Disclaimer: Johnny C (and all related) is property of the great comic artist; Jhonen Vasquez.
Authors Notes: Just a wisp of a plot I thought up one day. I apologize if Devi or Johnny are out of character. Although, Devi probably is OOC.
He had been wandering around outside for a number of hours, only sitting once his legs hurt from him having walked for so long. The homicidal maniac didn't pay much, if any attention to the store behind him; it only stood out the smallest bit, and though he didn't know why, a flutter of familiarity blossomed somewhere deep in whatever remained of his heart. This seemed a good a place as any to rest, if not better, seeing as how some part of him liked the area. Vaguely, Johnny searched the three years of memories he still had left - no, he did not recognize this place. He looked closer at the building.
It looked old, as though it had been there for quite some time, but judging by the 'going out of business' signs, it wouldn't be there for much longer. A flicker of sadness slid into his heart. Why, though? He peered through the glass window into the store beyond. Oh. Johnny frowned - it was an art store. No wonder he'd liked the area. Perhaps he'd once been a regular of this place, back when his Sickness (1) had not appeared and consumed all memory of his creativity. Thankfully, it was not there anymore to take his thoughts away from him again.
Huffing out a breath, he turned, sitting again on the rough pavement of the sidewalk, watching the cars roll on by. He tested out the nearly nonexistent muscles in his legs - nope, his legs still were sore; too sore for him too walk the long distance home, and he had no intention of stopping once he began to move again.
"Johnathan...?" Johnny looked up, a confused look on his face. Nobody ever called him that. For that matter, he could not recall ever even having introduced himself as such. It was always either 'Johnny', or 'Nny'.
As he looked up, an older man with grayed hair entered his vision. This man had a grin on his face, as though the maniac was an old friend. "Oh my god, it is you. Johnathan Covaks; you used to come by here every Friday." Johnny's eyes widened, and as he stood up, he found himself moving away from this strange man.
"Pardon me, but... who are you?" Johnny's hands itched to grab one of the daggers inside his jacket. This man was too friendly - and Johnny had never met him before. Then, a realization hit the manic depressive male. The old man had used a last name when he had referenced him. A full last name. But before he could say anything, the man laughed.
"Oh, sorry. Forgot how long it's been. You haven't been here in nearly four and a half years; should of known you might not remember me." He held out a hand "I'm Walter Cooke, I've been running this here art store for years. You used to come by this store every Friday for paint and other supplies about four and half years ago." Johnny desperately searched his mind for a memory of this man, his store, or even the street itself. Nothing was immediately recognizable though, only familiar somehow. The homicidal man took a few steps closer, only reluctantly shaking the offered hand -this man was from his past, and he didn't want him hating him just yet- before speaking.
"What did you say before?" 'Walter' gave Johnny an odd look.
"You used to come by here every Friday?" Johnny shook his head, taking a half-step forward, his voice changing to one of insistence, and desperation.
"Before that. You called me a name. Johnathan something. What was it, tell me!" He clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. "Please!" He added. Walter, who previously had tensed up at the unusual reaction, relaxed.
"You... I called you Johnathan Covaks." Johnny slouched a little, turning to look at the sidewalk as a twitch of a smile crept onto his face. That was his name; Covaks. "You don't remember?" The grey-haired man asked. Johnny looked back at Walter.
"Nothing past three years ago... A fracture here, a figment there... But nothing clear beyond when I encountered that horrible Sickness." Johnny sighed slightly. "I've only just defeated it, you know." Walter frowned.
"You got sick? For three years? No wonder you stopped coming." The man came closer. "Must of been one hell of a virus." Johnny frowned a little.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to think about something else, now." Walter nodded, looking apologetic.
"Sorry." Johnny looked back at the store. Walter had said that he -Johnny- used to visit the store every Friday, and buy paint. It was going out of business now. Had he himself been the reason for it's success back when?
"Why are you closing your store, Mr. Walter?" He asked. Walter looked further down the street.
"Oh, this new place opened up further down the road. Got better, newer, more effective things than what this old man can stock." He sighed, opening the door to his own building and entering, Johnny following. "Guess nobody appreciates art done the old-fashioned way, now. Want it done quicker." He turned to face the maniac. "I'll tell you this, though, Nothing beats the old methods." Johnny found no way he could agree with the man he had apparently once known. After all, he did not remember this fellow, his store, or even the days when he painted. He could not even remember what kind of tools he used, though he could safely suspect it was the old-fashioned ones this man had once sold.
"In art; Quality over quantity." Johnny muttered, wishing he could mean what he was saying. He didn't remember painting. Not at all.
He turned his attention to an empty canvas standing near the back of the store. Paint and some brushes were set out on a built-in shelf, and the maniac couldn't help but walk over and dip his fingers into the red and black cups, dragging his paint-covered hands across the white and creating thin, twisted lines, mixing the paint in a big, intermingling knot at the canvas's center. The room flickered, changing into somewhere else for a second. Johnny trailed some green across the white canvas, and soon the room was no longer a store. He was in a studio - small, but comfortable, and filled as much as possible with paintings. Johnny's hair was at it's normal length, only slightly neater, and he wore a white smock splattered with various colors of acrylic paint.
Johnny blinked, picking up one of the brushes, and examining it. It was a thin, but sturdy wood, it's bristles long and soft. He looked at the canvas in front of him - he was in the middle of a portrait of a demon with twisting tentacles and biting mouths, a work he had promised to a lady down the road a little. The creature itself was going to be mainly reds, blacks, and greens, but he'd thought of using a navy blue for some of the shading. Right now, though, he'd sketched it out, and it needed only to be painted. He dipped his brush in the green cup, letting the tip of the brush hit red, and touched the brush to his canvas. This one was going to be his best yet.
In reality, Walter had stopped talking, having turned to see Johnny hunched over slightly; he'd stopped at the stocked canvas that had been set up for later display. Walter wondered vaguely if he should speak, but something said to just let the man be. After all, Johnathan had said he'd been sick for years. Who knew if he'd painted at all during that time. Perhaps this was the first time in a long time that the younger man had even been near paints.
The door jingled as someone entered; the girl who'd recently started buying canvas's and paint there. He looked over at Johnny, who had twitched at the sound of the bell.
"I'm sorry" The younger man slurred disjointedly "but if you want to request a piece, I'm afraid you'll have to wait..." He jerked again as the girl gasped. "I'm too busy with Hannah Bridgette's request of a nightmare demon..." Walter immediately realized what as going on: Johnny was hallucinating, but about something from his past. He rushed over to the girl, making shushing motions.
"Quiet, Miss Delgado; I think he's remembering his past." He noticed the girl looked terrified. "What's wrong?" He whispered.
"He... he tried to kill me once...!" The old man looked over at Johnny, who was now half-through painting something that did indeed look like a 'nightmare demon'.
"Mr. Covaks?" Walter whispered. "He wouldn't kill somebody." Devi scoffed, and Walter watched as Johnny jerked again. "At least, back when I knew him, he wouldn't."
"Then you must've missed a lot. Johnny's been killing for a while. You know all the murders that have been going on?" She asked loudly, eliciting a grumbling noise from Johnny. "That's been him." She narrowed her eyes as she looked closer at the maniac. "Wait... What is he doing?" Walter grinned.
"He's painting. A few years ago, he used to come here every Friday to buy paint. Never was a Friday I didn't see Mr. Johnathan Covaks in this very store." Devi's eyes widened.
"Hold on... Covaks? J. Covaks?" Walter nodded, his smile fading a little when Johnny growled at the noise Devi was making. The old man made shushing noises, but Devi ignored him. "I have a piece by an artist named 'J. Covaks' in my bedroom! It was my favorite piece out of all the art I owned, but he just vanished out of the art scene one day after-" But she was cut off by an angry yell from Johnny.
"Quiet! Shut up, shut up!" He was clutching a pair of knives tightly in his thin, bony hands. "Save your noise for later!" But as quickly as he had gotten angry, the mood vanished, replaced by confusion. "I'm... This isn't..." He shook his head, glancing around the store. "What happened?" His eyes fell onto Devi, and he flinched, dropping the weapons as he searched for a place to go, somewhere Devi was not.
"I though you said you couldn't paint anymore?" She asked, pointing behind him. Johnny turned, and marveled at the half-finished piece behind him. Had he done this?
"I - I couldn't..." His fingers traced over the delicate lines, but hovered just over them, not touching the still-wet paint. "I haven't been able to for years." Devi smirked.
"Then what's that?" Johnny scoffed.
"Obviously, it's a painting." He looked at her. "But what of, I have no idea." He pulled his arms closer to his chest. "And it does not help that it's only half finished. Evidently whatever hallucination I was undergoing was interrupted before I was able to finish it." He looked away from the pair, heading across the store to the exit. "If you don't mind..." He trailed off, pushing the double-door open and leaving, blatantly ignoring the canvas he had half-covered with some strange tendrilled beast with too many mouths. Devi, who had watched Johnny go, turned again to look at the abandoned painting. It really was a beautifully horrific image - it would be a waste to leave it there.
"Hey, Mr. Cooke... Do you mind if I take this home with me? It'd be a shame to leave it." The old man nodded, and Devi couldn't help but grin as she grabbed the canvas, covering it over while carefully avoiding the wet paint. Though Johnny terrified her, his past was in there somewhere.
He just needed the right trigger for his conscious to break through, releasing whoever he used to be.
(1) - I don't think Johnny's wall-monster was ever given any sort of name, so I've taken to calling it a 'Sickness'; using it as a species name for the kind of creature it is.