The Change

Summary: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.
Story: a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, Dies the Fire, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.
Leading characters: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.
Warnings: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

AN: The story of Tate's Hell is--supposedly--a true one, and rather good for horrifying children, particulalry animal lovers. If it sounds interesting, you might want to google it.

Dear Die-ary,

The familiar claustrophobia is setting in. I spent a lot of time about a week ago searching out entrances to other houses from the basement…. There's Squee's obviously, but I'm not telling anyone about that yet. It's Squeegee's house, and I can't just let people barge through there at all hours of the day. Plus, I've been using it to escape the people sometimes.

Good God, how many have we taken in now? It has to be in the upper twenties by this point. Devi… I respect her for helping all these people… I actually do. She's so strong and completely confident now. I remember when we met; she was so… pissed off at everything. And now…

But for all that's worth, it doesn't change the fact that I'm living in the same house with a squad of smelly humans! Fuck, I can feel the itch setting in. Focus, Johnny. Think.

I should talk to Devi. I should tell her about the trapdoors in the neighboring houses. Why didn't I think to do that before? It's so obvious!

Of course, I… I never have been good with details, have I? Shit. I never noticed that either.

Frustratin#####nit.

April 12, 1998

--

Devi slid into the book store like a ghost, draped in black and dripping wet as lightening cracked somewhere high overhead. In her hand was a bag—more accurately, two bags: one sturdy cloth wrapped in a waterproof plastic. Gwen slunk in behind her, closing the door silently. They had brought the equipment necessary to break in, but clearly the manager had forgotten to close the doors in his mad rush to escape…

The blue-haired woman pointed to her companion and then to the opposite side of the room. You take that side. She herself turned, lit herself a plain white candle, and began to riffle through the shelves. Occasionally, she pulled out a title and examined the back cover, either shaking her head and returning it or dropping it into the bag. Another of the cloth and plastic carriers rested against the shelf, just in case her loot took more space than the first offered.

One book in particular caught her interest, an instruction manual on Native American lifestyle habits, and she quickly slid it into the collection. A book of world myths joined it soon enough, along with a book of fairy tales—the uncut versions, not the childish princess stories parents seemed so fond of.

Devi wandered till a third of her candle had dripped to nothing, gathering books that filled one of two purposes: provided instructions for how to make a living off the land, or offered acceptable reading for young children. The first category was easiest, being a straightforward information search, and she had quickly filled the bag with those. On the entertainment side of things, choices became more complicated.

She had puzzled over this in the days before her mission, taking the time to explore, finally, what a world without electricity meant. If things continued on this way forever, what would televisions and light switches and cars mean to her children, or her children's children? It would be like magic, far off and impossible to comprehend. How do you explain DNA to a child who can't even look through a microscope to see a cell? How do you explain electromagnetism to a child who will never be able to attach a magnet to a fishing pole and pick up nails? How do you explain cars to a child who has never seen on rolling down the highway, never heard an engine crank to life?

It occurred to her that there are many things we believe only because we see.

Perhaps stories of the old days would become to these future children what science fiction had once been to her. Or maybe it would be incomprehensible gibberish. Besides which, the world of tomorrow wouldn't have high schools and football teams, or lawyers and interior designers. There was no telling if kids would be able to get past that barrier and grasp what was once realistic fiction.

Uncomfortably aware of this, Devi put together a rudimentary list of books she had read herself, giving herself a sort of base to work from. First, she would need a few beginners' books. Novelized versions of Disney movies would serve nicely, and some princess fairy tales, because the wording was always simplistic.

For that, there was a picture book of Pocahontas, which came out a few years before, and a copy of Miss Spider's Tea Party. Holding that made her feel very nervous for some reason, as if the store assistants from her days working here would suddenly pop up behind her and make derisive comments like they used to.

After that, elementary level books were in order. An anthology of Edgar Allen Poe's various works, Tom Sawyer and his friend Huck, and a copy of Alice in Wonderland all made it into the pot, followed by Black Beauty for Tess, and Wind in the Willows for Delano, and two Native American folktale books for Pam: Moon Mother and The Rainbow Warrior. Some very thin book caught her eye, their covers showed everything from ninjas to astronauts, and she pulled four of those off the shelf. She came across a copy of Shades of Gray and swiped it—she'd whiled away one particularly awful summer in '90 with that book, debating the morals of the civil war with her aunt Janet.

Now for the middle School books. The first Harry Potter book—her friend had mentioned it once and the title stuck in her memory, and it was about magic, right? Hopefully that wouldn't confuse the children too much. A couple comedic looking books about the middle ages made it in—what? They had to learn history somehow. Robin Hood, some more Indian-lore type novels, something Chinese, a fantasy, An Acceptable Time and A Swiftly Tilting Planet by Madeline L'engal… she was running out of room in the sack!

Devi called Gwen over and handed over a chunk of her collection—the doctor had barely grabbed a thing, just a book of anatomy and two art anthologies. Seeing the empty space, Devi promptly dumped the contents of her first bag into her friend's and went on collecting.

The next thirty minutes passed in almost a trance, and by the time Devi resurfaced, her arm was protesting painfully and the candle was very low. Her wandering led her to the religious section of the store, face to face with an archaically fitted bible. Now the question was, should she bring a pre-change religion into the troupe? Personally, she disliked the Christian church and its mistranslated bible, but did she have the right to deny it to anyone else in the house?

And if she didn't, then was it her duty to also grab a Koran? Or a Torah? Or a collection of Buddhist works? Or Starhawk? Actually, she should get that either way, Pam requested it.

Okay, she thought, breathing deeply, let's look at it this way: The Bible is in a lot of ways a work of history, so I can take it for its historical value. It has most of the same things as the Torah, so I don't need to get that, I think. Buddhist writings are valuable for their worldliness, and maybe I should get a copy of the Vedas too. Yes, that will work.

Devi sighed and quickly collected what she needed, calling out to Gwen that it was time to leave. They met at the front desk, pulled their hoods up, shouldered their bags, and ran like hell into the drizzling, pitch black night. Devi's rapidly disappearing candle flickered quietly in the window behind them as their silhouettes faded into the rain with the patter of nervous feet on wet pavement.

--

Devi turned a corridor about five stories underground, absorbed in a handful of papers and hoping not to hit any walls in the navigation/reading process. Zim's reports were almost as rambling as his speech, given to long tangents and contradictions, but interesting in spite of that. In fact, the kid reminded her of Johnny in a way; certainly they were both out of their minds fifty percent of the time.

She heard voices from the other room on her left, mostly an older man, and stopped a bit before it to listen in. Between the never ending work and the lack of movies or TV now, there wasn't much to entertain a person with, and what she was hearing sounded a lot like a story.

"—they found him laying at the edge of the forest, near dead. Of course they tried to patch him up, but it was no use. He looked up at them, all dirty and broken, and with his last breath he says, 'gentlemen, my name's Tate, an' I been through Hell'."

Oh, the end of a story, and one she'd never heard before. How disappointing. Quietly, Devi slipped into the room and observed its occupants, leaning against the doorframe.

"Did they ever find the dog?" a girl named Zita asked, attempting to look as if she couldn't care less. Dib had identified her a while back—apparently they'd been classmates, and the Change had been hard on her. He said that Zita's reddened, bruised skin had once been a thing porcelain dolls envied, and her now ragged mauve hair was once a flawless lavender. She'd also been rather popular, too.

"I can't say I know," the storyteller answered, grinning slyly. "But dogs tend to be a good lot smarter than men-folk, so who knows?"

The man caught Devi's eye and winked. He was tall, with almost black hair and skin the sort of tan that spoke of year-round sun, and deep laugh lines broke up his otherwise young Anglican face. They'd picked him up on the road back from the national forest, wandering alone and armed with a rusted machete.

As the children at his feet dispersed, arguing now the finer points of canine-to-human intelligence, the blue-haired woman made her way over.

"That sounded like an interesting story," she said, eyeing the kids' backs as they trickled out the door. "I'm sorry to say I only caught the end."

He smiled and gestured at the last of his disappearing audience. "Tate's Hell, sure 'nough. It's a favorite back home—there's a swampland a ways a way from where I grew up, and the story of how it got its name appeals to kids in particular."

"Where did you grow up?" She asked. The accent sounded southern, but beyond that she couldn't have guessed.

"On the banks of a river where the water's equal shades of brown and blue," he answered with a mock poetic air, "and from the banks the palms rise like puffballs between the wind-twisted pines, all their boughs bearded by Spanish moss, and bowlegged cypress trees stretch from the edge of the shore and river grass."

"And is everyone there so… eloquent?"

"No," he laughed, shaking his head, "But Florida folks are a bit of an… eclectic sort. There's a lota room for variation."

"What were you doing in California?" She inquired, vaguely curious. After all, they were almost on opposite sides of the country.

"Hunting trip," he replied, smile fading. "My guide went to look for help when the truck stopped workin', and he never did come back. My friends… ah… they got themselves in somethin' of a jam."

Devi wondered what kind of 'jam' it had been, that this man survived and his companions hadn't, but she figured it wasn't something you asked about.

"Anyways," he went on, recovering his good humor, "I never did introduce myself properly. Name's Billy, pleased to meet you." He stretched out his right hand.

The blue-haired woman shook it with her unoccupied hand. "Devi Darington, apparently Tallest of this little community, if you listen to what the green kid says."

"Oh, I know who you are," he grinned, walking to the door and stopping to wait for her. "Be real hard to live 'round here and not. But the green kid?"

Frowning at the idea of her reputation actually proceeding her—what kind of reputation was it, anyways?—she replied, "His name's Zim, and he's got some strange ideas about how things should be run. He has half he house calling me 'Tallest' now, though I think, I hope, most of them are just humoring him. He can get a bit psychotic at times."

She and Billy strode down the hall, her showing the alien's latest reports and him inquiring curiously about the house dynamics. It took a while to explain the concepts behind the rationing and task forces and their strange brand of farming, but by the time she'd gone through it all, Billy volunteered to help out with the hunting and, happily, fishing.

"I noticed you aren't far from a river, and where there's river there's fish. I'm guessing you haven't got any yet—no poles, right?"

Devi nodded. The skills involved were in short supply, and not even Johnny could mojo them into some fishing rods… in fact, he had no idea how to catch the scaly creatures, period.

"That's okay," the southerner went on, "I can make my own. See, my grandmother was a wonder with a fishin' pole, and she taught me everything she knew way back when. Though, she never cleaned a fish in her life—she always used to say, 'William, be careful what you learn, 'cause once you can do, it'll always be your job.' So na'traly, I had to get my grandfather to teach me."

In spite of herself, Devi's expression turned wry. Billy was a nice man, clearly smart, and looking to be useful, but he could talk the ears off a rabbit. It occurred to her that months ago she would have been feeling him out for potential date-ability. It also occurred to her that she wasn't, which was the puzzling thing.

Her criteria for dating had always been: nice, handsome, smart, liked movies, and—recently—not insane. The Change had turned more or less everyone either very nice or very mean, and all the stupid people had died quickly. Movies existed no more, and… well… insane was a relative term anyways.

Devi's eyes flicked to the left, unconsciously aiming for a glimpse of her city, where she knew the sky would be tinted grey and the farthest houses blackened from an escaped fire weeks ago. Yes, insane was a relative term.

"So what's this Johnny man like?" Billy asked, cutting into her revere.

"What?"

"Um… Nny? Johnny… what's his last name… Carson? Castle? 'C' something…"

"No, no," she waved a hand, "You're right. Johnny Castil. Why do you ask?"

The tall man shrugged, looking away. "I've heard some things. I've been here almost a week, but I haven't seen hide 'r hair of the man. They tell me he's one skinny sunuvagun, with big brown eyes and spidery fingers. They also tell me he's half demon and a vampire and a soldier and a gang member and a shinigami… whatever that is."

"It's a Japanese death god," the woman responded automatically, "like a grim reaper. Naomi probably told you that."

"Yeah. But really, who is this guy? Half the gossip around here involves him somehow, and I wanna know what's real and what's people seeing things they want t' see."

Who was Johnny? Well, that was a question for the ages, no matter how you turned it. She'd asked him about it once or twice in the last month, and even he couldn't answer the question, being both unstable and an amnesiac. Weird that she'd only just found that last one out.

"He's criminally insane," she answered finally, "sometimes paranoid, sometimes depressed, sometimes manic, sometimes eerily clever. Sometimes, he even acts like a normal person. But he also has no idea who he is, or why he does what he does, knows what he knows. We've talked about it a few times. He is, as Rorschach said, 'a man looking for answers'."

"Has he found them yet?" Billy asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"No."

Billy and Devi swung to face the subject of their conversation, leaning coolly against the wooden doorframe, arms loosely crossed.

"And, you know," the thin man went on, "it's not nice to talk about people behind their backs." He gave the southern man an icy glare, dropping the overall temperature of the hallway by about two degrees.

"Johnny," Devi sighed, "give him a break. He's new, and he just wants to know the truth. Shouldn't you be applauding him for asking question instead of looking like you're about to slit his throat?" Sometimes Devi had the distinct (eerie) feeling that no one else could get away with talking to her ex-boyfriend the way she did.

Johnny wavered. "He should have asked me."

"Oh, like you would have given him anything besides a blow to the head, let alone a coherent answer?"

The madman was silent for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth. Finally, he replied, "I suppose you're probably right. But he could have tried."

"Agreed," Devi said briskly, taking her tall companion's arm, "But if it were me, I know I wouldn't have."

Johnny, still leaning against his door, appeared oddly troubled by that innocuous statement. With a final half-glare, the dark man disappeared down an adjacent hall with his steel-toed boots making a fading clack on the hard stone floor.

The woman glanced up at her companion, brow raised. "Answer enough for you?"

"Yeah," Billy replied, shakily. "He's, ah, a bit intimidatin', isn't he?"

The hall rattled with the sound of Devi's startled laughter, the force of which actually collapsed her knees. The laugh made her smile. There weren't a whole lot of things to laugh about lately, and it was nice to finally have one.

-

TBC