A study. Two figures hunched over a chessboard.
One, although a little tousled, a little unkempt, looks normal. Dark hair, masculine features and soft eyes. He wears his creased white shirt and black slacks to good effect. His sleeves are rolled back, his elbows on his knees, and as he makes his moves, the strange tattoos gracing his forearms slip in and out of view.
His name is John Constantine and he has been to Hell. He died in a suicide attempt but was revived by the efforts of dedicated paramedics. He now lives with his memories of Hell and the knowledge that Lucifer has a place set aside just for him.
His companion, however, looks like a nightmare made real. Charred and scarred flesh covers what is visible of his features. His hairless head is a mass of churned skin, his nose is all but gone and his deep-set green eyes look down at the pieces with an otherworldly iridescence. His hands are gnarled claws, at odds with the sleeves of the tailored suit he wears. The suit was a special effort for this meeting. His usual attire, a symbiotic layer of proto-mass grafted to his body, lies dormant and hidden beneath it.
Once known as Al Simmons, he also has seen Hell. He however, was sent back, by Satan Himself, to lead Hells legions against the masses.
His defection to the cause of humanity has caused Satan no little amount of consternation.
Now both men dread the day they again darken Hell's doorstep.
But for the moment, their simple game continues. Pieces advance and pieces fall. A conversation fills the empty space between moves, as neither man truly knows his companion's tale.
"." says John Constantine in answer to a question, posed by his compatriot, regarding his fall from grace. "As long as I can remember, I've seen things; things I realized no one else could see. You know the things I mean, you've seen 'em too. Difference is; I was just a kid.
In the end they drove me out of my head. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat and never had any real peace. And that's all I really wanted in the end, some peace." Constantine chuckles dryly: "That; and an end to my mothers nagging."
"So I punched my own ticket. No big deal, right. It happens all the time. Only once I did it, the visions became real; real enough to touch, real enough to torture.
"The paramedics said I was dead for three minutes…but it was an eternity on my side of the veil; a lifetime full of pain and horror.
But like I said, you've been there, you know the things I saw."
Constantine looked his disfigured companion in the eyes.
"There was a second or two there," he said "after they brought me back, when I was just so glad to be away from the horror that I can't describe the relief. I almost cried.
"But only for a second. Then I realized that now, after what I'd done, that was my destiny anyway. Because if Hell was real; then so was God, and so were the rules. All suicides go directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect shit. And, man, what a comedown that realization was. This life, the release from the pain, was only temporary."
Constantine sat back in his chair and looked toward the dark window for a moment. Then his shaking hands reached for the cigarette pack on the table beside him.
The mundane motions of shaking one from the pack, bumming it and reaching for his lighter, seem to calm him.
"So now, I fight back." He continues around the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. "I stick it to the fuckers whenever I get the chance. And I always make sure they know who I am. I'm hoping that when my time comes, Hell won't want me back down there, after all the damage I've caused. Or maybe the big man upstairs will want to shake my hand.
But knowing my luck, Satan'll probably just want to get His claws on me even more."
A few seconds of silence descend as Constantine lights his cigarette and Simmons ponders what he's been told.
"So how is it they haven't nailed you yet?" Asks Simmons. His voice, though deep and gravelly, seems incongruously smooth when voiced by a mouth so pitted and twisted. "I mean, lets face it, John, you're basically human. No real power. No exceptional strength. No fancy weapons. How have you survived?"
His John chuckles, mirthlessly. "By being an asshole" He answers, breathing the sentence out in a cloud of cigarette smoke. "And by being smarter than them. Most Daemons aren't exactly mental heavyweights, you know. No offence."
"None taken. I'm not a daemon; I'm Hellspawn. I'm…."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know" John interrupts "You're from Hell, not of Hell. Save the Demonology class. I was making a generalization; one intended to be offensive. Sarcasm ain't really you're strong point is it, Al?"
Simmons considers his comrade-in-damnation for a moment before replying;
"I used to think it was. 'Till I met you."
Each man smiles a slight smile and the game, and the conversation, move on.
"My turn." States Constantine simply. "How do you get around looking like the survivor of a horrific pizza oven accident? Doesn't that cramp your style? I mean, look at you, man; you're not what you'd call inconspicuous."
Again Simmons takes a moment before replying. He realizes he's never had to talk so bluntly about what he's become. He's either been facing off against Daemons, who don't much care how you look. Or he's been hiding in the shadows, like a monster. He tells Constantine as much.
"But I'm not a monster." he continues, holding Constantine's eyes "I was betrayed. Set up. Then forced into this: this body, this life; servitude without conscience. Just like when I was alive, taking orders with shit-all to say about it.
And it's cost me everything: My family, my life, my sanity, and nearly my humanity. I won't play that game anymore, not for eternity. Not for Him. So here I am. I would have thought that an existence like this was Hell, but now I know that this is nothing compared to what'll happen if He gets hold of me again…"
The moment passes, and they look, once more, down at the board. Each is assaulted by his own tumultuous thoughts and both are eager to resume the game, if only to escape those thoughts.
But they are surprised to find that the board has changed. Subtly, but distinctly.
No white pieces remain. All the pieces, both on the board and standing beside it, are black. And they are all pawns.
"What's this happy horse shit?" asks Constantine, without looking up.
"Do you think He's trying to tell us something?" Simmons replies.
"I think it's time to leave" John says, glancing at the door "He's watching, listening. Probably has something coming to visit as we speak"
They stand as one and gather or adjust their clothes and belongings. They don't speak.
They leave the room quickly and without another word.
A nodding farewell on the street is the only concession they make to mutual respect.
Then they go their separate ways, each disappearing silently into the night.