. He almost thinks to smack at his shoulder or his hands in order to slow things down or just---gah!
Finally, he settles for signing stop repeatedly until he recognizes at least Grady spelled out and it earns a growl of frustration cause are we really still harping on that mate? He finally winds up shouting stop aloud whether he can be heard or not and sighs, head dropping a moment before he signs simply.
It feels good -- normal, in fact -- to bicker with somebody. John's annoyance is little more than fuel to fan the flame of Wrench's eager commentary. Whether the man understands him enough, his increasingly-aggressive protestations give the tall man reason to continue on. He hasn't argued like this since Grady disappeared from Deerington, he thinks. Jean-Paul was a spitfire in his own right, but he's long since gone now too, and Wrench hasn't given himself the space to actually process much of that neverending loss upon loss upon loss.
Most people over the course of his life haven't made the effort to engage him in conversation, much less debate. Maybe it's why argumentation is practically a love language for Wrench: it proves the other person cares enough to try. But he's not thinking of any of that as he stands toe-to-toe with John and attempts to silently shout him down. At least, not until the man raises his hands to make his final point.
That stops Wrench dead. Everything seems to close in around him and he stares, half-stunned and a little sad looking. When he does respond, it's much slower and more calculated. Do I remember? It's been a while.
John loves to argue. Of course, he usually does it whether he's absolutely right or not. He'll do it even if God himself says he's wrong, maybe more heatedly then just to piss the tosser off.
Even Constantine knows when is a good time and when isn't for fighting over trivial things. Like this. He realizes he's struck a chord when Wrench stops, that look on his face. John nods a little. He knows what it's like to not have anyone or to wind up judged harshly by those who do decide to stick around even a little.
I don't need anyone's help, Wrench thinks to himself. He's only beginning to understand the strange new boundaries of this possible squid body. It's a fortunate thing he hasn't mastered the art of his own telepathy, but between the harshness of the thought and the expression that comes with it, he'd be lucky if none of the sentiment made its way through to John. Wrench crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares the other man down.
It's growing colder already, and with the things he's already encountered out here, he knows it's increasingly dangerous to keep spending nights out here on his own. He's a smart man; he knows a thing or two about survival. Deerington taught him plenty as well about threats of a different nature, but most of those lessons were that the things places like this can cook up are largely inevitable.
Little by little, his shoulders slacken. Finally, he uncrosses his arms entirely. The shop came too?
If you're getting this now that means I've likely gone already. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye and we've had more than our fair share of rows. Still, you're one of the best people I know.
We never really got into what went on for you where you came from and I'm not sure that matters now. I've seen the kind of man you are here and that's good whether you want to believe that or not. One day, maybe you will. I know of a few others who did and there must be others here that still do.
Appreciate you taking the time to teach me what you have with ASL and I'm glad I could share some of what I know magically speaking. You've really taken to it, shown up in ways I couldn't have figured you for to start. Keep it up.
I'm leaving Luna to look after the shop but that doesn't mean you're allowed to go anywhere, yeah? I gave you that space to make your own and I bloody well intend for things to stay that way. You've got run of virtually every text I've got in there and most of the supplies. Some of them are enchanted so you might not be able to get to them until you've reached a suitable point in learning but that'll come with time. It won't give you a shock or anything, it'll just be slightly out of phase with the rest of the store until then.
Also, I didn't say it before cause I guess I was going to surprise you so it's not all done. The little spot near all the big windows with all the natural light? I've cleared it out so you can have the space to do that salon of yours if you're still keen on it. Only managed to get a few big mirrors up and the stools made. Shelving and supplies will rest on your shoulders. There's plenty in the shop for you to concoct a few useful things.
And for the record, if you do try to go swanning off back into the woods my kids'll know about it and god help you then, cause I won't be around to.
Take care of yourself, big man John Constantine
P.S. Don't know if any of yours came with you but I still had the old kit I bought off you back in Deerington. It's wrapped and behind the counter for you when you're ready to use them again.
If you're reading this, I'm gone. The ocean's been calling me for days now, and it's getting impossible to keep away from it. Something wants me out of here. To take me where, I don't know.
I wanted to thank you for all you've done. For me, for John.
John gave me a shotgun some time back that I managed to bring with me from Deerington. It's got some enchantment on it so it never runs out of ammo, and it never misses. You can only use it for an hour before it needs to 'recharge' for another hour, though so...
Anyway, I've put that in John's shop under the counter for you. I think he'd want you to have it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text; un: rjb
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You're here too. Thank fuck. Have you found anyone else?
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Don't know what that says about us then.
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[...]
I'm glad you're here.
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Where are you staying?
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I don't know. I didn't exactly wake up to a letter and a key this time around, did you?
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Maybe I just haven't looked far enough. This whole thing is fucked up. I don't know how to describe it, but my body feels different. I feel different.
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At least we'll have something to keep us entertained.
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I chose to stay behind, you know. I thought it was the end. I was ready for that.
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Well. Maybe this is just meant to prove the profound indifference of the universe.
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Hey. You said you found Bruce's place. You found him yet?
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[ Insert a location yet-to-be decided. By the looks of it, it's secluded, possibly impossibly deep in a mountain and/or hill and/or a yet-to-be-decided bunker-like area. Details!!! ]
(to action)
It's all so unsettlingly familiar. He can still recall all too clearly standing at the edge of Deerington with Booker and watching it all crumble to ash. They'd both been ready. Said their goodbyes, made their peace with the ups and downs of their respective lives and waited to be swallowed into the abyss.
Instead, Wes feels strange in his own body and much too much alive. He's relieved for the familiar names and faces he's seen thus far, but of the ones he's been looking out for specifically, very few have emerged. It's almost shameful how unused to being alone he's gotten. How much he craves just a casual conversation and fleeting touch. Brushing shoulders on the way through the cabin.
That's gone too, even if Blake's is somehow mystically here. He sees it in the distance, and with everything else utterly changed it's like a beacon. The rest, though, Wes has never been invited into. So he approaches warily and texts from just outside the ... whatever ... where it sits.
Here.
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Good to see you he signs. Blake feels rusty, feels uncertain and on unsteady ground, but all things considered, he thinks he's a bit better off than his company. Without hesitation and the moment he has a chance, he embraces Wes and holds on tight for too long than socially acceptable.
Behind him, the cave sprawls. It's dark and vast, damp and occupied by what could only be described as an intense number of bats, most of which flutter aimlessly from their perches. There's a bike — a modified Ducati that looks downright dangerous — and a very impressive bank of monitors with screensavers on the screens save for a feed showing the area outside the entrance. Nearby, Blake's batsuit sits on the shoulders of a blank-faced mannequin with the helmet on a pedestal next to it.
When Blake finally pulls away, he gestures around before asking What do you think?
action. post-dated to ...some point.
Still, he's been managing. Got a place with Herc. Navigating things with Zari. Building the shop up whilst trying to find what's left of the old one. It's not so bad. He's even slept a bit more than a wink or two after that anxiety bollocks wore off once October rolled in. It's why he's making the most of foraging while it's light out.
And why he stumbles back a step or two, barely swallowing a half-shout before he realizes just who is the lump he very nearly fell over on the forest floor. Hearing or no, he's still snapping: ] Oh! what is it with you twits and your wandering off to become wild men of the hellscapes we find ourselves in, eh?
[ Knowing that he probably didn't read much of that he settles for leaning in and smacking at the big man's shoulder and signing bastard at him angrily. ]
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More than anything, it's escapism. Something to do that makes the days a little shorter and the nights a little easier when he wishes he didn't have the full memory of Deerington in quite so vivid detail. There are few signs of the place they were before that can be found on his person, but what he's brought with him is mostly hidden in the underbrush. Not like the homes of Blake or Molly that showed up in all their glory right here in the middle of Trench. He'd been invited into both of them, but it feels too raw. And now it's been days since he's seen either of those two either, so the invitation may not even stand were he to tuck tail and go back.
He should've felt the footsteps approaching, but leave it to a lack of ability to stay dead to make a man relax his defenses a little bit. When the fist finds his shoulder, he sits up with a start and comes to his knees with a glower that might go halfway towards killing a man. And then he sees the familiar face, and relaxes.
Just like old times? Hello to you too.
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He'd be concerned to think what would happen were he to dabble in conjuring dead things were he to try.
There are things he remembers from Deerington that make the transition difficult but he's still got some good ones here. Makes it a little bit more soft of a blow. John's ire doesn't last in the face of what he realizes is happening here. His expression doesn't morph to pity, only because he doesn't let it. Men like them don't respond well to it.
He could drag out his Omni and respond that way but he knows he'd get more hell for resorting to that off the bat without trying what he'd been learning before.
You're not staying here.
Yeah, he's already put it together, mate. He likes none of it. He motions for the other man to get up and when he doesn't move immediately, he reaches out to grab his forearm to try and hoist the brick wall of a man up.
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I was almost asleep, you know? The tall man huffs a breath through his nose that makes him sound half-feral, and slowly comes to his feet. No thanks to John's hefting, he thinks to himself. He brushes a few errant leaves that stick to his jacket and turns up the collar of his undershirt a little higher around his neck before leveling a perturbed eye roll at his present company. What? You and Grady never discussed how we lived?
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Finally, he settles for signing stop repeatedly until he recognizes at least Grady spelled out and it earns a growl of frustration cause are we really still harping on that mate? He finally winds up shouting stop aloud whether he can be heard or not and sighs, head dropping a moment before he signs simply.
A friend, remember those? A friend.
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Most people over the course of his life haven't made the effort to engage him in conversation, much less debate. Maybe it's why argumentation is practically a love language for Wrench: it proves the other person cares enough to try. But he's not thinking of any of that as he stands toe-to-toe with John and attempts to silently shout him down. At least, not until the man raises his hands to make his final point.
That stops Wrench dead. Everything seems to close in around him and he stares, half-stunned and a little sad looking. When he does respond, it's much slower and more calculated. Do I remember? It's been a while.
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Even Constantine knows when is a good time and when isn't for fighting over trivial things. Like this. He realizes he's struck a chord when Wrench stops, that look on his face. John nods a little. He knows what it's like to not have anyone or to wind up judged harshly by those who do decide to stick around even a little.
He nods.
Let me help you then. We can go back to the shop.
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It's growing colder already, and with the things he's already encountered out here, he knows it's increasingly dangerous to keep spending nights out here on his own. He's a smart man; he knows a thing or two about survival. Deerington taught him plenty as well about threats of a different nature, but most of those lessons were that the things places like this can cook up are largely inevitable.
Little by little, his shoulders slacken. Finally, he uncrosses his arms entirely. The shop came too?
Holiday Delivery
You're only allowed to drink it with me.
xo
Sara
this letter shows up at any time after the start of april.
If you're getting this now that means I've likely gone already. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye and we've had more than our fair share of rows. Still, you're one of the best people I know.
We never really got into what went on for you where you came from and I'm not sure that matters now. I've seen the kind of man you are here and that's good whether you want to believe that or not. One day, maybe you will. I know of a few others who did and there must be others here that still do.
Appreciate you taking the time to teach me what you have with ASL and I'm glad I could share some of what I know magically speaking. You've really taken to it, shown up in ways I couldn't have figured you for to start. Keep it up.
I'm leaving Luna to look after the shop but that doesn't mean you're allowed to go anywhere, yeah? I gave you that space to make your own and I bloody well intend for things to stay that way. You've got run of virtually every text I've got in there and most of the supplies. Some of them are enchanted so you might not be able to get to them until you've reached a suitable point in learning but that'll come with time. It won't give you a shock or anything, it'll just be slightly out of phase with the rest of the store until then.
Also, I didn't say it before cause I guess I was going to surprise you so it's not all done. The little spot near all the big windows with all the natural light? I've cleared it out so you can have the space to do that salon of yours if you're still keen on it. Only managed to get a few big mirrors up and the stools made. Shelving and supplies will rest on your shoulders. There's plenty in the shop for you to concoct a few useful things.
And for the record, if you do try to go swanning off back into the woods my kids'll know about it and god help you then, cause I won't be around to.
Take care of yourself, big man
John Constantine
P.S. Don't know if any of yours came with you but I still had the old kit I bought off you back in Deerington. It's wrapped and behind the counter for you when you're ready to use them again.
text; un: hansen
If you're reading this, I'm gone. The ocean's been calling me for days now, and it's getting impossible to keep away from it. Something wants me out of here. To take me where, I don't know.
I wanted to thank you for all you've done. For me, for John.
John gave me a shotgun some time back that I managed to bring with me from Deerington. It's got some enchantment on it so it never runs out of ammo, and it never misses. You can only use it for an hour before it needs to 'recharge' for another hour, though so...
Anyway, I've put that in John's shop under the counter for you. I think he'd want you to have it.
Take care of yourself, yeah?
- Herc