Disclaimer: I don't own the movie "Drive Angry." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Part one of my "Thearchy" series. I really liked The Accountant so here we are, I guess.
Disclaimer: post movie, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, angst, The Accountant basically doesn't have time for this shit but he makes time because honestly he is probably bored and Milton is interesting and Piper is lurking and there is something about all of that combined he might just like.
Calavera
At the end of the day, John Milton was not particularly special. Despite evidence to the contrary, while he might agree he'd earned his place in hell, he - like so many others - was immune to the reality that he deserved to pay for it.
Meaning, quite frankly, staying the fuck put.
Eternal damnation was not an empty phrase.
Or at least it had been once.
Perhaps he was getting soft.
Either way, Milton's words had proven more than true over the next decade. And while he would demure to the contrary, he came to enjoy the occasional excursion above ground as the years passed. So long as the God Killer stayed put. And given that Milton had no real reason to bring it along as insurance, it did.
He had more than enough reminder of it however. Given that the wound underneath his eye had never fully healed. Staying open, angry and throbbing across the thin of his human skin like a low-grade headache.
The boss had just laughed, telling him it suited him and that was that. But he chose to see it as a reminder. A humbling smattering of moments where a God had known what it was to fear. It'd been exhilarating. Terrifying. Wrathful. Sweet. He wondered if that was what it felt like to be alive. Truly alive.
He cocked his head in the middle of his book-keeping as the thought occurred. Breathing in the comforting smells of sulfur and decay. Blotting the page with dew drops of crimson as the fate of a soul shivered in the oily mist whirling above his head. Writhing like a fractured hurricane.
Curious.
They fell into a habit of sorts. Milton would escape and he would hunt him down. Standing bored and unaffected amidst the debris of Milton's latest conquest. Usually with a perfectly timed retort to the barrage of bullets Milton fired his way - just for old times sake - before the chase was on again.
The truth was there was no where to go.
Nowhere he couldn't find him.
He knew it.
Milton knew it.
Even Miss Piper had understood as much in the end, as limited as her perception was.
That truth was the only constant to their little adventures.
Ultimately, it was simply a matter of waiting until the man had tuckered himself out. Milton was far more pliable once his vices had been properly scratched. And he was more inclined to be generous around the same time. It was a strange sort of harmony, but one he found he enjoyed all the same.
But as the years passed, it did leave him with more than a few questions. And when it came to curiosity, well- he'd never been able to help himself.
"Why don't you ever see her?" he asked after the fifth time. Directing the question into the companionable silence that existed between the tart of pulverized dust motes and expelled shot. Leaning idly against the pock-marked bar as Milton drank whiskey right from the bottle on the other side. Shotgun in hand and pointed at him like a childish threat.
"Why do you like being up here so much?" Milton countered. Drudging up the words like they came from some long-forgotten place deep in the hollows of himself. "The others don't. All they talk about is the stink, the space, the noise. Like humanity is a disease. Like if you aren't careful it'll get stuck to you like a smear of shit you can't scrub off."
His smile had too many teeth as he listened, but it was genuine nonetheless.
Understanding the sentiment beyond the deflection.
Sometimes, when there was nothing left to trade, words became currency.
"I asked first, answering first is only polite," he pointed out.
"I wasn't polite the day I was born," Milton grunted. Somehow managing to be both matter of fact and sour.
And yes, that much was true.
He remembered.
"Your mother never blamed you," he returned mildly. Remembering the hushing, pearly sigh her soul had made as she'd gusted past him. Tired, kind and unendingly hopeful for the new life she'd brought into the world. She'd been a rare, refreshing breeze in a broiling sea of multi-hued hellfire and humidity. The kind you didn't forget. Even if you could.
Milton, however, barely even twitched at the announcement.
He tilted his head as he sensed a change in the air. Closing his eyes with open enjoyment as the familiar scent threatened complete distraction.
She was close.
Fascinating.
Once again she was all but nipping at their heels.
Just as he always chased Milton, Piper, the woman-child, never failed to come after them. Following Milton's trail of lust and carnage across entire states. Only to have them disappear into thin air when she was this close.
One had to wonder why she bothered.
"I suppose," he started, sensing Milton's head tip up. Caught off guard when he actually answered. "Its because, I'm already tainted - if you'll excuse the phrase. I've been submerged since the beginning. I hear their words, their petty complaints. They are meaningless. I understand humanity in a way they cannot. I am the bridge that connects our worlds. The conduit through which both sides ebb and flow."
He closed his eyes. Feeling the truth of it sing like errant molecules he could capture and crush between his fingers. Allowing them to float free as his temporary thrum of good will throbbed lowly through the bar like the beat of a distant drum. He swayed with it, following its ancient rhythms. The ones mankind had forgotten. Knowing that Milton was watching just the same as he knew that somewhere close by, the man's grandchild was burbling to herself in a car-seat. Soothed by the roar of an engine.
"I've reaped the best and the worst you have to offer. I am smeared in humanity. Drowning. Slathered. I've held every heart in my hand. Weighed and tallied every soul. I am unique. And- yes, I'll admit that seeing my charges before they're tarnished, watching the walk the balance between heaven and hell is something of a novelty," he admitted.
"So, its all just a game to you?" Milton rasped, voice host to a raw, angry sort of finality that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle in affront.
"Everything is a game," he returned like a whip-crack. Advancing around the hub of the bar as the barrel of Milton's gun twitched like a warning. "The games I play merely have a pre-determined ending and have much higher stakes than the ones you involve yourself in. Now- answer my question."
The glare Milton sent his way was half hearted, but coarse.
"You know why," the man sighed reedily, voice whiskey-rough as he took another deep pull from the bottle. "They're better off forgetting about me."
It didn't sting his nostril like a sulfur-lie.
Milton knew better than to lie to him.
This was truth.
And he wasn't wrong.
But he was quite sure the damage had already been done.
His fingers trailed down the pitted surface of the bar. Debating telling him what he knew. The tally of numerals and fractions both the child and the woman had to their names. He would enjoy them, when their time came. Regardless of which way the scales leaned. They would be notable, if nothing else.
Only, Milton had never asked.
He didn't want to know.
And he respected that.
The rev of a charger's engine highlighted the closing divide. Saving himself from any further introspection as the screech of tires seemed to rouse even Milton from his overly emotional stupor.
"Come along, Milton. It's time."
A/N: There will be more to come for this series, please stay tuned. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.
Reference:
- Calavera: Spanish, representation of a human skull.
- Thearchy: rule by a god or gods; a body of divine rulers.