Dear fanfic reader,
This is my very first publication. It means that the story below is nothing but a raw clay amphora, not yet finished but already showing its definitive shape.
I'd like to make it clear that English is not my native language, thus it's only logical to assume that typos and concordance errors (or even "odd" word choices)
are likely to dwell within the text. Please, take it into account.
The main reason I've decided to publish this story is that this is one of my favorites characters in the DCU and I love imagining her adventures through the occult and the magical. However I'd love to have some feedback about it. Whether it is a criticism or a praise, anything people can contribute with will be very much appreciated. I just wanted to share her adventures with anyone who's interested.
I really hope I can entertain you and, depending on your feedback, I shall publish the following chapters soon.
Good reading to you, dear reader ;)
PFreitas
PLEASE, MIND THE GAP
It can never be said that the toll was too high. Or that paying the price was anywhere close to effortless, mind you.
To be fair, it always depended on one's talent or one's resolution.
Y'see, some people are born natural leaders. An inspiration to millions of followers. Some are born with the courage of an entire roman legion. Some even can boast an intellect that can bring the dawn a whole new era towards mankind. And there are those, very special individuals, whose talent is and must be always kept away from everyone else's eyes. A talent so terrible, so grim and yet so unbelievably impressive, that, left in plain sight, would be enough to break the very soul of a gazer...
They say the ultimate rule of nature is the "survival of the fittest". I beg to disagree. Throughout my life I've seen so much, things that should be impossible. Things that ought to belong into the realm of fantasy and the oneiric. Except that they didn't. I saw it with my very eyes.
And I'll tell you everything there is to know, so you don't go insane.
I do care about you, dear.
But, first, I must tell you this: please, mind the gap!
THREE DOLLARS AND YOUR SOUL
The sunlight broke in, trespassing the blackout curtains through narrow cracks and into the room, like a sly cat. It rolled past the carpeted floor, the crumpled black and white clothes, climbing onto the bed to conquer the sheets that shifted ever so slightly whenever she moved underneath.
It was a rough night, while awake. It was even rougher when she fell asleep.
― Fucking...
Her eyes moved fast under its lids, suddenly disturbed by the sunshine, that rude intruder. Her mouth was dry and kind of sticky. She moved her hand to her right, instinctively, reaching for the bottle of water she kept on the bedside table. Instead, the clink of glass on glass indicated the thing she was looking for wasn't there.
― Is everything okay? ― A deep, throaty voice asked, muffled by a pillow or a thick cover.
― Ehm, yes. It is. I'm just thirsty. ― She replied, not really sure to whom.
― There's more Bud at the fridge. Help yourself, but don't leave me dry, alright?
― S-sure. ― She agreed.
Although she felt a little light-headed, it probably was a better idea to leave rather than extend this situation to levels that she wouldn't like to deal. She wasn't the type of girl who likes one-night-stands, then again she wasn't the type of girl who represses her longings.
― Sserd pu! ― the conjuration came out like a whisper. In the blink of an eye, the otherwise naked brunette, was fully clad in black ankle boots, black dyed jeans, a tight white tank-top and her favourite leather jacket, as black as her long straight hair. The only thing that wasn't monochromatic was her stormy blue eyes.
After the backwards spell, pretty much everything that was on the ground vanished, to be magically transported onto her. Just a white shirt and a white underwear still remained on the floor, and a red untied bow-tie lying on a chair. She never knew where the hell his pants were.
Zatanna Zatara, daughter of the great magician Giovanni Zatara, walked with legs that seemed to be unwilling to bend to her commands. She felt as if they were not hers, but she was pretty sure that that was just a misunderstanding. An ethylic misunderstanding.
The man's house ― or rather a huge room that could be called a kitchen-living room-bedroom- studio like-place ― was the very epitome of a "man cave". The inhabitants of the house were a large number of bottles of beer, divided in two main races who seemed to coexist in balanced population proportions: half were brown bottles, half were green. The landscape was taken over by lush fields of pizza cardboards, a few springs of full ashtrays and overlooked by the sentinels of that testosterone driven nation, about a dozen posters of playmates and other semi-naked models.
The spell caster didn't have any feelings of guilt or regret. Maybe a little, but only because she didn't intend to drink as much as she apparently did.
The fridge was overridden with pizzeria flyers and pizza discount coupons on the door. She opened it, looking for water, but only Budweiser bottles looked back at her. Zatanna suddenly felt a flash of hot anger flare up her chest and, for just one second, really wanted to flatten that barbarian's face. How could anyone live like this?
However she clenched her teeth furiously and decided to leave.
― TROPELET EM TUO FO SIHT YTS! ― Zatanna conjured her lungs out.
A blast of air, produced by the vacuum of her teleportation, threw clouds of ash and pizzeria flyers around the room-house. The man under the covers didn't notice anything at all.
The magician was caught by a refreshing cool morning air. It was mid-autumn and the king star cast arrows of sunlight light like the last bastion against its sworn enemy, the chilling bitter cold. She was in the middle of a park, somewhere in the west side of New Amsterdam, drowning in warmth. Both conflicting sides, the cold wind and the hot sun, she decided, were a perfect mix of what she just needed. That, and a fat hot-dog.
― Good morning, sir. Can I have a hot-dog, please? ―She entreated the hot-dog man. He was a young, middle-eastern looking man, with barely a hint of a moustache upon his lips. ― I'd also appreciate it if you could get me a bottle of water, while you're preparing the hot-dog.
― Yes, ma'am, here's your water. ― the young man replied, handing her the most crystalline and invigorating water she'd have in a long time. Perhaps it was just the hangover seasoning the taste perception. She took a large gulp straight from the bottle.
― Now here's your hot-dog, ma'am. That'd be three dollars and your soul, please.
― My... WHAT!? ― Zatanna almost choked on the water, half swallowed.
― Three dollars and your soul, Zatanna. ― The young man announced, now sounding much older than he looked at first. The sky turned an unnatural dark grey, engulfing every hint of light there was.
― W-who are you? ― She stepped backwards, dropping the bottle on the ground. ― Wohs ruoy eurt fles!
As in a dream, the whole scene just faded and a startled young man was staring at her. It was as if HE was the one who saw a pretty scary thing, and not her. Not only the water but also the hot-dog lay on the sidewalk, completely scattered over the asphalt.
― M-ma'am. It's still three dollars. It's fair. ― He said, looking at her and at the wasted food in turns. She stood there, frozen, not sure what to make of it. Her lips moved, as if trying to articulate something, anything, but just couldn't exactly decide what.
― Three dollars, ma'am. If you don't pay I'll be ruined. It's fair! ― The young man insisted.
― What the hell just happened? ―She finally managed to say.
― I don't know, ma'am. You just zoned out as soon as I gave you the hot-dog. Then you said some weird thing I couldn't understand and dropped your food on the ground.
― I... Zoned out?
― Yes. Like hypnosis, you know? ― He made a pinch movement with his thumb and forefinger and moved it sideways, as if holding an invisible pendulum.
― Geez, I must be really off my game. I've never had such a terrible hangover. ― Zatanna bethought.
The young man just extended his right hand, palm up, and flung a hopeful look at her. She took the hint and brought three dollars from a chest pocket on her jacket and conceded ― It's fair.
The brunette decided to go home (walking, not teleporting), lest she conjure lightning and thunder upon someone by accident.
Gosh, I really cannot remember what happened last night. All I can remember are flashes of memory, like half-dried photographs hanging in a darkroom. Frozen moments seen from another person's eyes. But I just know they're mine. Or are they?
Not very aware how, her legs appeared to have accomplished bringing her home. Zatanna climbed the stairs, and reached the fourth floor of the old brownstone building. She unlocked the door and noticed an orange-ish letter that was slipped through the door and got stuck under the carpet.
It had no identification, just two capital handwritten letters on it: JC. She guessed who JC belonged to and decided not to open it. Zatanna just threw Constantine's letter on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. If she had the time (and the will. Mostly the will, she'd say), she'd read it later.
The great magician and illusionist, taught by Zatara himself, took two paracetamol pills and sat on a well cushioned reclining chair. Not every headache has to be cured by magic...
A considerable time had passed, although the dim-lit street light indicated it should be dusk of the very same day, or perhaps the dawn of the next one. The brunette got up, her head a little less naggy than earlier today (or yesterday at any rate), and went straight for the fridge. She craved something sweet and she remembered there was three quarters of a Ben & Jerry's brownie flavoured ice cream bucket somewhere. The ice cream was there indeed, behind a huge milk carton.
― Noops! ― As nonchalant as ever, she called for the cutlery. A bright silver spoon materialized in her right hand. Zatanna took a chair, sat by the small kitchen table and placed the ice cream bucket on it. When she was about to open the lid, she noticed the orange-ish letter under the bucket. It got a wet brown half ring, imprinted by the bucket bottom, smudging some of the handwriting on it.
― JC... I wonder what the hell that English bastard wants now. If any, I'd better not to forget he only loves himself and no one else.
She sank the spoon into the creamy treat, dug in really good and brought a spoonful to her lips.
Fuck yeah. That's exactly what I'm talking about, she thought. Zatanna closed her eyes, savouring the brownie aftertaste it left. Then a synergic reaction took place, bringing pleasant images to her mind. Nothing else was wrong in the world, during those tiny few seconds. Everything cruel about her life just seemed to have become a frivolous spring breeze, brushing past her pale skin and dark hair to never touch her again. The memory of Zatara, her father, no longer was fraught with pain, only warm feelings permeated her mind and heart. The fact that she'd been alone for so long was, now, something that made her stronger, more independent, more determined.
But that moment passed. Everything passed. The good feelings, the burst of resolution, the brownie taste vanished with a single picture that took over her mind: John Constantine.
They had had their moment in the past. Well, moments, as a matter of fact. Amongst comings and goings, they'd go over a cycle that goes like this: a burning desire for one another, then a period of apparent calmness, followed by a descendant trajectory towards a restless contempt and finally leading to the inevitable break up (which, twice, involved lampshades, picture frames and glasses being telekinetically/magically thrown against walls - thanks to Constantine's ability to dodge them on time). The interim between the latter stage and the former varied from tense armistice to utter oblivion.
His letter was a clear violation of that truce, or whatever the situation was, and Zatanna was absolutely unwilling to re-establish relations with him.
But, just in case, she decided to check what was so damn important. Couldn't hurt, right?