Boyue's Note: DAMNNNNN BOYUE, BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE PLOT HOLES.
This chapter features heavily my favorite minor character. I'm biased. I know.
MATERNAL HEART
"Due Date...
Reunion"
Who would've thought that coming back to life would hurt as much as dying? Certainly not Damien. His body sputters back in commission with a sharp gasp for breath. His limbs flail to grasp onto something even though he isn't falling and his back is solidly rested on the ground. He sits up quicker than he should and immediately regrets it when his eyes roll back and his head swim from all his nerves screaming at him to lie the fuck back down. Dirt, blood, and vomit are having a threesome in his mouth. His eyes struggle to stay open like a flickering light. His brain goes on and off like an improperly wired computer as he tries to recollect himself.
He isn't waking up a shallow grave or a coffin, that much he's been able to figure out. Instead, he's at some sort of damp basement or cellar that does lack proper air circulation, lighting, and heating. He's already feeling chills that he knows isn't related to his recent resurrection. The traces of soil on him are still moist from the snow, which tells him that he's been unearthed not too long ago, which in turn brings a whole new strings of questions he can't process yet. He palms his forehead to ease the pounding headache and guiltily let his eyes close just for a few seconds.
"Well... fuck me. Welcome back, my friend."
Before Damien can fully register whose voice is sending a tremor through his ears, the cigarette stench gives the answer away. If he could've moved without feeling like he's going to fall over and puke his guts out, he would've tackled Christophe and beat the living shit out of the guy. But since he can't get around the nausea rushing at him when he tries to stand, he settles with glaring at Christophe and relishes in the fantasy of plucking those sleep-deprived eyes out later.
"Fuck you, I'm not your friend," Damien hisses, his voice hoarse and way less intimidating than he wants it to come across. He half coughs half gags and spits out a mouthful of brown saliva. As he wipes his mouth, he narrows his eyes at Christophe. "... You were expecting me."
Christophe chuckles, his fingers move to catch the cigarette that would've fallen otherwise when he speaks. With a twisted smile, he recites, "And the third day he shall rise again."
"Yeah, you're confusing me with the other guy with the flower crown and toga," Damien says.
"You're just as big a pussy." To Damien's surprise, Christophe extends a hand out and offers to help him up to his feet. "Your doctor spy told me you're coming."
If Christophe knows that Dr. Ralph was spying on his behalf and that he told Christophe to come get him, Damien figures the blabbering doctor probably told Christophe everything there is about Pip's pregnancy already so there is no point hiding and playing pretend. He makes a mental note to find a pediatrician that knows how to keep his mouth shut.
With Christophe closer, Damien can make out the fresh cuts and bruises that Christophe's donning like the latest fashion trend. He doesn't dwell on them, figuring that a man in that line of business can't possibly walk away without a few scars to show off. What he does dwell on is Christophe's intention. He stares at Christophe's hand like he's half-expecting it to suddenly punch him out and sadly won't be too surprised if it does. He only hopes he'll react fast enough this time.
"Tell me," Damien says, locking eyes with Christophe and not taking the hand. "Who?"
Christophe pulls back, the offer gone with the scoff he makes. He taps off ashes from his cigarette before he puts it back in his mouth and takes a long drag. He walks off toward the corner, where the same bag he brought the daggers in slumps hazardously against the wall. Damien's heart takes a leap - a concrete sign that he's really back to life - as he watches Christophe takes something out. He honestly won't put it past Christophe to hand over some fake daggers to his kid or whoever hired him and keeps the real ones for himself.
But that would be too easy, huh? Why would the universe go easy on him now?
Christophe pulls out one dagger, the same one that was nice and snug in Damien's body a few days ago. Damien tenses and shifts to get up, one hand planting on the ground for support and the other over his stomach for protection. When he finally stands and doesn't topple over like a drunk baby, Christophe hands him the dagger hilt first.
"Don't fucking ask questions you know the answer to," Christophe says.
Damien likes to think he can read people decently, but he can't quite figure Christophe out. Christophe is a soul with no restraint, no faith, and no fear, but struggles constantly with itself. The only thing he can be certain is that Christophe's someone he'd really rather have on his side. And it looks like he's actually getting that chance. Thank you for fucking once, universe.
Damien weights the dagger in his hand. It's lighter than it looks, but feels solid and powerful. His abdomen and chest ache from the memory of what this so-called last resort has done to him. While it's comforting to have the dagger in his hand, it isn't enough. If he wants to go by the plan he made with Kenny, the other six are the key.
"And the other ones?" Damien awkwardly slides the dagger through his belt loops.
"Other ones?"
"Don't fuck with me," Damien says with a roll of his eyes and wonders if the dagger can be used like a normal weapon to poke out Christophe's eyes. "I'll get them over your dead body if I have to."
Christophe crooks his neck in a fit of offense, like Damien has just called his mother a cow-fucking sheep. "If Kenny told you otherwise, he was mistaken. There was only one."
If he has to choose between Kenny's words and Christophe's, of course Damien will choose Kenny without a second thought. It happens more out of instinct rather intent that he flicks his wrist outward toward Christophe. To be honest, he's just as surprised as Christophe at the puff of fire that lits up in his hand. His powers are fucking back. Thank you again, universe. He tilts his head with a lopsided smile. The fireball inflates a bit as he takes a step forward.
"The daggers," Damien says slowly. "Where are they?"
Christophe, as expected, doesn't waver one bit. He sucks in the last of the cigarette then lets it drop unceremoniously to the ground. He licks his chapped lip, weary but honest eyes looks at Damien. "I don't know, but if you stop being a ball-lickering twat, I'll help you find them."
"I don't have time!" Damien bursts out, the fire blooming with his anger. If Christophe flinches, he doesn't see it. "I need them now!"
Christophe closes the distance between them. In a bold move, he grips Damien by the wrist despite the threatening flame. "Let me be very clear. The way things are, I'm the only shot you have to not fucking die again. You have no idea what's happening out there now. This isn't TV Kiddy Hour. No one's sitting around licking Barney's yeast-infected pussy. You think your trick scares me? Ha! Please. Don't embarrass yourself. I have seen worse. I have been through worse." Christophe presses in, the nicotine smoke being the only thing Damien can smell. "I'm not afraid of you."
Damien breaks out of Christophe's hold. If the circumstance were different, he would've shoved the fireball right in Christophe's face and kick him in the nuts to show him what's what. Instead, he withdraws the summoned fire as a chill glides up his spine. Even though his voice didn't quiver and he wasn't trembling like a little girl, the fear in Christophe's eyes is unmistakable. And seeing the motherfucking Mole scared? Well, it makes Damien a little worried.
"The doctor didn't told you everything, huh?" Christophe shakes of his head in exasperation. "Why do you think we're hiding down here?"
"... I didn't know we were hiding."
Christophe opens his mouth to breath as he steps back. He reaches into one pocket of his shovel strap and lights up a new cigarette. He blows the first smoke off to the side, exhales in exhaustion, and looks at Damien almost with disdain. "You're fucking slow, aren't you? Did you leave your brain in Hell? Enough talking. From what I understand, you're out of time, and I don't like wasting mine so let's go."
"Wait," Damien calls out, not budging even as Christophe ascends the staircase. "Why are you helping me?"
"I'm not. Your bitch of a son and I have unfinished business."
"What business?" Damien asks. He wobbles after Christophe up the stairs. When Christophe gives him the silence treatment again, Damien presses on, "Hey, you want to work together, right? We can start by trusting each other and you not walking away every time I'm talking to you. I could've shoved barbed wire up your ass for killing me, but I haven't. That's trust, my friend."
Christophe shoots Damien a side glance. When he speaks, his words are soft but heavy with guilt. "He hurt someone I want to protect."
That's enough of an explanation for Damien right now. In a way, he now has something in common with Christophe. He meets Christophe at the top of the stairs and nods. "Let's get the asshole then."
Kenny's trailer is in the same condition as the last time Damien saw it. The door handle he broke off is half buried under the new layer of snow. He holds his breath as he nudges the door open and steps in. The hopelessly deluded part of him thinks he'll see Kenny in a burrito blanket that offers no warmth, slurping expired instant ramen. The only thing that greets him, though, is the gut-churning stench of rot and despair. He knows for sure this time Kenny isn't coming back - because he's taken away that power for his own selfish needs. Even if Kenny says it isn't so, even if the world says it isn't so, even if God says it isn't so, Damien will never let it be okay. He traded his best friend's life for his own. How is he supposed to forgive himself?
As if sensing that Damien is heading for a pity party for one, Christophe picks up the notebook on Kenny's bed and tosses it at him to snap him out of his thoughts. "Is this it?"
Damien catches the notebook and hastily flips through the pages. Maybe he's missed something the first time. Maybe he only gave Christophe half of the clue. Kenny has sounded so sure that all the daggers are together. What did they miss? How will he have enough time to find them before it's too late?
"Sheet," Christophe hisses, and Damien wonders if he's supposed to look at Kenny's bedsheet for answers. "We got trouble."
Stuart and Carol McCormick come through the door one by one. This is probably the first time Damien has seen them where they aren't yelling at each other or passed out after a drug high. The McCormicks stand stiffly, their heads tilted at an angle that can't be comfortable. At first, Damien thinks they're in their usual drunken stupor, stumbling in here on a whim. But when Stuart takes out his crack pipe and breaks it in half then jabs the broken end frantically toward them, while Carol swings a butter knife and growls incoherently, Damien realizes they aren't drunk. Hell no. They are fucking possessed.
"That's why we were hiding..." Damien mumbles under his breath as he ducks from Carol's knife. Next to him, Christophe wrestles with Stuart for the crack pipe.
With the trailer the size that it is, there is no room to walk away unscathed. If he wanted to, Damien can easily taken down the McCormicks with a flick of his wrist. But even if they're two cunts who treat their kids like shit and are total waste of space, Damien really, really doesn't want more McCormick blood on his hand. He doesn't want any more blood on his hand period.
He jumps over the small dinner table to avoid Carol then shoves Stuart off Christophe before anything gets out of hand. Unlike him, he doubts Christophe has any reservation against bashing Stuart's head in with his shovel.
"Christophe! Go!" Damien shouts, waving for Christophe to follow him out.
Damien damn nearly trips over the broken handle as he bolts out of the trailer with Christophe and the McCormicks trailing behind. He throws his arm out and points. At his command, a barren tree in the yard snaps and collapses in front of the McCormicks. It buys them time to jump over the half-standing wooden fence and build more distance between their pursuers. For good measure, Damien sets the fence aflame and looks back at the eyes are hollow and devoid of any self-awareness. If it isn't obvious they're under demonic control, it should be clear when Carol doesn't stop and walks right through the burning fence like it's nothing. Stuart follows through with the same. Carol says something as the flame envelops her. Stuart pushes onward close behind screaming.
"Fuck! No!" Damien screeches and heaves a pile of snow atop the McCormicks to snuff out the fire.
The McCormicks both topple under the weight of the snow and the flame, their bodies denting the white snow. Damien draws in a forced breath and commands his lungs to keep supplying oxygen to his brain so he doesn't fucking lose it. How can his son get so powerful in the short span of time he was gone? His hand reaches back to feel the dagger tucked between the loops of his pants. The last resort, will he really have to use it?
'It's all for you, Damien."
"What?" Damien turns and faces Christophe, who's staring at the half-buried Carol McCormick.
"That's what she said. Before she barbequed herself." Christophe lights up a new cigarette, his hand with the slightest tremble, and turns his gaze on Damien. "It's all for you."
The stillness that hangs in the air is unnatural for South Park. It's like the whole town is engulfed in a metaphorical fog. Every breath is suffocating. Every step Damien takes, he takes it with great effort, afraid it might be the wrong move. Everywhere he feels eyes lurking in the shadow, waiting to strike. It fucking sucks.
"The whole town's been like this?" Damien asks in a hushed whisper. Even if he can't see anyone, he can no longer be sure they aren't alone.
"Since yesterday. Everyone's been out of it, but not aggressive like this. Not until today. It's you. They're after you." Christophe's in the lead. He peeks around the corner of the complex and surveys the road ahead.
"No shit," Damien says as he eyes the tip of Christophe's shovel that's still wet with Officer Barbrady's blood. So much for no more blood on his hands. "You didn't kill him, right?"
"Do you want to go back and check?" Christophe asks with an annoyed frown. He moves a few steps forward and hides behind the snow-covered hedges. There is no sign of life nearby, but he still says, "I'll go in first. It's obviously a trap. You-"
"No," Damien cuts him off with a firm shake of his head and overtakes him. "I'm not using you as a bait."
"Suit yourself." Christophe shrugs. "Don't come crying for my help later."
Damien edges along the wall until they reach his apartment. He lingers outside the front door. This is probably the first time he has ever felt afraid to go home. The malignant aura is practically visible to the human eye. A sense of dread loom over him as he pushes the key in and turns the knob. Whatever is waiting on the other side of the door, it can't be good.
"Ah, there you are, Damien. Awful nice to see you again, ol' chap."
Damien has his hand in a fist before he even steps in. He runs and socks Pocket square in the jaw. Pocket tumbles off the couch, spilling his cup of tea everywhere. If Christophe hasn't stepped in to hold him back, Damien would've taken Pocket's front tooth as a trophy.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Damien scowls.
"Ouch, ouch, oh, ouch," Pocket grumbles, rubbing the sore spot along his face. "Bless me, you Yanks have a funny way of greeting people. I live here. Have you forgotten?"
"No, you don't. Get the fuck out." Damien flexes his hand. It's so tempting to punch Pocket again.
Pocket stands up with a lick of his crooked lips. Then he looks at Christophe and smiles a sick grin. "Christophe, ça va bien, ol' chap? Didn't quite finish the job, did ya, but not to worry. The Master forgives your failure and we won't ask for a refund."
"Good, I don't give refunds," Christophe chimes back.
Damien huffs out his nose and doesn't turn to look at Christophe. His hands stay by his sides, each fingertip running hot with preparation. He shouldn't be surprised that Pocket is possessed too and the culprit who hired Christophe. After all, Pocket is an easily accessible target and doesn't have the mental strength to resist. The thought that the kid is using Pip's friend against him boils Damien's guts, and he has to fight the urge to rip Pocket's head off.
"Where's Pip?" Damien asks. He unfurls both hands with a fireball nested in each palm.
Pocket bends to pick up the cup and saucer and sets it back on the coffee table. He plucks out a handkerchief from his pocket to dry the tea stain on him as he says, "The Master heard you're coming back so he and Pip went to prepare a welcome home party for you. I do believe they have a lovely present for you. Oh never mind me, I almost gave away the surprise. Now, come. I'll take you there."
Damien doesn't move. He can't. He isn't ready yet. He still has no idea where the other daggers are or if they even really exist. Without them, he can't stop his son and put an end to this. He can't give Pip the happiness he deserves. He can't make Kenny's sacrifice not be in vain. He can't fix anything.
"Ol' chap, I know what you're thinking," Pocket says. The permanent smile on his face vanishes, displaced by a taunting glare. "You're too late, I'm afraid. You're out of time. All you can do now is come with me. You wouldn't want to miss the birth of your own child-Oh! Darn me! I've given away the surprise!"
Damien bites the inside of his mouth. The fireballs once again dissipate without being used. He's so fucked. So fucking fucked like he's never been fucked before. Maybe Pocket is right; maybe the only thing he can do now is accept he failed. Christophe, on the other hand, seems to have a different idea as he grips his strap and gives Damien a firm nod that says he's ready for the fight.
"Shall we then, gentlemen?" Pocket gestures for the front door. "The Master is waiting."
Reluctantly and without a choice, Damien files out of the apartment behind Pocket, with Christophe the last one out.
"You don't have to come," Damien says to Christophe as they descend the flight of stairs to the street. "This isn't your fight."
"I told you. He and I, we have unfinished business."
"Dude. I'm serious." Damien puts a hand on Christophe's shoulder to stop him from walking away. "Stop fucking walking away when I'm talking to you. Look, I don't know what my kid did to you but this is the real thing now. I mean, this is pure evil we're talking about. What we're about to face, I don't even know if I can handle it. It's going to fuck you up too. Really fuck you up even if you make it out alive. There's some shit you don't come back from."
Christophe blows a cloud of smoke in Damien's face. The same annoyed frown mounts on his face. "I was wrong. You're a bigger fucking pussy than Jesus."
"Yeah, well, not even God can help us now."
"I don't believe in God, my friend." A crooked smile spreads over Christophe's face. He puts his hand on Damien's shoulder and squeezes. With faith-filled eyes, he says, "I believe in you."
Damien doesn't say it, and really it doesn't need to be said, but he believes in Christophe too.
The church has always been an unsettling place for Damien, but it's shaking him to his core right now. There's no holy power at play here; no, the entire building is bleeding with demonic power that makes him feel like an ant in a kingdom of giants. Even Christophe looks troubled and unnerved, his hand gripping his shovel for dear life.
"Please, please, go on. The Master's made sure it is to your accommodation," Pocket says as he pushes open the door and ushers them in.
Three things take up Damien's immediate attention as he walks into the church.
The first thing: Father Maxi's naked body is crucified above the lancet window, his blood staining the glass red. Damien doesn't need to look too hard to know that it was a very painful death for the priest. He isn't going to get over how Father Maxi ditched them during the exorcism; maybe if Maxi had done a better job, they wouldn't be in the shitstorm they're in now. Still, the man deserves a more honorable death. Probably.
The second thing: Stan, Kyle, and Cartman stand on one side of the pew while Craig, Tweek, and Butters line up the other. Each of them has the same blank expression and holds a Dagger of Megiddo in his hand. Damien can't decide if he wants to fucking scream or laugh or drop on his knees and cry. Of course the kid beat him to it. Of fucking course.
The third and last thing: Pip sits perched atop the altar, swinging his legs childishly. His belly's bigger than Damien remembers. His face is pale, exceptionally so. The once gentle blue eyes are tainted with malice. Grey veins etch every patch of his skin. There is no sweetness in his expression, only a lust for destruction and dissolution.
Damien takes slow, cautious steps forward. His hand is behind his back, wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. Beside him, Christophe moves in the same tense pace.
"Look, everyone," Pip says, his voice echoing in the vast space as a smile twists into life. "Father's home."
TO BE CONCLUDED...
Boyue's Note: Happy to see people are still interested after all these years. :) Pretty sure the next chapter will be the last.
4.24.16
7:54 PM