right or wrong

[madimpossibledreamer]

intro actually was a dream. And then there were two more, only I forgot the middle one. Think it’s writing the Laughing Magician that does it, because I’ve written other incarnations of Constantine who aren’t riding the Synchronicity Wave and this didn’t happen.
I’m really happy with the work my subconscious put in (that, or it’s the Hellblazer, in which case, a cautious thanks?)
The second sentence is a reference to one of the real life (?!) encounters one of the Hellblazer writers, Alan Moore, had with Constantine: "I'll tell you the ultimate secret of magic. Any cunt could do it."
Canopic jars hold some of the organs of the deceased and are guarded by the four sons of Horus: Hapy (lungs), Imsety (liver), Duamutef (stomach), and Qebehsenuef (intestines). The heart was thought to hold the ba, the spirit of the deceased, and was left intact in the mummy. The brain was thought to be entirely unimportant and was thus extracted from the mummy without much care (watch the scene from the Mummy if you’re not too squeamish; it’s really well done). Thus, a “heart” canopic jar (and one with anything other than the depicted head of the son of Horus) is inauthentic, but the ‘it doesn’t fit; this is a trap’ is probably just as much part of the message. What is depicted, though, is the ba, which looks like a human-headed bird.
The first one could 100% be a Hellblazer story, but while it’s got some similarities to one of the American tour ones, I don’t think it’s a direct reference, which is fascinating.
Also contains a reference to the NBC show, which did him dirty (it needed to go on longer & have more of the gritty reality of him). I loved it, but they set it up to fail. Matt Ryan is great, though.

Main Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Constantine|Hellblazer
Summary: Dreams can serve as keys to the inner self.  That doesn't always mean you'll like what you find.
Word Count: 1448
Rating: Teen, with the warnings. because it wouldn't be constantine or hellblazer without the warnings
Warnings: swearing everywhere, shotgun weddings, creepy imagery, underage smoking and drinking (oh hey he's actually 18 or 19 in this one isn't he??), implied eye gore, child abuse (Tony Harris), general warnings for Constantine

 

         Dreams are magic, aren’t they? Dreams are magic, and any old bastard or bitch can work a spell, so that’s the wrong question in the first place. The real question is, what sort of magic are they, and for you, for you, well, welcome to the sorry ranks of the Constantines, only the worst of the worst are sentenced here.
         It’s like that grand American tour, only it ain’t so grand. The locals are a little too friendly, the widow a little too handsy, and the next thing you know they’ve scheduled a shotgun wedding, only nothing’s what it seems when you all turn sideways. If you know the right spell. It’s just a matter of knowing how to look. They never plan to stay their hand. The bullet’s got your name on it, but they want you to willingly march to your own death anyway.
         It’s arguing, stalling, flattered but you don’t want a sorry sod like me stayin’ in your good community, I forget to attend church. It’s apologies with a shark’s smile, we’re very sorry but what sort of people would we be if we let this kind of thing go unanswered?
         It’s hungry eyes and stolen kisses and in the way this is just a step down the path that the living in a thousand rural communities have already worn down in the countryside. It’s in staying out of reach when you work out what’s going on, too, or at least that something is, and then from there it’s a breathless headlong dash, schoolboys seeking to hide from consequences well deserved.
         Magic can be a last request fulfilled. Calling smoking respectable, as if willfully setting a match to your lungs and watching the organs shrivel and die is the pastime of anything but an arsonist, or a murderer. Taking a deep breath in like those sinful smoker’s lungs aren’t just stolen, memories of a lifetime ago never lived. Breathing out like a touch of your breath isn’t going to kill them dead sooner or later, or wouldn’t if they weren’t already, a fog settling in to cast the illusion that you’re compliant, that you’re doing what they want, see, that you’ve given up. Only those on Death’s Row get a last request.
         A grin, then you deliberately drop the cig, smoke and fire, and watch as they panic and burn alive. ‘Cept that’s not quite right, either, innit? Because they’re already dead, they’re the ones who lit that match, and you’re just the magician who laid the whole affair to rest, escaping your well-deserved consequences like you’re the best escape artist in the world. It takes two to tango. You could have walked away, but curiosity (or other instincts) trapped you in a cage of your own making, only you had the key the entire time.
         Yours is a street magic, nasty, rude, brutish. A working-man’s magic, a sorry sod down on his luck, unapologetically less than posh and not afraid to show your scars in polite company. Your magic is deeds out of sight of the streetlights and always, always the last minute escape. Yours is drunk, a mockery of other’s traditions, a cobbled together right sorry mess you’d be ashamed to show anyone if you even felt shame, as you should, if you hadn’t torn that bit of humanity out long ago. Yours is nosy and intrusive and never knows when to leave well enough alone. Your magic is a sucker punch in the face, a stab in the gut, blink and you’ll miss it con artist. You’re not robbing sorry sods of their money, but that’d be better, more honest, than this unholy creature you’ve unleashed. Your magic is sidestepping every last little bit of karma, an ungraceful, ungrateful creature, and you’d congratulate yourself on your escape if not for the fact others pay the price, but you’re an addict and you couldn’t stop if you wanted to, because this is the little corner of magic you’ve managed to conjure up and defend against all comers. You’ve been surviving so long you’re desperate to keep it up, defiant, play the odds in the face of terror.
         They had it coming, but so did you, only you’ve magicked up a miracle and you’re the one walking away. Might as well spit on them while you’re at it. It’s never fair, but life isn’t, you reckon. You’re only copying off the homework and passing it off as your own design.
         A great plume of ash rises up, tries to choke you alive, like you haven’t avoided the consequences after all, and then you’re sitting in the audience, staring at a stage, trying desperately to recall your name.
         Buffy’s up there, reciting lines you can’t quite make out. Something about passing the torch, the death of the old and the birth of the new. And then Kendra, and then Faith, and then a whole lot of new women you’ve never seen before. You’re watching, desperately trying to pick up clues.
         You know her name even when you don’t know your own. Seems significant, that.
         Blood starts flowing from Buffy’s neck until she’s drained and ghostly, and she falls lifelessly to the stage, and this time you’re watching helplessly. This hadn’t happened the first time, had it? Or was your touch magic all along? CPR doesn’t replace blood.
         Kendra’s throat slits as she’s talking, and she falls, the bloody spurts of her lifeblood covering the stage, splattering over the clothes of the next in line, only Faith doesn’t seem to even notice.
         Some bloke declares, “And now, an interlude. For cheese!”, holding up squares of American cheese, and everyone claps, except you, because you’re still a little—okay, a lot—confused, and everyone else in the audience is glaring at you for not playing along.
         Buffy rises, only her head’s still turned the wrong way, before disappearing from the stage entirely. You—you’re Xander. Xander rises to his feet in a sudden panic, only a blond vampire to his left with his feet on the seat in front of him shushes him. “It’s just getting to the good part,” he explains, manacles on his wrists.
         Buffy reappears, stumbling a bit on the stage, and then one woman falls, neck snapping like Buffy’s, another just falls, like it’s a domino effect, a noose appears and hangs one—there’s a lot of neck breakage here, because there goes another one. There’s blood on one girl’s face, but she stands far longer than she should, drip-drip-dripping, eyes staring into Xander’s soul even as the blood on the stage runneth over, just a little now but it’s soon to start staining the shoes of those sitting in the front row if they’re not careful, because it always, always gets worse before it gets better. Stabbing, that’s new, only the next one gets stabbed multiple times, like something’s perfecting learning how to kill. Only as if to disprove that, one gets stabbed but lives. She turns to an empty part of the stage. “I’ve delivered the message. It’s your turn now.”
         And then Jesse appears, and the candles at the front of the stage blow out. “Where are you going, Xander? I’m only going to eat your heart out.”
         He might have only mastered petty magic in all senses of the word, but he’s stayed more sensitive to matters of a magic nature. Dreams, in general, are magic, only this is even more so. It’s a presence, it’s revenge, and if Jesse gets to him, he really will die. Jesse stalks forward and steps gracefully off the stage. If this wasn’t going to kill him, he’d be turned on, as he’s never been averse to a little pain.
         It’s in glancing around frantically that he sees a now all-too familiar head of blond hair and he runs in that direction, tripping over a few who really don’t care about his fate.
         Constantine turns to him, and he’s missing an eye, blood tracks like tears marring his cheek. His trenchcoat and white shirt are covered in blood.
         “You look like you need a priest for that,” he finds himself whispering, because the rest of the audience would frown on magic, waggling his fingers to communicate what he really means, but that’s funny for some reason. The laughter, offstage, is canned.
         “Don’t you dare die here, you bloody wanker,” the Hellblazer retorts, equal parts contempt and fondness, and presses a canopic jar into his arms, only there’s something wrong with this one because it’s got a human head and wings wrapped around it and—is this a depiction of the ba and not one of Horus’s sons?
         “Now go!” he shouts, ignoring the rest of the audience that has turned to shush him, palpable anger ready to riot, even as Jesse advances further and the candles continue to extinguish as if by magic, and Xander runs, canopic jar cradled in his hands, as if Death itself were at his heels.
         He’s at his house, only he still has the canopic jar, and his dad is walking at him, belt in hand, while he hides on the other side of the couch, ready to dash to the front door or down the stairs, whichever works.
         Dreams are magic, and this is someone else’s. True, his are rough, his brain liking to torture him even in sleep, but his usually aren’t so metaphorical.
         He sneers, even while keeping a weather eye out for an opening to make a dash for it. That, and even he wouldn’t have conjured up Death itself to stalk himself through his dreams. He can be a bit self-destructive, at times, but that’s a step too far for someone who would claw his way through glass to survive. That’s a bit glaring of a giveaway, like the previous two attempts hadn’t had details that tried to warn of something amiss, a trap.
         It’s a clever little piece of work and he’d compliment the handiwork if it wasn’t about to kill him, as it were. Taking his subconscious, giving it just enough juice to end his life, and then setting it loose to work its horrors. No better hell than a guilty conscience to torture you for all eternity, because who would know better how to dig in the knife than yourself?
         His da, or rather, the murderous Tulpa version of him, sneers right back. “Think you can escape your fate, Killer?”
         “Mum’s still alive!” He shouldn’t be responding. That’s part of the trap.
         The smile is downright predatory, fangs underneath the faux-friendliness. “Is she?”
         Despite himself, Xander turns his head to look, and she’s sitting at the dining table like she’s always been there, hand trembling as she takes another sip of the beer, only—
         Only her eyes. Windows to the soul, some people call ‘em, and they’re not wrong, only what he’s seeing now is that there’s nothing there. Absolutely nothing.
         Like her soul has fled her body, still living. He’s seen it before—or, rather, Constantine has, but thanks to a little meddling they’re two sides of the same coin, now. Marcelo, wasn’t that the name…?
         “She wanted to escape us both.” Harris has crept closer while he’s occupied, and it’s time for sleight-of-hand, a magician’s trick. He runs downstairs to distract. He’s buying time, not running away, but he’s pretty sure the hostile entity isn’t going to notice the difference.
         Sure enough, Tulpa-Harris follows, slow and sure, because there’s no escape, not here.
         “I know my role,” he tells Tulpa-Harris, and sees something—someone—else behind Tulpa-Harris’s eyes.
         “Your role is to die,” the voice hisses, and tears out his heart.
         He falls, the pain hitting him in waves, and hears it leave, and only when he’s sure it won’t notice with shaky hands reaches out and smashes the canopic jar on the floor, shoving the still-beating bloody heart into his own chest, and suddenly feels a lot better.
         “Time for a little look-see, I guess,” he announces to absolutely no one, because now he’s outside the script he can go where he pleases, and this doesn’t feel like he’s the only one trapped. Time to go see a woman about a Primal.