Derrek stood in his kitchen, blinking, still seeing the bodies around him. ‘Eighteenth-gear,’ Discord called it, and Derrek hated it. It wasn’t teleportation, just Discord physically dragging him across the country in an instant. It was disorienting, dreamlike but not in a good way, and his stomach, empty save for a trickle of booze, didn't help matters in the least. He stumbled after a moment, clutching onto the kitchen island for dear life, the blood on his hands smearing on the granite counter as he struggled to right himself. He felt strong hands under his arms, lifting him up so he could at least lean against the island with his legs straight. He almost went for the last few knives at his belt, ready to stab Discord in the face, but when he faced his guest he was greeted with Jeffreys’ bearded face, more worried than Derrek had ever seen him.
“Jesus, Derrek!” He pulled a bar stool around and helped Derrek down into it, scanning him for injuries, kneeling down and retrieving a small med kit from the compartment in his prosthetic leg once he saw the gash on his forehead. “What in the hell happened to you?” Derrek just shook his head as Jeffrey zipped the little green pouch open, folding it out and retrieving a dish cloth hanging from the oven, bundling it up and pressing it against Derreks’ head wound.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Derrek muttered. He couldn't talk about it, not without vomiting the trickle of whisky in his system. Jeffrey stared at him for a moment, his face scrunched up as if he had something to say, but his expression suddenly softened.
“Shit, man.” He shook his head sadly, putting more pressure on the wound. “What has he got you tied up in this time?”
Derrek clenched his eyes closed. He couldn't talk about it. He had killed twenty-nine people, his soul would cease to exist once he died, and the world was ending. It was all too much. All he could do was shake his head and say the first thing that came to mind. “Why are you in my apartment?”
Jeffrey suddenly became very fascinated with the opposite wall, avoiding Derreks’ eye. “Well… I wanted to apologize for last night.” He slid his hand across his bald head with a faint hiss. “I was drunk, forgot to hold back.” He smiled sheepishly, finally meeting Derreks’ eye. “I didn't have to slap you so many times, sorry about that.”
Despite everything, Derrek smirked and let out a single breath of laughter. “I choked you out, and you're apologizing to me?”
Jeffreys’ sheepish smile shifted to a smirk and he pulled away the rag, “I didn't give you much choice, had to take me down somehow.” He set down the rag and retrieved a clean one along with a glass of water, dipping the clean cloth in the water and wiping blood from Derreks’ face. “The bleeding’s about stopped, I’ll clean the wound and stitch you up.” He folded the rag to an unused side and pulled a small bottle of antiseptic from the med kit, soaking a corner of the cloth in it before gingerly dabbing the wound. Derrek winced from the pain, but didn't pull away. Jeffrey gave him the side eye as he cleaned the wound. “How the hell did you get this thing anyway?”
“I got hit with a shovel.” Derrek said it before he could stop himself, and Jeffrey almost laughed before he saw there was no humor in his eyes.
“Shit, man.” Jeffrey took up a pre-threaded needle, gently sliding it through the corner of the wound, pulling it together, steadily stitching it together, the pain much less than Derrek expected. “Not bad for a shovel, I always knew you were hard-headed.”
“You can say that again.” There was no humor in Derreks’ voice, and Jeffrey finished his work in silence, flicking out a pocket knife to cut the thread.
“That oughta do, let's see what else you've got.” Jeffrey examined Derreks’ chest next, raising his eyebrows shooting up once he saw the fresh scars. “What the hell?”
Derrek nudged him away. “They're fine. Non-human stuff, you know.” He laid his right hand on the table, nodding to his split knuckles. “They don't need stitches, do they?”
Jeffrey examined the hand, pursing his lips and shaking his head as he stole one last glance at his shoulder. “Nah, clean them and keep it covered and you'll be fine.” He held the hand out and grabbed the antiseptic. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch.”
Derrek shifted his gaze from the wound to Jeffrey and back again, worried. “Can't be worse than getting it. Can it?”
Jeffrey shrugged and said, “Sure,” in a way that did not inspire confidence before pouring half the bottle over his knuckles.
“Motherfucker!” Derrek slammed his free hand on the counter; his knuckles were on fire. He watched as the antiseptic mingled with the blood as it bubbled and hissed, his fingers writhing in pain, but Jeffrey held his hand firm, chuckling behind his beard.
“That means it's working.” The pain began to wane, and Derrek hissed out breath as Jeffrey wiped his hand down with the cleaner of the two rags. “Is this from the shovel too, or from what you did to the guy with the shovel?”
Derrek winced from the pressure. “No…” That scene replayed in his mind; slamming his fists into Discords’ face over and over, forgetting his own name as he caved in his eye socket, that brief moment where he forgot who he was entirely. In that moment, surrounded by the cultists, he had felt a real connection to them, as though he truly was one of them until it all came crashing back. He had lost control, and that terrified him, even more than the worlds’ inevitable end. He realized Jeffrey was already halfway through wrapping his hand in gauze, and he still hadn't finished his sentence. “That was from something else.”
Jeffrey glanced up at him as he pulled the gauze tight, locking it in place with a pair of small metal clips. “I think you'll be alright from here. Are you hungry? I was just about to raid your fridge.”
“No.” Derrek shook his head, his stomach tightening at the mere mention of food. “No, I don't have an appetite.” He pushed himself up from the stool, holding onto the counter until he was sure he wouldn't topple over. He tugged at his tattered, blood-soaked shirt. “What I need right now is a shower and a change of clothes.” He gestured to his forehead with his bandaged hand. “Do I need a plastic bag or something to keep these dry?”
Jeffrey stared at him for a moment, clearly wanting to say something, but in the end he just shook his head. “Nah. The gauze is waterproof and the stitches are tight enough it won't be a problem, just don't go crazy scrubbing your scalp. We’ll put a bandage on it when it's dry.”
Derrek nodded, feeling his knee wobble, covering it by sluggishly making for the bathroom, waving a lazy hand at the fridge. “Sounds good, eat whatever you want.” He steadied himself with a hand on the wall as he navigated the short hallway, locking the bathroom door behind him. He started a cold shower and leaned back against the door, slowly sliding to sitting, hugging his knees to his chest. He wanted to cry, but his eyes didn't agree. He stared at the hexagonal tiles through the slit between his legs, listening to the running water, thinking about how his morning had started; heaving up his guts in Shales’ guest bathroom. A day of horror bookended with white-tiled bathroom floors.
After what felt like an eternity, he dragged himself to his feet, trying to peel off his torn shirt before deciding just to tear it further and let it fall off; no point in smearing all that blood in his hair. He kicked off his shoes, a jolt of dread stabbing through his heart at the memory of Adam putting them on for him, that endless moment that stole a piece of him, a piece he didn't know if he’d ever miss. He kicked them into the corner, tossing the bloody remnants of his shirt over them, then emptied his pockets and took off his belt, stripping off his pants and boxers, both stained with blood at the waistband and tossed them both into the pile, vowing to burn the lot later. It was the practical thing, disposing of evidence, but Derrek wanted it more than that. He wanted to watch it all burn, to see every trace of his day reduced to ash. He needed to burn them.
He stood before the mirror now, and a blood-soaked monster stared back at him. His eyes were distant and hollow, the splotches of red on his face at home among the hard angles, smeared across the scar Bernmore had given him, almost making it look fresh. His shoulder looked like it had some kind of rash, a cluster of seven pink keloid scars scattered in the crimson smear. One was dangerously close to his nipple, only an inch or two from taking it off. He twisted his body, taking in the slash scar on the back of the same shoulder. It barely felt like anything when he took the hit, but it was at least eight inches long; shallow, but still leaving a long smear of red down his back. His arms were leaner than he remembered, less athletically trim and more violent, the arms of a fighter, crisscrossed with dozens of scars from all his sparring with Discord.
He turned away; he couldn't look at himself anymore. He climbed into the shower, feeling the cold water wash over him, a shock to his system. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, feeling the icy water soak his snowy hair, watching the bloody pink water swirl down the drain. He twisted the tap to hot and waited as the cold water turned lukewarm, then plain warm, then hot. He cranked it even higher, feeling the burning hot water scald his skin, flakes of dry blood washing off as he stared down the drain. He let his mind drift and let the familiar ritual take place, pouring shampoo into his hand and working it into his hair, almost enjoying the sensation of his fingernails against his scalp. Once he worked up a lather, he grabbed his loofah and his favorite body wash, the same brand they kept at the Schadenfreude, and applied a liberal portion to the loofah. He scrubbed his chest first, ignoring how the blood turned the suds pink. He closed his eyes and thought of nothing, running on autopilot, trying to pretend it was just another morning routine. Once he ran out of skin to scrub, he stood under the pouring water, feeling it all wash away, unaware of the passage of time.
He opened his eyes, and reality came back. He turned off the tap and stood there, dripping. He slid open the shower door and began drying himself, running the towel over his hair in all directions, then over his limbs and torso, across his back, down his legs then between them, tossing it in the dirty towel bin once he was satisfied. He looked at the mirror again, but he could still see the blood on his clean skin. All he could see in his green eye was Grims’ cold stare, and his brown eye was nothing more than a bastardization of the man he used to be. He didn't recognize himself, and it struck him how far he had strayed, how much he had changed. The man he was a year ago wouldn't have even entertained the idea of killing anyone, let alone go through with it. He was a murderer, it didn't matter if it had to be him or them, he had still struck first, and he had still struck last. He had chosen to kill them, regardless of Discords’ role in how it had transpired. He could see them now, all the friends he had made that day, standing behind his reflection, their wounds still bleeding, their faces all stricken with accusation.
Kurt was there, his chest split open with a ragged red line at his standing knees, Clyde and Elliot standing next to him, their necks and midriffs just as horrible to look upon. Cassie and Ida stood together, holding hands as their blood mingled on their palms, Cassies’ eyes finally focused, locked on him with an obscene accusation, an accusation of which he was guilty. Raph and Bert were enraged, but Clem and Lisa had a sadness behind their eyes, more hurt by his betrayal than the wounds he had given them.
He slammed his fist into the mirror, and the delusion shattered with his reflection. The gauze padded the blow, but he picked up a nick on his ring finger and a small shard of glass stuck in his pinky. He pulled out the shard and tossed it in his sink, running the water over his fresh wound, negligible compared to everything else. The bleeding stopped in seconds, scabbing over before his eyes, just as all his scrapes did. He shook out his fingers and clenched his fist, feeling the knuckles click as he stared at his fractured visage. Somehow, it was better to see himself this way, split over countless fragments, a stitched-together mass rather than a single unit. It was a true reflection, not just of how he looked but of how he felt. He was broken in ways he couldn't put into words, the ice in his veins doing nothing but pushing the cracks wider.
He shook himself and opened the closet door, retrieving one of the outfits he kept stashed inside for emergencies such as this. It took no time to dress himself, only struggling with lacing the grey tennis shoes with his bandaged knuckles. He didn't feel as refreshed as a shower usually left him, but his legs were at least obeying his commands again, and that would have to do. He flung the door open, marching into the kitchen to find Jeffrey finishing the last bites of a turkey sandwich. Derreks’ stomach tied itself in a knot at the sight of the meal, but he put the pain aside and grabbed a jacket from his coat rack. “Finish up, we’re going out.”
Jeffrey stared up at him, the remnants of his sandwich frozen halfway to his open mouth. “What? Where are we going?”
Derrek forced a smirk on his face, pushing down the nausea as he put on the jacket. “We’re going drinking.”
Derrek was on his eleventh drink, and he was finally starting to feel it. The Drunken Bastard was never busy, but it was still a relief to find it empty aside from him and Jeffrey, who was swaying on his seventh beer. They hadn't talked much, not really. Jeffrey had intermittently filled the silence, telling a handful of jokes and anecdotes Derrek could idly contribute to without wanting to vomit. James stood behind the counter, running numbers in a notebook, only prying himself away to refill their drinks. Derrek had just called for his twelfth when he heard that telltale ringing bell at the door. A few seconds later a man in a blue button-up and khakis emerged from behind the light-blocking wall, his salt-and-pepper hair well-maintained, a scar across his cheek. Even out of uniform, Derrek recognized him and sighed as Captain Szyslak approached the bar.
“Is this seat taken?”
Of course not. James placed drink twelve before him and Derrek used it to gesture to the seat in question. “Feel free, Captain.” Jeffrey leaned across the bar as Szyslak sat in the stool, smiling drunkenly behind his beard.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Hey, Captain!” His beer sloshed around as he gestured to each man, James included. “Two’s company and three’s a crowd, but four makes a party!” He burped and cried out a “Woo!” to the empty bar, laughing and slapping the bar before taking another gulp of his beer. Derrek remembered him holding his alcohol better back in Germany, but maybe his own tolerance had just risen too high. At any rate, Szyslak only chuckled and rapped his knuckles on the bar.
“It's good to see you too, Jeffrey. In fact, I even brought you something.” Jeffreys’ eyes went wide in anticipation as the Captain produced a small box from his pocket, sliding it across the bar. “That's your brand, isn't it?”
Jeffrey hooted with laughter as he took up the pack of cigarettes. “Huff and Puff red one-hundreds, that's me alright!” He tore open the plastic and tapped the pack on his palm. “Thank you kindly, Captain!” He had a cigarette in his mouth and was going for his lighter when James spoke up.
“No smoking in the bar.” He stabbed a finger at the front hallway and narrowed his eyes at Jeffrey. “Either take it outside or don't take it at all.”
Jeffrey looked like he was going to protest, but Derrek swatted at his shoulder and gave him a look. He instead pushed himself to his feet, patting Szyslaks’ shoulder as he made his way to the door. “Fair enough, thanks again, Captain.” His uneven footsteps echoed as he meandered out of the bar, the tinkling bell announcing his exit.
Derrek threw back his whisky in one gulp and sighed as he slammed it back down, bluntly asking the question. “Did Discord send you to keep an eye on me?”
Szyslak only smiled as James put a glass of tomato juice in front of him without taking his order. “No, I'm here on my own accord.” He took a sip of his drink and glanced at the handful of empty glasses in front of Derrek. “I had a feeling you might need a designated driver.”
Derrek snorted and signaled for a refill. “I've been drinking for an hour and a half and I feel like I just chugged a beer. I bet I could even fool a breathalyzer with my metabolism.”
Szyslak chuckled as James poured drink thirteen. “I bet you could.” He took a long sip of his tomato juice, sighing contentedly as Derrek stared into his own drink. “Even still, you shouldn't be driving, not with the day you've had.”
An icicle of dread stabbed through Derreks’ heart, and he looked at the Captain with wide eyes. “What did he tell you?” He realized he was squeezing his glass dangerously tight and forced his fingers to relax, but the Captain didn't seem to notice and only waved his hand dismissively.
“The same as he tells everyone; only as much as I asked. The world is ending, you're mad at Discord because of what he didn't tell you, so on and so forth.” He took another agonizingly long sip of his juice. “The usual sort of drama.”
Derrek stared at Szyslak for a moment, then threw back lucky number thirteen, gritting his teeth as his throat burned, not wanting to ask, having to ask. “Is that all he told you? He didn't mention anything… else?”
The Captain cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you mean how you had to deal with the cultists? Yes, he mentioned it.” He waved his hand around again, dismissing the twenty-nine murders as if they were nothing. “He went on about that scythe of yours, there's nothing that man loves more than a fancy weapon, but most of that Reaper talk went over my head.”
Derrek blinked. “You aren't… going to arrest me or anything?”
Szyslaks’ turn to snort. “You spent the day well outside of my jurisdiction, I’d have no authority to arrest you even if I had the inclination.” He took another sip, glancing at Derreks’ bandaged knuckles. “You did what you had to do to survive, that's something I wouldn't begrudge my worst enemy.”
Derrek stared at that glass of red liquid, then down into his own empty glass, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the trickle of whisky left in the bottom, and he barely whispered it. “I killed twenty-nine people.”
Szyslak patted him on the back firmly and gave Derrek a look he suspected was reserved for mourning family members and survivors of deadly altercations. “You did what you had to survive. If you hadn't, they would have killed you. I've had my fair share of run-ins with blood cults, I know how they are.”
Derrek squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of himself in the glass any longer. “They weren't a blood cult,” he muttered, more to himself than to the Captain.
Szyslak patted him again, firmer this time. “They were, even if they weren't anymore. That kind of fanatical devotion doesn't go away just from choosing a different god to present it to.” Derrek heard him take another sip, the light thump as the glass went back on its coaster, and there was something in the silence that made him open his eyes. The Captain was staring ahead at the shelf of bottles, a far away look in his eyes. “How old do you think I am?”
Derrek looked at him, weighing the grey in the Captains’ hair with the traces of wrinkles around his eyes, knowing none of it meant a thing for a Warrior Spirit. He knew Jericho was upwards of one-hundred-eighty from the few conversations they’d had over the last week, born sometime in the eighteen-sixties, and he didn't show a day over thirty-five. Justice was a total mystery, but Szyslak said he had been with the NYPD for over twenty years. Derrek shook his head; it was pointless, he may as well be trying to guess how many fingers he held up behind his back. “I can't tell. Fifty? Sixty?”
Szyslak chuckled, his eyes focusing and the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. “You flatter me. I just turned one-hundred-and-two last month.” That chuckle evolved into a full laugh, his smirk shifting to a smile. “Though my squad only wrote fifty-three on my cake. We had a private function with my proper age that night, here at The Drunken Bastard, no less.” He took up his tomato juice and tipped the glass to the bartender, who was still buried in his numbers. “James is an impeccable host.” His mirth suddenly melted away, his expression serious. “I was a detective in the Fifties, in Chicago. Only a year past rookie and still full to the brim with fire and vinegar. There wasn't a perp I couldn't crack for a confession, not a case I couldn't bust open, not a thing I couldn't do.” He took a solemn sip, his glass near half empty. “That's what I thought, at least.
“There were these two girls, sisters in their twenties, wannabe detectives, and I mean that as a compliment. They wanted to be detectives, but it was a different time, and the powers at be pulled every technicality to keep them from getting a fair shot. A damn shame, they had more brains than half of the department put together, all they needed was the experience to ground them.” The captain was quiet for a moment, then took another sip. “Don't ask me why, but they liked me. Not romantically or anything, they just appreciated I took them at their word, I think. They followed their own leads, really toed the line on vigilante justice, but they always stayed on the right side, and when they had evidence for an actual arrest, they would ‘anonymously’ leave a package on my desk, or in my car,” he chuckled, “even through my window one time when I was being especially stubborn. I should’ve listened to them more.”
He was quiet again, then chugged the remains of his juice, slamming down the empty glass, working up to something. “I should have listened to them the last time, at least.” He closed his eyes, gently shaking his head as he spoke. “They were tracking missing persons in the homeless and sex worker communities, demographics we paid even less attention to then than now. If their numbers were right, which they always were, more than three dozen had gone missing in the same ten-block area, yet not a single report filed.” He opened his eyes, putting on what Derrek recognized as a forced grin. “Tale old as time, right? They left their notes in my mailbox, and I sat on them for a while, looking through them just a bit too late. All the signs for a blood cult were there, but I didn't know that then. They mapped it all out pretty well and had it narrowed down to an old factory near the northside docks.”
That fake grin slipped away, and the Captain heaved a heavy sigh, those eyes going distant again. “They were even more reckless than I was, it seems. If I had looked through it all sooner, I’d have found the note they left me, threatening to go and investigate themselves if I didn’t.” He looked down at the bar, idly trailing a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “I missed their deadline by an hour. As soon as I realized, I strapped on my gun and made a beeline for the northside. It was dark, I remember hitting my neighbors mailbox as I peeled out. I argued with myself all the way as to whether or not I should call for backup, and I never came to a conclusion, I just ran in as soon as my car was in park, locked and loaded.” That finger stopped its pace, and the Captain swallowed. “It was so quiet, I didn't expect that. I figured if there were people killing people, it had to be noisy. That's not always the case, but that's not really important. I wandered through hallways and back rooms until I finally turned that last corner.”
The Captain swallowed again, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. “It was bad. Really, really bad. I'm sure I don't need to paint a picture.” The carnage of the barn flashed in Derreks’ mind and he realized just how engrossed he was in the story. He didn't need a description, if it was anything like he’d been through, he understood perfectly. “The cultists had… gotten to the sisters. I was too late.” Szyslak gripped his glass, the tendons sticking out as he squeezed, staring furiously at the shelf before him. “It made me so angry. All I wanted to do was run in and start blasting, damn the consequences. I didn't care there were more than twenty of them and only six bullets in my gun, I wanted them to pay for what they had done.” His gaze suddenly softened and his grip went slack, and a strange sort of smile crept across his face. “That's when he showed up.”
Derrek looked at him for a moment, then realization dawned. “Discord, you mean.”
The captain smirked and called to James for a refill for both of them, taking a sip of his fresh glass of tomato juice before continuing. “It sounds silly, and I daresay it was, but Discord was acting a private investigator in Chicago during all of this, and wouldn't you know it, the sisters had fixated on him much the same way they had me, and I learned later they gave him the same treatment. He was there, and he acted just before I could.” He shook his head, taking another sip. “You know what he’s like, I could barely even comprehend his movements. All I could see was people falling apart. I confronted him once he was done, I think I even tried to arrest him.” He laughed, shaking his head in good humor. “Once he got a look at me he could tell I was a Warrior Spirit, and just like that he became a part of my life. He convinced me to leave it all in his hands, and I listened.” He shrugged, his shoulders slumping heavily. “Maybe it was the right thing to do, I’ll never really know for sure, but it's the choice I made. Before then I had no idea I’d live as long as I have, or just how dangerous my temper could be.” He looked up at Derrek, a twinkle in his eye. “I'm the Warrior Spirit of rage, since I didn't mention it before.”
Derrek froze with his fourteenth drink halfway to his mouth. “Rage? Really?”
Szyslak chuckled and took another sip. “What did you think my reason was? Self-control?”
Derrek blinked. That was exactly what he had guessed, even if he hadn't put it into words. “I honestly wasn't sure, but I wouldn't have guessed rage. You were the only one who didn't attack me, after all.”
The Captain took a smug sip of the red juice. “As I said then, self-control is essential in my line of work, even if it isn't my reason. I was a real firebrand in those days, but the years have mellowed me down; the only thing that gets under my skin anymore is when someone makes fun of my name.”
Derrek raised an eyebrow. “What, Harvey?”
Szyslak gave a hearty laugh and patted Derrek on the back again. “My surname, I should say. It's a proud Polish name, Szyslak, even if it's tricky to spell. People are decent on the main, but there's always a smartass who thinks it's hilarious.”
Derrek snorted, a genuine smile surprising him as it met his lips as a memory rose up from his childhood. “I know what you mean. I started formal education in eighth grade, and there was this one guy who always called me ‘Snowman.’” He laughed, an unexpected wave of nostalgia washing over him. “I ended up kicking his ass for it, and we were pretty good friends after that; I even let him keep the nickname. What was his name?” He rubbed his chin, racking his brain until the realization struck him like a falling brick, his smile a distant memory. “Shawn. That was it. Shawn Monroe.” He hadn't even realized it, but now he could remember the acne scars Shawn had, even at fourteen years old; that was where he pulled the name from. But what about the surname? A question nagged at him, one he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to, one he felt like he already knew. “Those sisters, what were their names?” The Captain sighed and took a long sip of his tomato juice, whether remembering the answer or just working himself up to it, Derrek couldn't tell, but it felt like a microcosm of the eternity he had felt with Adam, a never-ending sip where the red never lowered, until Szyslak finally spoke.
“Susanne and Maribelle Bates. I couldn't ever forget them, poor things.”
Derreks’ blood was ice in his veins. He remembered the first time he had sparred with Discord, holding those pistols, hearing their voices in his head. He had cast about, looking for whoever was speaking before it dawned on him. Look all you want, but you've already found us. He had asked how they ended up as souls trapped in those guns, and they went silent. It seemed time had answered the question for him, even if it left him with several dozen others; whatever had trapped their souls happened in that warehouse, and there was a good chance Szyslak didn't even know their fate, just another truth Discord twisted into a lie by never revealing.
God damn it.
The bell tinkled as Derrek threw back number fourteen, and Jeffrey stumbled back to the bar, draping a shoulder over Derrek as he slumped into his stool, his beard reeking of tobacco smoke; he must’ve had two or three for how long he was outside. “I reckon it's about time to head out, s’getting late, dontcha think?”
Derrek arched an eyebrow at his friend then reached for his wallet. “I couldn't agree more.” The whisky was five dollars a shot and Jeffreys beers were eight a piece, bringing their tab to over a hundred-forty dollars, and he tossed two hundred-dollar bills on the bar, which finally stole James’ attention from his notebook and Derrek nudged the Captain. “Put his juice on my tab and keep the change, James. Thanks as always for your hospitality.”
For the first time that night, James cracked a grin as he scooped up the cash. “Much obliged, come back anytime.” Szyslak gave him a look, and James sighed, holding out his hand to Jeffrey. “Hand over your keys, the Captain called cabs for both of you.”
While Jeffrey grumbled incoherently as he searched his pockets, Derrek cocked an eyebrow at Szyslak. “When did you do that?”
The Captain smirked and winked. “Just before I walked through the door, they should be here about now.” As if on cue, a pair of car horns honked outside, and Szyslak glanced to the entrance hallway smugly. “Or exactly now, as it seems.”
Derrek shook his head and put on a thin smile as Jeffrey finally slapped his keys into James’ hand. “You're a real class act, Captain.” He offered out his hand, which Szyslak wasted no time in shaking. “I think I get what you were trying to tell me. Thank you.”
Captain Szyslak smiled and winked as he squeezed Derreks’ hand. “I think you do too. Get some rest, Derrek, you deserve it.”
Derrek smiled back, barely even aware of it. It had been a story of inaction, the delay causing more pain than swift action would have. Neither Discord nor Szyslak acted in time, and two souls were bound to weapons as a result; they had failed. But Derrek didn't fail. He had acted, swiftly and with finality, and now no one would suffer at their hands again. No more misguided vagabonds forced to choose between holding the knife or suffering its edge, no more of Adam twisting the minds of his converts, corrupting them to his line of thinking, no more death in that barn. Derrek had won, but it only felt like a different kind of failure.
He felt that smile wavering, and he forced it back into shape, not letting it slip again until he had led Jeffrey out the door. Jeffrey gave him a crushing bear hug, warning he would break into his apartment again tomorrow if he didn't answer his phone, and they both boarded their respective taxis. Derrek gave his address, then didn't speak again for the whole ride, just staring out the window, trying to think of nothing at all, and failing. Again.
Derreks key shook in his hand, but it found purchase and he shoved his door open, locking it behind him as he swayed straight to the bedroom. The clothes still had to be burned, but that could wait, oblivion was calling. He stumbled into his bedroom and saw something had been left on the foot of his bed. As he came closer, he saw it was the coat he left at the farm, perfectly clean and crisply folded. He picked it up and underneath was Lillith, his pistol, the five throwing knives he had thrown in the fight, all clean and polished without a trace of blood left, and a note. He knew exactly who the note was from, and he balled it up on the spot, throwing it in the corner of the room. Whatever Discord had to say, he didn't want to hear it. Or read it, in this case. He tossed the coat onto his dresser, put the gun and knives loose on his nightstand, kicked off his shoes, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes, and tried to block out what he saw behind his eyelids, shoving it all away, the endless day finally ending as he drifted off.
