(Silent Hill 2 Promise - Gingertail cover is recommended for the first portion of this chapter.)
Despite not having a physical stomach, Tate felt sick watching the exchange. Genuinely sick to the point of nausea, he retreated deeper into the house, to the upstairs bathroom. He shut and locked the door then went over to the toilet and put the seat up. Hugging his middle, he hunched over the clean white porcelain bowl for several seconds, expecting to puke at any moment.
The oily, gross feeling crawled around his stomach before burrowing into his guts where the feeling subsided to a dull ache. He no longer felt like he was going to barf but it felt like a giant slug had taken up residence in his intestines. To comfort himself he went to the master bedroom and rooted around through the closet until he found one of his dad's favorite sweaters. Gathering the brown polyester in both hands, he pressed his face into the garment.
But the comforting smell of his dad was gone. Whatever lingering scent it held after Hugo left his family had finally faded away. There was only the smell of dust and age now. He sniffed harder, wanting desperately to catch just a hint of that remembered sense but it just wasn't there. The sick feeling came back again, gnawing and raw and studded with pain that made his eyes burn.
His dad was gone. He wasn't coming back. Not ever. Addie went away too, just like Hugo. She wasn't going to come back either. Michael had made it sound like Constance left too but now they were both downstairs, fighting and making up and being weird at each other. Tate pounded on his head with the heels of his fists as he grappled with the mangled up situation, trying to make sense of everything and how he felt about it.
"What are you doing?"
Michael's voice came from the doorway, lancing through Tate's frantic despair. He knew he locked the door when he entered the bedroom, but it was wide open now. Michael stood there in his expensive suit and velvet coat, his long hair swept back in a way Tate wasn't used to. He looked like a someone Stoker or Byron would adore.
Tate sniffled and rubbed his nose. "What're you doing?" he challenged since he didn't want to explain himself.
Michael pursed his lips briefly then his expression went neutral. He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "My birthday party is this coming weekend. I wanted to know if you'd come."
Tate pulled his attention up off Michael's pointy-toed boots and wrinkled his nose. "Seriously?"
Michael arched his brows just a little. "Don't I sound serious?"
Tate fidgeted. "Why do you want me there?"
"Why not?" Michael smiled. He had a dimple in his cheek just like Tate did. "It's an important occasion and you're my family. Whether you like it or not."
Even though Michael was still smiling, his choice of wording bothered Tate. Made him leery. "You're not going to sacrifice me or something, are you?"
Michael laughed. "No. You'd need a body for that." He tipped his head and his gaze went suddenly critical. "Do you want a body?"
Tate eyed him, skeptical of the offer and the other guy's sanity now. "Why? So you could sacrifice it?"
Michael laughed again, sounding genuinely amused by Tate's paranoia. He stepped into the bedroom, moving closer to the ghost teen. "You're so obsessed with the sacrificing."
"Have you been downtown lately?"
That earned him a nod of concession from Michael. "Valid. But I wouldn't restore your life just to take it again. I have plenty of sacrificial lambs if I want to end a life. Do you want to live again, Tate? I can make that happen."
Tate's nose wrinkled as the prospect dwarfed him. Though he'd seen the priest and Constance brought back, he had never considered his own return. Not seriously. Thinking about it now the idea terrified him and he didn't know why. Michael's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his panicked thoughts.
"No!" Tate exclaimed. Then, more restrained: "No. I'm good. I'd miss Violet."
Michael snorted but didn't try to punch holes in the flimsy argument. "Suit yourself. It won't matter in the long run anyway. But I do want you at my party. You'll come. Won't you?"
Tate's mouth twitched. Michael was still talking weird and his invitation sounded more like a veiled demand. Tate toyed with the idea of refusing but what he said was: "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."
Michael smiled brightly, pleased with the response. "Good. Wear something nice."
He gave the teen's shoulder a squeeze then left. Tate stared after him for several seconds before ducking off to his hiding spot in the basement. The exchange left him feeling oddly like he'd just bickered with his mother about school picture day. He rubbed his gritty eyes and tried to remind himself that Michael was technically his offspring. His son.
It didn't work.
Michael was too old to think of as a child or even a peer. He was a grown-up and acted like one so effortlessly, it was difficult for Tate to remember when dealing with him that Michael had been a little boy once. He had played with cars and trick-or-treated with Tate on Halloween. Back then he was a best friend of sorts. Now he was more like a bossy uncle. Michael wasn't as bad as Chad, but Tate suspected he had the potential to be. That bothered him on several levels. He didn't need two Chads telling him how to dress and what parties to attend. One was bad enough.
Tate paced and chewed his thumbnail. He couldn't stop Michael being an adult, but he had to figure out a way to stop him from becoming a royal pain in the ass.
…
Troy leaned against the door of the rickety van, brown eyes on the foggy world that passed by outside. He was crowded into the vehicle with far too many other people, all pilgrims traveling to New Jerusalem. It smelled of dirt and unwashed bodies in the tight quarters. The view didn't offer much but it was a small escape from the cramped space and it reminded him how close they were to their destination. His was the last vehicle in a caravan of six, all coming down to California from up north. Many of the people in the van were parishioners sent by the New World United Church, a blended religious union between the surviving God-fearing supporters of Christ.
Troy was among those representatives. The dark haired 21-year-old was handsome and charming, healthy and strong. A perfect ambassador for the cause. He had been a ward of the church since he was a child. The elders trusted he would help undermine the Antichrist and destroy the false church his wicked followers had erected in the place called New Jerusalem.
The young man was anxious to go. For years he had strange dreams that he knew were significant but made no sense until the end of the world. The visions of sea serpents and oxen were a mystery, but the portion about the dragon finally made sense to him. And he felt confident that if he could get close to Michael he would be able to figure out what the ox and the sea serpent were.
The van when passed through the settlement checkpoint and came to a stop near the center of town. Troy was one of the first out of the vehicle. He shouldered his duffel bag and slipped away from the group before his travel buddy, Wyatt, got a chance to latch onto him. Troy didn't want to be anchored down. He had too much to do on his personal agenda.
He took only one look back at the church group before he ducked around the corner, out of sight.
—
Troy wasn't exactly sure where to start looking for the Antichrist, apart from the church, and he was certain his group would head there first. Instead of going to the church, the stray missionary went to a bar across the square. He thought he might ask someone who worked there if they knew where the local god spent his time, but he found something even better. Just inside the main door was a pin board bearing a host of flyers. Several of them were notices of the upcoming birthday bash for Michael Langdon that was being held at the Ford Theatre.
Smiling to himself, Troy pulled one of the flyers off the wall for a better look at the details: The time it would start, a few important names that would be attending. There was information on how to volunteer and information on how to enter a lottery to be chosen as a blood sacrifice at the event. The fine print at the bottom warned there would be blood-shed, death, and sexual acts. It cautioned that anyone attending who complained about anything would be executed on the spot.
The door behind him opened, encouraging the young man to move further into the cramped place. The left wall was the bar, backed by rows of various colored liquor bottles. Christmas lights provided the place's primary light source. A burly man with a ruddy face and a dirty apron was tending bar. Troy folded the flyer up and stuffed it into his back pocket.
"Getcha something?" the bartender asked when Troy settled on a stool.
"What's good?"
"The honey mead," said the bartender. "Moonshine if you're looking for something stronger."
"Moonshine, huh?" asked Troy with a quirky smile. "Like, from the prohibition era?"
"It's distilled from paint thinner," said the woman next to Troy.
She didn't raise her voice but he could hear her clearly despite the chatter in the bar. He had noticed her peripherally when he sat down, but her hooded cloak hid her features, making her somewhat invisible to him until she spoke.
"And wine's rotten dandelions these days," the bartender sniped. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"I'll have a mead," Troy interjected.
The stout bartender went to work, pouring out a chipped glass of amber fluid for Troy before moving down the bar to tend to other customers.
"The mead's a good choice," the woman said. "But I know a place where you can get a real drink."
Troy sipped his mead and was surprised at how sweet and fizzy it was. Like thick soda, with an alcohol kick. "Oh? Where's that, pray tell?"
"The Bradford Hotel," the woman said. "You know where it is?"
He shook his head. "Just got into town. I'm here for the, uh, the birthday thing. I'm Troy," he said, sticking his hand out to her.
"Evangelina," she smiled. She extended a hand to meet his, brushing her fingertips against his palm rather than shaking hands.
"Pleased to meet you," he said. Then: "If the Bradford's so great, why come here?"
"It's the only place in town that brews actual coffee," she shrugged. "Everywhere else is still relying on pre-apocalypse freeze-dried shit. Maxwell House and the like."
Troy made a face. "That's disappointing."
"Tell me about it," she agreed. She slid off her bar stool then. "Troy, it was a pleasure. I hope I'll see you again sometime."
He stopped mid-sip and set his drink down, surprised. "Oh. You're leaving?" He thought that might sound too desperate, so he tried to reel it in with a charming smile. "Well. It was nice to make your acquaintance. Are you going to be at the, um, the birthday celebration?"
She smiled coyly. "I expect I will be. Maybe we'll cross paths."
She turned and moved through the narrow bar to the exit. Troy watched her go, admiring the way she seemed to glide across the floor despite the crowd. Then he swigged a big drink from his glass. Without Evangelina there to impress, he gave a healthy belch and considered his next steps.
—
Author's Note:
When I wrote the roles, I envisioned Lady Gaga as Evangelina and Finn Witrock as Troy. They're both equal parts character and plot device so, since they were necessary, I tailored them to folks I love from other seasons of AHS.
Also, when I started the Murder House Revisited fic six years ago, I didn't put much thought into what it would be like for Tate to see Michael grow up and even grow older than him. Speaking for him, it's weird to see your kid reach developmental milestones you'll never get to.
Six years has been a crazy ride. I actually got Disney/Fox to consider my stuff for a graphic novel. Unfortunately, the merger meant that couldn't happen (along with a ton of other comic book-ish stuff Fox was planning) but it was neat getting to talk to them about it. I'm thinking about releasing the manuscript on Fanfic since it's complete and all. It just isn't official or in graphic novel format.
Next time: It's a birthday party! And what a party...