If John learned anything over the last few months, it was that he hated the human body. He followed his resolution through religiously, but it wasn't without its mental costs. His brain was hardwired to keep itself safe from danger, and thus would go to extreme lengths to avoid it. Such was the nature of emotions. They weren't conscious decisions; people couldn't just choose what to feel on a whim, otherwise the world would be a much better place.
Emotions were drugs, chemicals supplied to the body in response to specific situations, manipulation in its rawest form, like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. People were addicted to some and repelled by others. All in the name of survival. Had this still been the stone age, John would have considered it an ingenious design. Unfortunately, in the modern world, this hereditary trait proved to be detrimental to his plans. Consciously, John knew he wasn't in immediate danger, but his body, true to its function, protested loudly. It served as a great reminder of how short-sighted evolution was, especially when one wished to study the threat rather than flee it. It worked great for guiding the less intelligent, but for a sapient creature like himself? Not so much.
If John thought he'd get used to the sensation after experiencing it enough times, he was woefully wrong. The mystery surrounding the feeling had long since faded, but whenever his heart rate increased, adrenaline flooding his limbs and turning them to jelly, he still fell victim to its effects. He couldn't so much as look a monster in the eye without flinching away. It was frustrating above all else, and like many things in his life, this became a daily reoccurrence. As it turned out, unless the mind was utterly broken, one didn't simply become numb to emotions. You either twisted your perception enough to avoid them altogether, or you learned to hunker down and endure. For John, it was the latter.
He never stopped feeling fear, but the longer he spent around the monsters, the more he realised a valuable lesson. Humans feared the unknown because much of it was left to the imagination, hence why the average Joe believed things to be worse than they truly were. Once you peel back the veil, people start to make sense of it, and the rationale takes hold again. It did little to alleviate the ailments in his body, but the more you knew your foe, the less leverage they had over you. John wasn't scared of the monsters themselves, but rather the emotions his body would punish him with. He took the lesson to heart, and what better way to understand the dilemma than to research it?
It was easier said than done. Granted, the monsters were hard to miss when they presented themselves on silver platters, but John couldn't find any opportunities to properly observe them. At school, his attention was split between them and his class, and juggling two things at once made it difficult to spot anything noteworthy. It wasn't all in vain; John could now, with complete confidence, conclude that each monster had the same behavioural pattern: stare at him for a good five seconds, then sod off to god knows where.
As expected, such vital information came at a cost, that being his grades. They suffered drastically. John wasn't a straight-A student, but when he returned home one evening to see his father, brows furrowed, clutching a crumpled report card, the latter dotted with Fs, words were exchanged. It genuinely caught John by surprise, though in retrospect, he should've seen it coming. That conversation was one he never wanted to have again, and by the end of it, his research had come to a screeching halt. He went from reading Greek mythology to studying mathematics, and lord forbid, his dyslexia struck at the worst possible time.
Dyslexia made learning extremely difficult, so what should've been simple arithmetic was more akin to rocket science. So, one can imagine the frustration of deciphering each symbol over and over to the point of burning them into memory. It was literal torture. After wasting weeks playing catch up, John knew he had to re-evaluate his method. Clearly, juggling two things at once wasn't working, so he tried again, only this time outside the premises. Without school life getting in the way, his research would have undivided attention and hopefully get better results. John always wanted to see what monsters got up to outside of staring creepily from the sidewalk, and without the classroom blocking his view, this was finally possible. It was a sound idea in principle, but alas, even this had limits. Apparently, it was considered "irresponsible" to leave a child unattended on the streets. The law demanded they be with a guardian at all times.
This put a dent in his plans. Sure, he was allowed to walk home on his own, but outside of that single occasion, John was leashed to where his father took him. He never had a say in that. When his father wanted to go somewhere, John was inclined to follow. He was adamant that his son would never be let out of his sight. No exceptions. Thus, family excursions were out of the question. Damn it. If only there were a time he could act without someone peeping over his shoulder. Should such a moment arise, John would be sure to take full advantage of it.
Wait. Come to think of it, there was one occasion which fit the criteria. People are estimated to spend at least one third of their lives sleeping, eight hours a day give or take. And what better way to spend that time than to do something more productive? Any man with an ounce of common sense would tell you how terrible of an idea this was. Living on the city outskirts made one exempt from its luminous rays, so the world outside was pitch black. It wouldn't be until several hundred yards out that the streetlights pierced the darkness. John would be playing Russian roulette trying to navigate around potholes and other unforeseeable threats.
He didn't care at this point. After weeks of stagnation, John was willing to try anything. And that's how he found himself huddled in his room one evening, armed to the teeth with worn sneakers and a rucksack, resolutely watching the sun slowly dip below the horizon. Soon, it disappeared all together, and the world was eclipsed in darkness once more. He waited a little longer, just to be sure, maybe to delay it a little longer. Truth be told, he didn't feel ready at all, but time wouldn't wait for him. He had to act now.
John hauled himself onto the ledge, firmly grasping the handle, turned it and pushed. The window opened. The air pressure dropped. He gasped involuntarily as cold air blasted his face, the ambience of the outdoors ringing in his ears. But he surged on, slipping his feet out first, one after the other, so they dangled over the edge. John shuffled on his rear, twisting to face the interior of his room, and slowly slunk out the window, gripping the frame with two clammy hands to lower himself onto the trashcan below. It buckled but held firm beneath his feet, even as he hopped off the lid to meet the pavement.
John took a moment to dust himself off, pulling a flashlight from his pocket before sauntering into the darkness. It wasn't until he was a safe distance from the house that he decided to turn it on, just in case his father happened to be awake. He shouldn't have been; John knew from careful observation that his father was in bed by dusk, usually asleep by nine until he rose again at six. That gave him four hours of exploration time, some for getting to and from the city, the other five for shut-eye.
Of course, John was a bundle of nerves as he stumbled down the sidewalk, both in fear of getting caught by the authorities and of the potential danger he was in. He had a feeling monsters were more active at night. They hadn't attempted anything threatening yet, but as the old saying goes, the odds are low, but never zero. Regardless, he surged on, the beam of his flashlight swivelling across the pavement. Even with limited vision, he was familiar with the area enough to distinguish one structure from another, so John knew he'd reached the boulevard once a series of trees came into view.
The avenue split into three roads running in parallel, all squashed between the rows of flats walling them in. There was something unsettling about seeing a place once teeming with life now empty and silent. Not a single vehicle sped by, a vast contrast to the clamorous cacophony of the morning traffic, a rat race with more speed than sense. John was used to the blaring car horns and roaring engines as they whistled past; taking that away left a desolate landscape so alien it was unmarked territory.
Impending doom aside, he was sort of thankful to be alone. The ability to walk five feet across the road without being reduced to a red mist was a welcome change. Besides, the few people who wandered the streets at this hour had a tendency to be on the shady side of matters. John heard plenty of stories about the foul atrocities committed under the cover of nightfall. It felt silly to be wary of some random thug rather than literal monsters, but kidnappings, murders, and muggings were commonplace, and he didn't fancy becoming the next victim. No siree, they won't be seeing his face on milk cartons.
Then there were the pedestrians with a moral compass to look out for. It was truly astonishing how many individuals were prepared to respect the law even when doing so failed to serve their interests. John couldn't help but spite the government for it. These individuals grew up surrounded by righteous propaganda, leaving them as slaves to their emotions: integrity, to be exact. So when presented with, let's say, a child wandering the streets alone, they would stop at nothing to ensure the oddity is corrected, all for the sake of self-fulfilment. In his case, their commitment would put him in serious legal trouble. Although they had good intentions, their goals clashed with his own, which would be difficult once the verbal slobber started flowing out:
"Why are you out so late?"
"Are you lost?"
"Where are your parents?"
Call it an exaggeration, but their inquisition would put him in a tight spot. John was not a good liar. Whatever fib he'd come up with would hardly pass as believable, so naturally, the ever righteous stranger would assume the worst, like he'd run away from home, a victim of abuse probably, and who knows what rabbit hole that would spiral into. He certainly didn't want the cops to get involved; that would bring his mission to a very abrupt end. In short, John simply didn't have the patience to deal with them. Their integrity would be his downfall. It was a blessing that the road was isolated, so the mandatory stealth section could wait a little longer.
Or maybe not.
John took a sharp turn. His eyes widened. One foot hit the other. He stumbled. He let out a gasp, stifled it quickly, almost gave away his position, having fallen flat on his rear, but he recomposed himself. Slowly, carefully, he found his footing again, pressing less forcefully on the pavement, silencing the loud clacking of his shoes. His flashlight went out, leaving him submerged in absolute darkness, but John didn't need it to see the imposing creature loitering under the flickering streetlamp.
A laestrygonian.
John's extensive research allowed him to successfully label the monster, a feat he'd pat himself on the back for later. He had seen them aimlessly wandering the sidewalk on his way to school, meandering around the schoolchildren, staring at them hungrily, but only from a safe distance. He was surprised it hadn't noticed him yet, given how close they were. John could taste a repulsive odour permeating the air, its scent potent enough to make him recoil. The monster was huge, far larger than any man had the right to be, easily passing eight feet in height, with muscles large enough to put any body builder to shame. The arms were built like pillars, riddled with tattoos and sprouting thousands of coarse hairs. Long ropy hair cascaded down its back, pulled up in a messy ponytail, stopping just short of the waist. It was shirtless, clad in nothing but shorts to cover its ripped frame. Good lord, the monster hadn't even skipped leg day.
Its back was turned, thankfully, relieving him of the horror of bearing witness to its face. John took the opportunity to fall back, slinking behind an adjacent building for cover. He peeked around the corner, just enough to see without exposing the rest of his body. He finally found what he was looking for. Now it was time to reap the rewards. Or at least, that was the plan. John knew of the potential danger he'd be in the minute he left the bedroom; his body chose now, of all times, to remind him of that.
The minute he tried to focus, his stomach dropped. Hard. This would have been forgivable if that was the only symptom, but thump thump thump went his heart. It banged against his ribcage, loud and obnoxious, its echo magnified by the silence of the streets. John almost went into a frenzy trying to calm his heart, not wanting to risk the possibility of the monster hearing it beat, but his poor attempt at a breathing exercise was equally deafening. It didn't matter. The laestrygonian didn't so much as glance his way. It just stood there, as motionless as it had been three minutes earlier. Then four minutes. Five, no, make that six.
Indeed, six minutes of less-than-focused observation later, the laestrygonian hadn't moved from its spot. The dread pooling in his stomach was persistent as ever, and for once, John considered listening to it. This was pointless. For all the time he'd been around that corner, ready to duck behind it should the monster rear its head, nothing happened. Not even the slightest inclination that the thing was alive. He could've been dumbly staring at a statue for all he knew; a conveniently placed prank to frighten late-night wanderers. It was a very real possibility. He briefly considered waltzing up to it just to be sure. It wouldn't hurt to get a little closer...
A sharp spike of adrenaline shut that idea down fast. No, he couldn't afford to be reckless. This was a being of flesh and bone. It was real, alive, and more than capable of snapping him in two like a toothpick. He had to stay streetwise. John took another deep breath, slow and methodical, and returned to his task with renewed focus.
John wasn't one to believe patience was a virtue, but perhaps good things did come to those who waited. He almost chided himself for wasting more time on a frivolous task, but the dedication paid off. It was always there, right in front of him, only now he was no longer distracted. And so, he saw. The hulk was hunched over, head craned, hands held out to examine something. Its right arm would shift slightly every now and then, flicking leftward before returning to its original position. It sounded meagre, but for John, this was big news. Whatever was in its palms had the monster transfixed, and he was determined to figure out what it was.
Unfortunately, that would require him to do something two parts brave and eight parts stupid. The laestrygonian's bulky body obscured the object from sight. He needed to somehow rotate around the monster without getting caught. Was such a manoeuvre possible? Theoretically, yes. In real life application, not so much. A reasonable man would turn back and call it a night. John would've done the same, but his rationality was a little frayed at the moment; there was no telling how far he'd go for more intel. His body, however, voted against the idea of approaching certain death. To drive the point further home, it vociferously triggered his fight or flight response, forcing adrenaline into his system. John ignored it. He wouldn't let fear get in the way, even if it cost him his life.
The darkness was thick enough to hide him from prying eyes, but there were other factors to take into account that made it all the more difficult. This was a monster that supposedly had a taste for human flesh, being a cannibalistic giant and all, so it was within reason to assume the worst. A sensitive nose was more than likely, super hearing included. There was a chance the laestrygonian was too absorbed with whatever it was doing to notice him, but John opted to move silently anyway. He was fairly certain night vision was not in its arsenal, otherwise it wouldn't be idling under the streetlamp.
He'd never attempted something so brash before tonight, so John was woefully inexperienced in the art of stealth. Still, the task was plausible. Just stay quiet and keep out of sight. It sounded simple enough. Could he pull it off, though? There was only one way to find out.
He was about to make his move when the monster snapped its head up. It hadn't turned his way, but the sudden movement killed John's courage on the spot. Something in his gut tugged, and it was out of instinct that he shrank back behind the corner, out of sight. It wasn't until a second passed that John realised what had happened. A hand slapped silently against his knee, and he cursed himself for his cowardice. Some habits were simply too hard to break.
Damn the human body.
Then the air shifted. John stopped mid-beration. The hairs on his arms stood on end, not out of fear necessarily, but rather anticipation. There was a sound, faint, far in the distance, whistling, screeching, recognizable. He shuffled out to see the laestrygonian facing the road, head cocked to the side, having heard it as well. Its arms fell to its sides, and John's gaze shifted to the rectangular object clutched in its hand. At first, he couldn't tell what it was; a thick slab of wood was his first guess, but upon further inspection, he saw the cursive text scribbled on its surface, and the truth was revealed.
"The Fellowship of the Ring—J.R.R. Tolkien."
John stared in bemusement, did a double take, then stared again. It was a book. Wow. Of all the things it could've been, this was not one he was expecting. He assumed the object to be a ritualistic object or some morbid trinket of sorts, not New York's number one best seller. It never occurred to him that monsters could read, or even understand basic literature, but apparently, even man-eating cannibals could appreciate a classic.
The sheer absurdity of it almost drew a laugh from him, but John silenced it immediately. Now was not the time to jest. This wasn't the most invaluable intel, but it was a discovery nonetheless. He had to admit: the laestrygonian had good taste. The Lord of the Rings was an all-time favourite of his, one of the few epic novels he dedicated time to finishing. Oh, how he missed those days.
John was pulled from his thoughts as a taxi materialised from the darkness, flooding the streets with a blinding light. It sliced through the silence like a knife, loud and obnoxious as it rocketed at suicidal speeds, veering dangerously to and fro, kicking up dust clouds like a thrashing animal, yet somehow remaining in its lane. The brakes screamed, and it stopped dead in its tracks, stationed perfectly in front of the laestrygonian. The engine went dead, and all was still.
The arrival of a second party was unexpected, as was the rising suspense its presence wrought. It would've been easy to blame the man-eating monster, because a late-night taxi was hardly something worth getting worked up over. But John couldn't deny the palpable change in the atmosphere. The air grew heavy, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders. There was an ominous feel to it, something he couldn't place his finger on. Against his better judgement, John crept closer for a better look.
The taxi was standard: bright yellow, worn and weathered from years of use. Scratches marred its surface, the tinted windows fractured but intact. Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. Then the door swung open, grating against its hinges, but the hand that caused it was nowhere to be seen. Even as John craned his neck to see inside, all that greeted him was black. No driver, no interior, nothing, like a gateway to the abyss. It was horrifying to imagine what dwelled within it, but the laestrygonian was unfazed.
It took a confident step toward the vehicle, leaning down with a skull-crushing palm pressed against its hood. The monster was far too large to fit inside, yet as it ducked its head into the vehicle, John watched in morbid fascination as its giant body contorted, stripped of its skeleton, compressing down to smaller proportions before being sucked in like liquid up a straw. The process looked excruciating — too traumatic for the faint of heart — but the laestrygonian showed no signs of pain throughout. The monster vanished into the void, the door slamming shut behind it. The engine roared to life a second later, belching smoke from the exhaust, and without further ado, the taxi shot off, still accelerating as it sped away. John watched it leave, the fleeting headlights growing dimmer like a dying beacon in the distance, eventually fading altogether, taking all traces of it and the monster's existence with them.
It was a while until John realised he was gaping, glued to the same position, facing where the unnatural happened moments prior. He closed his mouth with conscious effort, turned around, and walked away. The night was still young, but he'd seen enough. It left him unsatisfied, but he wouldn't dare look further, not after witnessing... whatever that was. For now, at least. He needed time to digest what happened. He could stew on it later, when he was in the right mindset. In the meantime, John just wanted to go home. He was tired.
Sleep came easily that night. Well, after wandering in the dark for hours, scaling the walls of his house and hauling himself through the window in a feat of herculean strength, it was no wonder he passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. Undoubtedly, he was going to be equally exhausted once he woke up, hopefully at a time relative to the norm. That gave him a few hours of respite at most, not nearly enough to stay focused on his school studies, an oversight on his behalf.
He rarely dreamt. Most nights passed quickly; he'd be drifting off one minute only to awaken the next with light streaming through the gaps in his curtains. So when John found himself in a completely different location, stranded in a forest somewhere deep in the countryside, he was well aware of his subconscious' fabrication of a false reality. Most people go through their dreams like a blur, unable to discern reality from fiction, just sort of accepting whatever outlandish event occurs as perfectly normal. When John dreamt, he remained lucid, as if he was awake. It's a shame he couldn't control the events playing out, otherwise the experience would've been more enjoyable. Though he saw through his own eyes, his body moved on its own accord.
As did his mouth. He was aware of the facial muscles moving beneath tight skin, his lips parting and closing, spewing words in a language he couldn't comprehend. The voice wasn't his own; it was deeper, garbled, older — much older, ancient even — addressing the boy squaring up to him. Well, "young man" would be a more accurate term. He was tall, muscular yet lean, with jet black hair falling just short of the shoulders, normal if not for the... was that a sword in his hand?
It was a xiphos, actually, a blade of Greek origin if his memory served correctly. The blade flashed bronze, its edges razor sharp, and the owner wielded it with intent, levelling the tip towards him, or whoever this body belonged to. Being on the receiving end of any weapon was enough cause for concern, but John's focus was elsewhere, that being the man's eyes. They burned with animosity, vibrant, sea green irises so full of spite they pierced his very being, metaphorically speaking, at least. But from the way the blade was being gripped, that was about to become very literal.
Something silver danced into his peripheral vision, long and curved like a katana, a glowing greenish vapour smothering its surface like smog. The handle hooked inward, grazing the edge of his palm, warm to the touch: a scimitar. This was his weapon. No, it was her weapon. Their weapon. Yes, that sounded about right. One cut, and poison would flood the body, paralysing the victim from the waist down, and only after hours of unbearable pain would they be allowed to die...
Wait. John snapped from his stupor, all thanks to a dawning realisation. How did he know that? Identifying the sword was one thing, but accessing other knowledge, like it being poisonous and the side effects of that, was far from his expertise. Had there been a single shred of doubt in his mind, he would have played it off as a bold assumption, yet there wasn't any to be found. The weapon was familiar and foreign at the same time. John had never held a sword in his life, nor had he seen one in the flesh, but it belonged in his hand, the weight barely noticeable, like an extra appendage, as if he'd always used it.
How was that even possible? He didn't know, unless this was a premonition, a possibility he couldn't neglect anymore. The weapon moved of its own volition, raised to protect him. The second it did, the man, his opponent, lunged.
Author's Note:
There goes Chapter 2. As you have noticed, John is very aware of his emotions and has his own views as to why they exist. It may come off as edgy, but that's simply how he perceives them. Not something you would expect from a ten-year old, but this is from a universe where twelve-year olds square off against the forces of hell, so it isn't that farfetched.
Any guesses who the dude in his dream was? It is kind of obvious, but still, why were they fighting to begin with? Who knows? Do I even know? I don't know. 'Tis a mystery for another time...
See you next time for Chapter 3 of John's Bizarre Adventures!