Season 2 - Blogisode 21

This isn’t right. None of this makes any fucking sense. Ten minutes ago I was walking back to Jade’s cell after speaking with Set and now… what the fuck?

“What the fuck indeed.”

“Who?”

Christian turns to the voice speaking to his thoughts direct. Behind the rough band of would be assailants, through the dust and fire, Constantine.

He stands somber, that same familiar folded hand, head bowed in half hang to the ash of earth. His eyes…

“Get him!”

Quick to concentration broke, the tattered and torn come rush upon him.

Christian shifts on cue, a seductive come hither finger flick cuts straight from neck to nose. The first falls fast; a spin on heel and two more to the dust, too much blood for common eyes.

Constantine moves with method through the others as they advance, he advances to a heavier beat. Dead from behind, the eyes fall lost to light.

Constantine and Christian stand eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder, the world falls apart at the seams about them.

“Where are we?”

“November eleventh two thousand and eleven. East of Israel.”

Christian’s eyes float up and to the left in search of memories long ago pushed to the back and compressed for conservation. The moment of realization strikes him.

“Jesus fuck, the fallout.”

“Not yet. You have… excuse me.”

Constantine regards the man at Christian’s feet, the man who until quite recently had been the leader of this lump of rotting dead about them. The man’s expression, lost to words. Not much can stir a man to awe in a land of undead fiends and crumbling gods.

Constantine runs him through with a sword, black blade, from beneath his garment.

“As I was saying, the fallout won’t be for another… six minutes.”

Eyes to the skies, the black planes gather.

“How the fuck did I…”

“Set. Now if you would please take my arm we might be on our way before this entire landscape is firebombed.”

With a begrudging glare Christian inhales his annoyance at being left in such a figuratively dark place and takes a hand.

“Shall we.”

The two flicker, fizzle like static on a television station lost to signal. The planes open their bellies and the bombs begin their decent to earth.

THE TUNNELS

Persia runs to best her way, scampering though the dark like a drunk on broken heels, baby in arm.

Her fear pushes her forward through the thick black of the subterranean passage; the infant keeps its voice.

The heavy panting, hot breaths between labored cries, hold the fear inside.

Light.

“Oh thank Christ.”

The tunnel's end approaches, the light gives way to form. A shower of luminescence cascades in through the open portal staining the walls their true form.

Persia quickens her pace, then slows. A sound of muffled words back and forth down the way, too faint to be broken into man and man then put back together coherent.

Caution.

THE CENTER

“You won’t accomplish a damn thing with that relic and your little black book Set. You need us to complete the task.”

“I need the child, which you have been unable to provide and thus I have no further need for you.”

Set spits back his verse at the dark beast heading the gang of scaled demons that had been on the hunt for Persia until just now. He holds firm in clench the diary that had been instrumental in bringing him to this place.

The beast of a machine hums in the background, its bits and pieces spin and churn, quiver and clink. The orb at the center, hint to mercury, omits a faint pulsating glow.

“You can’t just flick a switch and expect everything to go back to zero Set. You need the child, without it you’re committing an effort as fruitless as tossing coins into a pond.”

Set gives his back to the small crowd. His gaze falls hard on the diary in his hand, now hands.

“What would you know of wishes? Salat cont la faiun!”

The rage behind his words pulls him round to face, propels him forward with a nasty hate on his fingers. His claws go sharp to the neck of his devil’s advocate. The thrust puts them both to the floor.

“Salat cont la faiun taglee!”

Set gives not a chance for respite, his surgeons touch makes short work of the life.

“You fucking waste.”

As he lifts himself back to his feet the hate falls out of him to the floor.

A brush of the shoulder and a tug of the tailor he composes himself in regal fashion before addressing the gather.

“If you feel compelled to join your brother do so now. I won’t have time to take you there later.”

With a wink he leaves them to their thoughts as he travels in mind and body back to the machine, begging his attention with every quick and quo.

“Very well.”

SOMEPLACE DIFFERENT

The heavy silence of a night without form. Then light, two forms made real from static and charge. Welcome to the nothing.