Hollow Years: Prologue by Anya Fiction / Forgotten Realms / Dark Elf / Hollow Years 29.08.2001 | PG-13 | Reviews | Disclaimer | Print

To his deep, unmitigated disgust, John Constantine, the most hated man on earth, the Laughing Magician, generally considered a high Magus and an all-round pain in the arse to foes and on occasion, friends, woke up in a cage that had gone out of fashion a very long time ago. It resembled an elongated birdcage, complete with a domed finish, just barely enough for him to remain in his current supine position, if he was twisted into an 'S' shape. He was. His back hurt. That didn't improve his mood, nor did the fact that John had no goddamned idea how he had ended up in this situation.

Slowly, with an air of grim meticulousness, he took stock of his surroundings. The cage looked.used. Rust clung on halfheartedly to the bars, like schoolboys to their mothers on the way to Sunday school in a church with a boring vicar, but the heavy lock to the single cage door, from this angle, looked rather oiled and well kept. There was the scent of burned flesh - John hoped it wasn't his, because other than the back, he didn't feel any much different, yet -dried, old blood, sweat, and stale piss.

From what he could see as he turned his head, the cage was on a mounted square platform over a shallow rectangular pit near a metal walkway that passed by other cages, on their own platforms, over their own pits. There were some thick cables and pipes in the pit, gray-brown like rotting intestines. Some cages had inhabitants - actually, only two seemed to hold things that looked vaguely alive, some had remains of inhabitants, and some were empty - not that the fact helped, other than suggesting that if he didn't get the hell out of here soon, he might get to meet a certain eldest sister of the Endless, and quickly. The walls were grimy stone, as was what he could see of the ceiling. There didn't seem to be anyone in the immediate area who vaguely resembled a guard - i.e. generally menacing with that make-my-day attitude of the underpaid with permission to kill dissidents.

So then, where was he? John tried to remember if he'd pissed off anyone rich enough to maintain this sort of medieval, dark-and-gloomy dungeon, complete with far-off, tortured screams and the ominous clanking and clinking of chains. The getup was so.stereotyped that John half-expected some clone of Steven Spielberg or whatever to leap out from the nearest pit and yell 'Cut!'

Whimsically, he waited.

Nope, no hope of that, sunshine. This is real. Time to try and get up then?

Footsteps seemed to be approaching. Quickly, John feigned unconsciousness. As he forced his breathing to slow, he noted that he was still wearing a trenchcoat, shirt, tie and loafers, like what he had been fitted with the last he remembered. He had been in a pub where the beer was good and cheap, and the barkeep was tolerable, and he had been scolding the cat for something. Where was that cat anyway?

The person approaching him stopped in front of his cage, then flicked fingernails against the bars of his cage. John decided to continue feigning sleep. It was a useful thing to do when trying to decide if a certain person meant well or meant harm - though admittedly you couldn't see said person's expression, which would help, and whether said person had implements about which could cause bodily harm or worse, which would help even more.

"Are you awake?"

The voice was coldly curious, and managed to appear both aloofly neutral and deeply malevolent at the same time. It was also, oddly enough, in a rather pleasant baritone. John found himself wondering if the speaker could sing well, maybe one of them wankerish songs called 'country western' by many and which he called unmusical braying, then had to force himself not to betray even a hint of a snicker. Sleep. He was asleep.

The next few moments were very crowded, and very painful. John later remembered it like this, especially during a bad dream: first, something that shocked and burned at the same time hit him in the chest. Five somethings, in fact. Then bright bursts of red blossomed like spurts of blood across his eyelids, and naturally he sprang to his feet, exacerbating the pain in his back. Thirdly, it didn't help that he hit his head hard against the bars, instinctively flinched away, and scraped his hand badly against the other bars, not to mention possibly doing permanent damage to the sleeve of his beloved trenchcoat.

Wildly, he found the speaker, who was observing everything with detached, nearly scientific interest. "You bloody wanker!"

"Hardly bloody." His tormentor commented coolly. He was a rather tall... humanoid. He looked human, but something didn't quite suggest that. Perhaps it was the weird blue markings on his face, or the crimson eyes that seemed to be trying to bore holes through John's brain, or the unnatural poise that John vaguely remembered having seen somewhere before. Some sort of tight skullcap of sorts covered his head, with steel stitching along the borders, such that from a distance he would resemble some deranged copy of Frankenstein. Other than that he wore some sort of plain, obviously medieval leather armor and dark breeches, with no weapons that John could make out. It wasn't particularly necessary.

"Who the hell are you?" John demanded, his hand bleeding gently. He considered using some magic to get out of the cage, but a gut feeling strongly suggested that it wouldn't work in this particular case, or worse, blow up in his face. Literally. Well, he'd been in worse shite before.

Naturally the person ignored his question. "You are interesting, John Constantine. I know who you are, out-worlder, your family, your history, and your life. I must profess a certain curiosity to see how demon blood would affect your constitution."

"You ain't the first one," John didn't look surprised. Heard that, done that, drunk the booze, kissed the girl, stole the fags. Speaking of fags, he realized that he was craving some - an annoying, pervasive thirst that threatened to invade his self-control. How long had he been here? Wherever he was?

"True enough." The person raised his hands and began weaving some oddly graceful pattern into the air that rather resembled a more elaborate version of an infinity eight, chanting with measured tones as he did so. John knew offensive magic when he saw it, even if he didn't know this particular spell, and he unconsciously flatted himself against the back of his cage, racking his brain for a quick defensive counter, any counter.

With a roar, amber-orange fire whirled into existence before the person's hands, and screamed towards him. John yelled and turned, shielding his face with his hands, even if by the heat of it and the speed of it, he knew his much abused body was going to spend the rest of its existence as a rather greasy, unidentifiable stain in an unknown dungeon. The fire reached him, and it hurt, oh gods, a searing pain that erupted from every pore on his skin, and he screamed until his throat hurt as well, but oddly enough - he wasn't burning. The fire engulfed him, and the pain was intensely, fiercely maddening, but he wasn't on fire.

As abruptly as it had come, the fire dissipated. John registered that he had curled up in a whimpering, fetal position on the stained floor of the cage. Cautiously, he raised his head, shuddering as he realized that there was no evidence of fire at all on his clothes or on his skin. What the hell? He felt a highly irrational and unexplainably masculine surge of pride that he hadn't lost control over his bowels, and perhaps this caused him to be cocky - or stupid - enough to stagger to his feet and gasp, "You dickless little son of a bitch! Let me out of here, damn you!"

The person watched him with the same scientific curiosity. "Your blood makes you strong. Perhaps... yes... perhaps you are what I'd been searching for."

His hands began to dance again, in the air, and this time, John decided this time he wasn't feeling proud enough to stand up and 'take it like a man', as it were. Before the hurt came, he curled back into a protective ball. Perhaps it wouldn't help, but as the spells descended on him, with the soul-searing pain, he found himself trying to coil into himself, as it were, nails digging into his palm until they drew blood. He tried not to give the person the satisfaction of watching him scream and beg, but he couldn't help the former. Well, one out of two ain't bad.

He never knew pretty streams of multicolored light could hurt that much before.

He never knew that lightning could burst out of a vortex a foot above your head with a few muttered words and a gesture, that wouldn't fry you and send you into blessed oblivion, but cause every nerve in your body to shriek in agony.

He never knew that with a wave someone could seemingly turn his blood ice-cold, such that his teeth chattered and his heart constricted so painfully.so painfully.

He never knew.

It was with great relief that, after losing track of time during the torments, John found his body was finally shutting down, though whether into unconsciousness or death he could not really tell, and at this point, he didn't really care. He tried to push his consciousness into the Dreaming, where he could possibly get some help, or at least relief, but there was a barrier in the way that hadn't been there before. Helplessly, what one could call his spirit clawed at it with insubstantial fingers of thought, slammed immaterial fists against it, but it stayed firm. As he sank into darkness John heard indistinct noises of a fight brewing outside his cage, angry words from his tormentor, then finally, a blessed oblivion.

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