A/N: So. Some of you are aware that I entered my efforts in the Tracy Island Writer's Forum Halloween Challenge. For the most part, I do not have anything to do with the holiday; as an Australian, it's not generally an event that is celebrated by me or my family. However, I found the challenge a wonderful opportunity to see what my present-third-person tense was like, and also to freak certain Tracys out a little. This was the result.
It does have some swearing in it, hence why it is on the upper end of 'T', but it is nothing explicit in the least, just a teensy bit of cursing. I really hope that you all enjoy it. ^_^ Happy Halloween! Xx
He is standing in the kitchenette of his New York apartment, when it happens. One second the dawn-dark room is empty; John's leaning with his back to the counter, idly swinging his mug in his hands as he waits for the kettle to boil. The next thing he knows, the space in the middle of the connected sitting room is occupied by a lithe figure clad in faded blue jeans and a white tee-shirt.
Eyes widening in shock, John almost drops the mug. The jar of coffee isn't so lucky; swiped off the counter to decorate the faded linoleum in a deluge of dark granules. John ignores the shattering bang and the ensuing mess in favour of gaping openly at the figure who just appeared in the middle of the room.
Yeah. He appeared. Didn't knock, didn't climb through the window leading from the fire escape, and didn't walk from anywhere else in the condo. The popping sound that accompanied the unexpected arrival would not have been heard if not for the complete silence that permeates the apartment at six-thirty in the morning. The ever-present hum of traffic on the street below isn't distracting enough to drown it out.
It is a he, the person standing in front of him; John is sure of that. But he isn't human.
The wings give it away. They are ghostly, dark and ethereal, and they barely appear to be unfurled. It's like they're cramped; like there's not enough space for them to fit in the sizeable room. They cast no shadow over the creature's shoulders or the floor.
He's rather short, and almost slighter than John himself in build. His hair is as dark a red as Gordon's; nearly black in the shadow that spills beneath the daybreak light coming from the window. He is young —barely looks to be of an age with Alan actually— with sharp cheekbones and pale skin, but there's an aura around him that speaks of world-weariness and an ancient sadness.
John looks into the kid's face, and his eyes widen in astonishment. The irises are the colour of melted honey lined with emerald green, and they seem to be lit from within; like the rays of the early sun that yawns between the curtains behind the figure. It paints his five-foot-four frame in buttery tracery and a halo of gold… It is breath-taking.
John wonders, in a moment of beatific insanity, if he's dead, and this kid is an angel. But then he shakes his head in dismissal. He's dreaming.
He was wiped. He'd landed at the airport, driven his car here, ordered take-out and fallen into bed. It's serving to persuade him that perhaps what he's experiencing here could just be a product of his still-dreaming mind. John didn't sleep well; hence why he's up so early. He hasn't slept more than four hours a night for a long time. It's why he was sent from Tracy Island. To rest.
He shakes his head again, and blinks, but when he opens his eyes the figure is still standing there.
John knows that he should be feeling something more than a little confused now. Terrified, threatened, annoyed… or something. But he doesn't.
This person has barged into his private sphere, but he can't seem to pull up the right sort of feelings. John's not worried about the fact that this guy appears to be a figment of his usually non-existent imagination. All he really knows is an odd sort of familiarity towards the stranger. It's almost as though his reactions have been suppressed. It's rather disconcerting.
Something inside John's brain begins a scrabble for clarity; a definition to why this person is here, why the laws of the universe have apparently allowed him wings. He's waking up a little more now, and he just can't shake the feeling that he has met this…. being before.
His visitor's face is expressionless, but there's a hint of something in the weird eyes that John isn't sure how to take. It's almost like he's challenging him to remember something important, but John's not caught on yet. Those eyes are young, but older than time, and there's something in them that hints at things that John has never seen or can ever hope to comprehend.
Almost ten seconds have passed now, but the angel-person has not yet said a single word. He hasn't moved either, aside from the blinking of those curious eyes, and that is what John finds most disturbing. They analyse him, and it feels as though he is being x-rayed.
John slowly places the empty mug on the bench, dries his sweaty palms on his pyjama bottoms and narrows his eyes, as realisation suddenly bursts within his brain with lightning clarity.
"I know you." He breathes, and everything comes flooding back; the locks on his slow, unbelieving brain that disallow him to believe in the supernatural shattering like candy-glass and smashed crockery. It's loud, rushing and completely overwhelming, but John at last knows why.
He's been dreaming about him for the last three months.
The teenaged creature, whoever and whatever he is, suddenly speaks, and it takes John a second to notice, as lost as he is in his memories of the past (or his rather strange delusion of the present). He manages to find his voice again, but it doesn't sound like his own.
"Excuse me?"
The being looks at him patiently, but there is an undercurrent of exasperation coloured beneath it that John finds he resents.
"I said; you do remember me then, John Tracy." It is a not a question.
The creature's voice is smooth as silk and just as mesmerising as a snake's hiss, but there is a touch of an accent that John does not recognise. John speaks many languages and is knowledgeable in many more, but this is one that doesn't have a particular nationality. It is more as if it is from a different time.
"You are right John Tracy. I am not from this time, or from this place. I suppose that you can say that I was born in one of what you would call the lost realms. Serain perished over six hundred years ago, and the world doesn't even remember we existed."
John's mouth gapes wide, soundlessly. What in God's unholy heaven?
"I would appreciate it if you did not insult our Father, John Tracy."
Well. There's that then. Apparently this delusion can also read minds. Whatever on earth he is…
"I am what they call a Dhangel, John Tracy. I am the first of our kind. I protect humans, and other beings from those unholy creatures you would call vampires and the undead."
John is more than a little confused now, but there is a tiny undertone of understanding flowing through him. Little snippets of his dreams are returning, and it seems as though things are beginning to make sense, but his mind is still refusing to allow it to be true. Something sticks there, and it's as though someone has taken a red permanent marker and drawn it across the lobes of his brain, so adamant the thought is at attracting his attention.
Surely they're not real? It is unbelievable. He doesn't want to believe it, but weirdly enough, he knows it's true.
Somehow John knows that it is all linked back to that rescue; the one in Peru, where he ended up hospitalised from blood loss and broken bones, with scars down each side of his back from wounds that are long-healed, but still unexplainable. It is all somehow connected to the dreams he's been having, all of which boast the appearance of the same unearthly being standing in front of him.
Every night, vivid and clear, he dreams, but he can never recall them fully when he wakes. Just the kid's face, floating in front of his eyes. Until now.
"But who are you?" John asks, and he is relieved to know that this 'Dhangel' has at least some decency in allowing him to articulate his questions, rather than plucking them out of his head like one would pick lint off a sweater. He knows that he should feel violated because of that intrusion, but he's too shocked over his current situation to pay it much heed.
The Dhangel's eyes brighten with something indefinable, and the reddish lips against the pale skin curve upwards in a gentle smile, but do not show teeth. The messy-haired head inclines, and John feels a little more at ease now that he has moved from his statuesque pose.
"My name is Dominic Linderstone, John Tracy. But I would be very much obliged if you are to simply call me Nix."
Just like that, like a key that opens the lid of a spring-loaded box, the name lets out a deluge of memories and sounds. John is trapped in the moment that his mind never before let him remember after the moment he wakes from the dreams.
He'd been scanning the area of the collapsed mine, looking for any remaining earthquake victims they might have missed. It had been pitch at night and John had been hidden from view by a rise a couple hundred meters away from the Thunderbirds. There had been no more life-signs, and John had been just about to contact Scott and let him know that they could leave and let the recovery teams move in.
He'd not had the chance to turn around. Not heard anything but the whistling of the wind.
He recalls now the flashing, hot burning pain in his neck; the pressure of the almost-crushing of his windpipe, and the feeling of weak tiredness and heart-wrenching terror in equal amounts. He'd been dying, but then there had been warmth and then something like hot fire running endlessly all of his limbs. That was at the point when the memories jump to him waking up in the hospital, days later with no recollection of what had happened. He knows that that's all there is to recall, but it doesn't make things any better.
It is something of a relief to know that he hadn't actually lost nearly three weeks of his life, but now John doesn't want to think about the aftermath; what might have happened to him. It's just too ghastly to think about. Goosebumps ripple across his arms and chest anyway, and it's not because they're exposed to the chilly air.
Nix's eyes are boring into him, that daring look on his face is now accompanied by a deadly seriousness. John is suddenly afraid that he's about to be attacked. It's silly, really, considering it's been almost three minutes now and usually someone who's looking to break into your house and attack you will generally do it well before thirty seconds are even up and what the hell is going on and why am I even listening to this?
John's losing the blessed state of numbness he's had since Nix arrived, and his brain has powered into the unwanted phase of hyper-activity that follows a shock. Suddenly, he has a headache.
"You're telling me," He says slowly. "Vampires and these Dah- Dhangels are real?" He stumbles over the unfamiliar word; he guesses its Latin or something; it sounds that way. He's not thinking clearly enough to investigate further.
Despite the truth that is in front of his face, those shadow-wings that Nix has floating has over his shoulders like smoke, the unearthly look in the kid's eyes, and not to mention the dreams and memories that give credence to the claims, John still can't quite grasp the strange concept that has been presented to him.
"Yes." Nix nods, his face grave. "And you're one of them."
Just with those five words, John's world swills; the walls turn on their ears and his vision greys out. It's far from being a manly reaction, fainting, but John's already had a shock just by this person appearing in his living room —with wings nonetheless— and just forgive his body for going overboard with the reactions, okay?
The obliviating state the dark presents is nice. He'll kill Gordon for the wake-up call later; that and the stupid film he agreed to watch with Tin-Tin about the vampires with the golden eyes. Scott's not going to shut up when Alan tells him about that one; courtesy of Tin-Tin herself, of course.
Right now, he'll take a sleep in to get rid of that silly dream he was having a moment ago. He'll deal.
That thought comforts John immeasurably, at least until he jumps a foot in the air. There are suddenly thin hands on his shoulders, hot breath on his cheek and adrenaline thrumming though his veins like a steel-string guitar. John wonders why he feels like he fell asleep at his desk. His back is pressed up against something hard, and it's sure as heck not the pillows from his bed.
A cool, dry hand grasps his wrist, and he starts in surprise. His lids snap open and they meet the bright gold of Nix's eyes, now threaded with violet instead of green. John's widen in astonishment, before what happened before his little siesta comes rushing back, painting everything with the dark shades of doubt.
Nice. Apparently shock makes you forget things really fast. Really important things like supernatural creatures in the living room. He just wants to go back to sleep.
Recalling that he'd lost control of his muscles somewhere in the however-many-seconds-ago; John is surprised he can't feel an egg on his head from the fall. He reflexively reaches up to feel for any tenderness, before he stops, frowning.
Oh, right; someone stopped him from bashing his skull on the corner of the counter. Thanks for that.
"You are welcome John Tracy."
"And… you're still there." John mutters. He can't deny it's not a dream now…
"Yes. There is a question you would like to ask me, John?"
John sighs. They're back to the reading-thoughts thing. "Yes: What the hell do you want from me?"
He's terribly rude and abrupt with the asking, and Grandma would have already given him a sound thwapp with the fly-swatter if she'd heard him, but John's suddenly sick of the dancing around the mulberry bush that's been happening. He wants Nix to spit out what he needs him to do, allow John to agree or refuse to do it, and then to get out of his kitchen now. He knows that he wants something, and he wants it over with. Before he loses his temper.
"It will not be that easy, John Tracy."
He glares at the intruder. Of course not. When is anything ever easy?
"Because you are one of us."
Recall those five words? Well, John remembers them now, and adding them to the six words Nix has just spoken, he's sure as hell glad he's sitting down.
"What do you mean, 'One of us'?" John has his suspicions, but it doesn't make him any more inclined to hear the answer.
"A Dhangel, like myself, and the many others I have turned."
John freezes anyway; his mouth going dry. His heart beats faster than an out-of-control locomotive, but there's something in the pit of his stomach that tells him not to take things the wrong way. There's a plausible explanation. This kid will explain.
And he does.
Sitting back on his heels, seemingly having to expend no effort on the movement, Nix tells John about the events that led him to losing his family; the mission from archangels that is in part a twisted way of recompense for not being able to save his kin, and the last nail in the coffin of his fate: the fall of his kingdom.
Despite own confusion, and the overwhelming sense of his own mortality and self-pity, John feels a pang of sympathy for the kid. He lost everything that was ever dear to him. John can sort of relate to that.
John's unsure whether to rage or rant or ask his rather endless questions first, but his own tongue solves the issue by moving on its own.
"Why did you turn me?" The answer is fairly obvious, if he remembers his first enquiry of the kid right, but it makes him feel better to ask. He wants to be sure that he's getting the right answer. It feels strange on his tongue.
"Because you would have become something I know that you would rather not, if I had not." The kid is almost on the defensive now, and John chuckles ironically to himself as he realises that Nix is more than six centuries older than him. He's calling him a kid. That's a penny for the thought-tin, that one.
There's the crunch though; driving home in his chest with the heavy sensation of a sinking stone.
He could've become a monster.
John's using the old theory that vampires are mindless killing machines driven by bloodlust and hate, and by the look on Nix's face, he's exactly on the dot. He's almost glad that he doesn't have to say it aloud. He shudders at the very idea.
John takes a deep breath, sensing that they're finally getting to the ultimate reason why Nix has turned up in his apartment in the early hours of a Sunday morning. John knows that he wouldn't have been approached if it were merely a case of saving his life; Nix apparently did that over a month ago. There must be something that he can give the Dhangel, but John doesn't know, and he doesn't want to do it, whatever it is.
Nix's eyes harden despite the benevolent look on his face, and John has a feeling of weight settling on him. It could be the fact that his blood sugar has not been raised from his not-yet-eaten breakfast, or that this is the weirdest morning he's ever had, but he knows that from the heaviness in his chest is that his fate, whatever it is, is inescapable. He doesn't find it comforting.
He really doesn't care for what Nix tells him of next. It's so stupid, unbelievable, and completely insane, but despite it all, John finds he's not really that surprised that he knows about it.
International Rescue.
Nix must have pulled it out of his head when John was thinking about the rescue; but that doesn't make sense. He'd have known well before now; at the rescue itself, when John was… changed. John knows that he is freaked out —a single word shouldn't have that many connotations, especially in that vein— but that doesn't excuse his brain from its normal task of being on top of everything. Not that ordering it to do anything works half the time.
John sighs as he runs his fingers through mussed blonde hair, and waits for the kid to elaborate.
"I know who you are John, what you are a part of, and I am merely requesting that you— change organisations, to be frank."
John's jaw appears to have dropped again, and it takes a second for him to moisten his throat enough to speak. Nix is so business-like now it's sort of like whiplash. He was so friendly before, but now both his face and voice are as cold as stone.
"Change?" That damned word again, and he's really not appreciative of its repeated usage. John's gone monosyllabic again, but Nix doesn't seem concerned.
"Yes. You will still be saving lives, just not in the way you are accustomed to." His tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.
Abruptly, John is angry and much more vocal; his emotions licking at his insides like tongues of flame. "Who the hell are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do? You've barged into my home, feeding me an effing stupid story, and then you expect me to do what you want, no questions asked. What the fuck gives?"
His breathing is heavy from the force of his fury and he knows his face is red, but in contrast; the Dhangel is cool and unruffled.
Sick of sitting on the floor with Nix's face above him, John rises to his feet with minimum hassle, glad that he's almost at a height with Scott and not more with Virgil's. It means that he is able to look down on the shorter man. Too bad it doesn't do much to intimidate him.
Nix has his arms crossed, and that just makes John madder as he says the kind of thing that he has been expecting all along. The wings are pulsing behind the Dhangel; becoming more solid as the minutes go by. The purple/black swirling patterns they form are making John dizzy. They're exuding their own power, and it knocks John back; both physically and spiritually. He wonders again if Nix is an angel of sorts, regardless of John's knowledge of myth and magic saying things to the contrary.
"I am able to subdue you with a glance, and I am also able to give you no chance in the slightest to resist. You may be one of my kind, John Tracy; but I am many years older and thus much stronger. My gifts are similar to an angel's but only in their strength. My abilities are much darker because of the need to subdue darker creatures. While I do not wish to use any of them on you, I will do so if I must. Make your choice swiftly John Tracy, because I am losing patience."
John feels a thrill of fear that is unlike anything he has felt in his life, and suddenly his emotions are unfrozen. He realises what Nix means what he said about being able to subdue him. He has turned hostile, and John realises that the thought of what the Dhangel could do to him makes him feel a primal fear. It kills him to admit it, but it's not any less true. His heart trying to fly out of his chest with the rapid tempo it beats is proof of that.
The power the Dhangel exudes is unbelievable. John can feel it bearing down on him like a lead blanket as he recalls the luminous stare of the creature's eyes. He guesses that it's only a taste of what Nix can probably unleash, but it's enough.
He finds himself refusing to look into them because he knows —somewhere deep in his subconscious— he'll not be able to resist the lure to obey, to comply with the Dhangel's wishes.
Even now, John finds that there are voices in his head that compel him to look up from his contemplation of the floorboards. Needless to say, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want any of it.
"Your body is changing John Tracy. It started from the moment I bit you to draw out the vampire's poison. When I saved your life, it came at a cost to both you and myself. You lost your mortality and you no longer need sleep. I know that you have noticed; you are more tired, but you cannot alleviate it. You, like I, do not need to drink blood like our cousins the living vampire, nor do we need to kill for it like the ones we will seek to destroy."
John was actually wondering about that. He's glad that he doesn't have to drink blood; the thought makes him squeamish. But he's distracted by Nix continuing, and as much as he'd like to forget about this entire thing, his curiosity is more powerful than his flight instinct. Such is the fickleness of humans. But yet, he's not even one of those any more, is he?
His back is itching like crazy all of a sudden, John realises. The bare skin feels like ants are biting him, but curiously, it is only along the ridges that the scars from the rescue left down his shoulder-blades. He can't reach to scratch them, despite the fact that he's usually pretty flexible. The Dhangel stands watching him carefully and John is struck by the suspicion the reaction is his doing. It has been happening sporadically since he was released from the hospital, but nothing as fiercely as this.
"They are your wings, John Tracy." Nix speaks quietly. "It has been over four weeks since you were bitten, and your instincts are coming into play. The need to hunt and change will only get stronger if you ignore it. No matter what you say to me now, the inevitable will happen eventually. It is unavoidable. Your old life is at an end."
The gravity of the situation hits John, and he is suddenly terrified to discover that this has been happening without him much noticing. Yeah, he knew that he had been altered by the accident, but not to this extent. He'd thought things were pretty normal. He wonders what exactly he has become. What he now is, aside from the obvious; what else has changed?
"We exist as hybrids; nor human, angel or vampire we are on a mission from the heavens. I do not know specifically which of the seven archangels it was that sent me on this crusade or whether it was the heavenly father himself, but I am the one who must fulfill this mission. It includes not only killing the renegade vampires, but also reversing the effects of their bites. Sadly, the would-be victim becomes one of the Dhangel species with that reversal. They, and this includes you, cannot escape this duty. It is truly regrettable, but I must not let even one vampire escape, and I need all the hands I can. I am sorry."
And to John's surprise, he knows that Nix means the apology. Just like that, John realises that Nix's anger and coldness is more directed at whatever fates decided to give him what is most likely an impossible task. He watches the face mellow again, and that damned flash of tempered pity for the both of them resurfaces. It takes a minute for John to get the words he wants to say in some sort of order, but when he does, they're almost pleading.
"But… but... Can't you stop it? What happened to God's idea of fate and free will? What the hell happened to that? And what happens to my family? What do I tell them?"
Nix shakes his head, and John can see sympathy in his eyes. "You may endeavour to tell them, but see if they believe your words. It is likely they will just commit you to the asylum. You can only see my characteristics because you are one of my kind. However, if they trust you implicitly, then perhaps you may be successful."
The look on the Dhangel's face tells him that he doesn't think it will work, but John has been presented a life preserver, and he means to take what he has been offered. Never give up; at any cost. That motto doesn't only apply to IR now does it?
"You will need to be away for many months at a time. The senses we are given ensure that we cannot escape our destiny. This instinct, along with your own conscience will not allow you to. It is reflexive, uncontrollable and inflexible, and that is why I recommend that you break all ties with those you've known through your life. They will grow old while you stay the same, John Tracy. It is lonely to see those you love fade, and the cost is enormous; to everyone involved."
John knows that Nix is speaking from personal experience, and the thought cuts him like the serrated edges of a knife. God knows that neither of them asked for this. He shakes his head. He will find a way. He can't do that to his father, his brothers. Grandma. He just can't.
Maybe he can get Brains to design something to help track the vampires, using blood or something. God this is so weird. John can tell that he believes what Nix is saying now, that he's accepted his fate. It's not an encouraging prospect, this picture that has been painted for him. He might as well accept it. From what he's just been told, it's never going to change, no matter how much he may want it to.
He's made up his mind now and there's no going back.
"Well, it doesn't hurt to try..." He is sure on that one. His father always said that there is nothing to be gained from not attempting something. Dad'd never have achieved anything if he hadn't taken that first step off the farm.
"That it might be John Tracy, but I would not wish you to be disappointed if this does not come to fruition."
John firms his jaw and sets his steely gaze on Nix. Nix raises a brow at him; nods as though he thinks John should know better, but will let him learn the lesson himself, for good or bad.
While he knows that he would rather anything else happen than this, John stands poker straight, feet firm on the ground. His hands tremble, and he knows that the next few words he speaks will change everything he has ever known. He also knows that he has absolutely no choice in the matter. But he is a Tracy, and Tracys never give up, despite the responsibilities they are given. He will make this work. He has to.
He steps forward, purposeful in his movements to meet the Dhangel full on; man-to-man, eye-to-eye. They are pure ochre now; none of the iron pressure within them that existed before, but they are no less bright.
John can see the regret, but also the passion in Nix's face, and he knows that he somehow, crazily has a friend, or an ally at the very least. He knows that Nix will not abandon him; knows that the sense of responsibility that the Dhangel spoke about in regards to the hunt also extends to the teaching of newly-turned half-lings like John himself.
John doesn't know how he knows it, just that he does. He can see that it is not a result of what they are, but of the code of ethics that the shorter man has that guides the way he lives his life, unconventional as it is.
It is with that reassurance, that John says three simple words. Half regret and half terror, but one hundred per cent commitment, he says them anyway.
"I'll do it." They sound flat in the early morning, but they are some of the strongest and surest words he has ever spoken in his life. There is a sense of absolution that John realises that he was missing before. He feels determination well up inside him, accompanied by sheer terror and a fear of himself and the unknown, but he knows he can do this.
Nix grins suddenly in response; purposely showing slightly elongated canine teeth. It is the first proper smile that John has seen him make.
His eyes open wide in a mix of wonder and fear, but then John feels the lengthening of his own incisors and knows that he will be able to protect himself if the need arises. The thought is comforting, especially in light of learning what his new duty involves. They both know the cost if their mission should fail.
They are both doing it as protection for their families; John knows this now. He for his brothers and for those who weren't as lucky as him. Nix for the family he left behind and the kingdom he once failed to save.
John is distracted from the connection between the two of them, as the still-present itching in his back flares into unbearable burning. John lets out a gasp of pain as something erupts from each of his shoulder-blades with all the force of Thunderbird One at launch. The force of it drives him to his knees, but the impact doesn't hurt. He doesn't feel much at all but for a sense of new-ness; like after he's completed his rotation on 'Five and he can see the sun and sky again.
Free.
He lifts his widened eyes to Nix, and is stunned to see an expression of sadness on that face; young but old at exactly the same time. He knows that Nix will be recalling his own trials, and his own fears and insecurities emerge from the flash of bliss that he has just experienced. They will soon be his own as well.
But he will face them as they come. That is what a Tracy does.
The sun has risen without John noticing, and it bathes the two of them in golden light. It's symbolic of the rise of another day. It's a day that signals the end of John's life as he knows it. But it is also the beginning of something new. A purpose that perhaps, he can merge with the old. No-one will know unless he tries.
He lowers the wings that burst forth with his decision, and they fold in on themselves, retracting into the ridges that were so irritatingly tender before. They are relaxed now, and are as unnoticeable as any other blemish he has on his body. Unremarkable, but at the same time not.
With a final nod, and an unspoken promise of a future meeting, Nix vanishes as swiftly as he arrived, leaving a room flooded with sunlight, and a man alone with his tangled and confused thoughts.
John takes a deep breath, trying to quell the need to do something drastic to communicate the gargantuan task that has been set before him, before he searches for something with which to clean the mess of coffee. He has no idea how to begin, but he'll get there in the end. He knows it.
The clock strikes seven on Halloween Day.
Fin.