Work Text:
There are as many experiences of adolescence as there are people on Earth, each and every one of them different. A particularly daring psychologist might be tempted to sort them into two large, sticker-covered boxes: the Bully and the Bullied.
Gerry has always been the latter.
It’s not that he’s weak-willed or unassertive – it’s just that he happened to be weaker-willed and less assertive than most of the people he came into contact with during his teenage years. His mother’s ego was large enough to crush his own sense of self into pitiful smithereens. He still hasn’t picked up all the pieces.
He can stand his ground in a physical confrontation, he can stare down the Beholding and it’s going to be the one to blink first, but more often than not, he wonders if he could handle telling the barista they got his order wrong at Starbucks.
Right now, he’s twenty, still a teenager in all but name, stuck thirty thousand feet in the air on an economy-class flight to New Zealand – and weighing the risks of asking the woman half-asleep in the seat next to him to move her goddamn elbow. An outsider would, without a doubt, find the scene hilarious: a tall goth, dressed all in black, covered in sinister-looking tattoos and weighed down with enough DIY jewelry to give a metal detector wet dreams, sweating under his Mastodon t-shirt because of a snoozing middle-aged lady sprawled to his direct right.
(Gerry is not the aforementioned outsider and does not find it hilarious. The adjective that comes to his mind is pathetic.)
He takes a deep breath.
“Ma’am, could you please move your elbow?”
The woman blinks twice and turns to face him, an apologetic smile on her round face.
“Oh, of course! Sorry about that, dear.”
The plane lands twenty-three hours later. The sun is high above the horizon, and boy is Gerry going to be jet-lagged all fucking week.
Gertrude – who spent the whole flight seems utterly unbothered by the difference in time zones, stoic as ever. She urges Gerry to hurry up. Luckily, they both travel light and take only a backpack each, so they don’t have to stand in the long queue of increasingly impatient people in baggage reclaim.
They’re here because of a failed Slaughter ritual. That, and a bunch of leads on the Unknowing. Gerry is, privately, more interested in the former – from what he gathers, the whole business seems insanely fucked up, but it’s his brand of fucked up. Teenagers summoning the King of Demons (which was, he has to admit, a surprisingly creative schtick on the Slaughter’s part) and leaving a bloody mess in their wake? What’s not to love? Hell, that sounds like something he’d do himself if he were a little more unhinged.
The weather is nice and Gerry doesn’t mind standing outside to wait for the bus, but he’s getting bored. Gertrude hasn’t said a word since they left the airport terminal.
“So, Archivist, what about the Unknowing? Still keeping me in the dark about that, huh?” He tries out a nonchalant approach.
“All in due time, Gerard. Don’t worry, you can still take a tour of that small-town massacre you’re so enthusiastic about. I’m not stopping you. In fact, provided you don’t drop down unconscious beforehand, you can even visit the place today.”
“Hey, I’m not that exhausted. And it’s not my fault we’re on a whole different hemisphere.”
“Hm. Not even jet-lag can’t prevent you from seeing all the gorey details, can it?” Gertrude looks almost amused. It’s an expression that rarely graces her otherwise impassive features.
“I don’t want to see all the gorey details. I want to investigate. Research. Talk to witnesses. I dunno, see what made it fail. C’mon, it’s a ritual. I thought you’d be more keen on those.”
“If you say so.”
Gertrude is like that – almost nothing escapes her notice. That woman is a step away from being able to read minds – that is, if she can’t do it already. The only things keeping her from omniscience are adamant resolve and good old-fashioned spite.
Gerry sighs, defeated.
They stand in silence until the bus arrives.
“So, this is Greypoint? Jesus. More like Assfuck, Nowhereville.”
“Gerard.”
“What? It’s a small town. Small towns fucking suck. No wonder ninety-nine percent of horror movies are set in small towns. If I had to live in this hellhole for more than a week, I’d also try to summon Satan. Or become a serial killer.”
“You’re young and restless. With time, you’ll come to appreciate the… hm, rural charm of places like these.”
“Look at you, being all old and nostalgic. What’s next? You’re gonna start knitting mittens for me? I thought you were above such things, Gertrude.”
The Archivist gives him a withering glare in lieu of an answer.
Finally, after an awkward pause, she glances at her watch.
“Well. I have business in a neighboring town. Don’t get into too much trouble. In spite of plenty of evidence suggesting otherwise, I expect you not to get yourself killed.”
And with that, she gets into their rented Volkswagen, starts the engine and drives away.
“Gee, thanks.”
He makes for the town center – that’s always a good start. The failed ritual took place two months ago, so he doesn’t know what to expect. Are there still going to be corpses piled up on the streets? Or did Greypoint’s inhabitants clean up, move on and continue with their everyday lives? Humans tend to do that. No matter how far you stretch their definition of normalcy, it eventually snaps right back, like a rubber band. Few things are capable of shaking our inborn desire to maintain routine.
The front lawns of the houses Gerry passes are all clean and neatly mowed, the streets don’t run with blood, there’s a man washing his car outside one of the cookie-cutter suburban dwellings.
After half a mile or so, he crosses into another neighborhood. A tingling sense in the back of his skull tells him that this is it, this is the place he was looking for.
At first glance, there’s nothing amiss. Granted, this part of town is oddly empty, a lot of the houses have FOR SALE signs plastered on them, but other than that, it seems… normal. Then he notices the cracked windows, the haphazardly fixed fences, the scratched front doors. Out of context, he’d say that the area had been hit by a bad storm. Or a flood, maybe. It’s nothing too drastic, to be honest. Especially since he was steeling himself for full-blown Armageddon.
Gerry pauses. There’s loud music coming from one of the houses. For a lack of better ideas, he heads in its direction, almost on instinct. As he gets closer, he smiles. Judas Priest? That’s also always a good start.
He knocks on the door, remembers the Painkiller blaring at maximum volume, reconsiders, and lets himself in.
Whoever is inside is probably upstairs, as that’s where the (deafening, but not unwelcome) music is being blasted from. After a split second of hesitation, he throws all caution to the wind and crosses the hallway, praying that this motherfucker with good music taste doesn’t turn out to be evil.
Having ascended the stairs, he glances at the bedroom door. It’s covered with layers upon layers of posters and stickers. He can see representatives of basically every metal subgenre to exist: from Black Sabbath to Napalm Death to Testament to Sepultura, not to mention the bands he’s never even heard of.
This time, he knocks. Loudly. He hopes his arrhythmic banging on the door won’t be mistaken for part of Scott Travis’ drumming.
The music stops abruptly. Somebody shuffles inside.
“Medina? ‘S that you?”
Gerry wrings his hands. “No, er, I’m sorry, I-”
The door swings open.
“If you’ve come to complain about the noise, fuck off.”
The guy standing in front of him is wearing a faded Obituary tee. His long, messy hair partially obscures the annoyed expression on his face. From what Gerry can see, the coat of stickers and posters covers not only both sides of the door, but the bedroom’s walls and ceiling as well.
Gerry can’t help but like him already.
“I absolutely don’t mind Judas Priest.”
Obituary Fan gives him a critical once-over, scanning the patches on his worn leather jacket with silent apprehension.
“So, what do you want?”
“I’m looking for someone who could explain the whole… King of Demons business to me.”
“You sound British.” Obituary Fan frowns. “I’ve never seen you before. You don’t live around here, do ya? Why’s any of it matter to you? It’s none of your damn business, mate.”
(Great, he got professionally diagnosed with Englishman.)
“To put it simply, I have experience with… similar things.”
“Hang on. There’s no way you’re a fucking exorcist.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’m not.”
Obituary Fan snorts. “Okay then, not-exorcist. I’m Brody. I like your jacket, by the way. Sick tats.”
“Thanks, man. Your shirt is rad as fuck. And I’m Gerry.” He’s about to ask him about his favorite Black Sabbath songs when he remembers the matter at hand. “Uh. Look, if you could just direct me to anyone who knows anything about the almost-apocalypse-”
“I started it.”
Gerry freezes.
“You’re an Avatar?”
“A what?”
Oh. He’s going to have to give him the Talk, isn’t he?
“An Avatar. That’s what I… what we call people who become vessels for the Entities. Y’know, malevolent, godlike fear beings who basically want to destroy the world and feast on what’s left of it afterwards. The Entities are like… humanity’s worst phobias in the form of warlock patrons, and Avatars are basically evil-aligned warlocks, D&D style, if you get my drift. They gain all sorts of superhuman abilities from their patrons and, well, help them try to bring about the end of times, usually via a ritual of sorts. Like the thing that happened here. You said you started it. Does that sound like… you?” Gerry trails off, only then realizing how stupid he sounds.
Brody stares at him, blank-faced. “That’s Zakk.”
“Sorry? Who?”
“Zakk. He is… was my friend. I accidentally started… one of those rituals. Played a song that turned everyone into murder zombies. Zakk and I killed a bunch of them. It was fucking brutal, man. And then shit hit the fan. He got possessed by Aeloth, the fucking… the fucking King of Demons. And now he’s dead. ‘Cause of me.”
Gerry doesn’t know what to say.
“Oh. That’s… horrible. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. How’d you say it? Ah. No shit, Sherlock.”
A heavy silence falls over them both.
“Anyway.” Brody distractedly picks at the hem of his shirt. “We’re standing here like a bunch of idiots, all mournful and shit. D’you want a beer?”
“Nah, thanks, I’m jet-lagged already. Time zones suck. I don’t think I need a double-hit migraine combo.”
“Yeah, whatever, that makes sense. Uh. Hm. I’m gonna put my record back on. You like metal?”
Gerry smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They spend a solid three hours talking about everything and nothing. Their conversation quickly picks up pace from the awkward so, what are your favorite bands? stage and soon they’ve covered every subgenre, decade and personal preference. Brody calls Siouxsie “that sad goth chick who sounds like she’s fucking a victorian ghost”. Gerry quickly retaliates by saying that “at least she doesn’t have the voice of a sweaty alcoholic PE teacher with anger issues”. (That earns him an appalled “Fuck you. Lay off Mustaine. Fucking Hammett fan. Eat shit.”)
Somewhere in between playful jabs, it comes up that Gerry’s mother is dead, that Brody’s is institutionalized, that Gerry is trans (“For real? That’s wicked cool. Hm. Explains how you’re so good at eyeliner, bro. You’ve got to teach me.”), and that Zakk sometimes possesses Brody’s record player to update him on the afterlife, criticize his Deathgasm riffs and shit-talk Aeloth (“Damn, your ex-girlfriend turned out to be a lesbian and now your boyfriend is a vinyl?” “He’s not.” “Not your boyfriend or not a vinyl?”).
At some point, the subject matter circles back to the deceased not-vinyl not-boyfriend.
“Do you have photos? Of Zakk, I mean.”
Brody is two beers in and sprawled on the floor, Renaissance painting style. “However hot you’re imagining him to be, he was ten times that.”
“You said he wasn’t your boyfriend.”
“Yeah. I’m not gay. I like chicks.”
“Both is an option, y’know?”
Brody looks like he’s having a God-given revelation. Gerry fights a snicker.
“Sorry to interrupt your bisexual awakening, but do you have photos or not? I’m curious, dude.”
“Sure. Over my bed, next to the Anthrax poster. There’s one of our whole band. He’s the bassist.” Brody pauses, sighs. “Was the bassist. Fuck.”
Gerry pats his arm sympathetically. “Hey, man. Maybe we can bring him back someday. It’s not impossible, y’know? I could… try to ask someone from the End. Or something.”
He walks up to the A5 printout of Deathgasm’s lineup. They’re standing in a garage, corpse paint smeared with sweat. There’s a nerdy guy with glasses playing the keyboard and a short, round-faced guy behind the drum kit. Then there’s Brody, clutching his axe with fierce pride, and then…
“Mother of God. That’s him?”
“Yeah.”
Zakk is… certainly something. He gives off the overall vibe of someone who, if asked to name three songs, would knock you out with a single punch and recite the band’s whole discography over your unconscious body. Long hair blowing in invisible wind, bass in hand, he’s destined for the Hammersmith Apollo and the front pages of Kerrang! magazines.
“He looks like a fucking asshole,” Gerry finally decides.
“He absolutely was a fucking asshole.”
“And you miss him.”
“I do.”
It’s getting late. Gerry wonders whether Gertrude forgot about him. She didn’t even tell him when she’d come back.
Oh well. He might as well stay the night here. He hasn’t felt this good in ages. His lifestyle has always stood in the way of… whatever this is. Friendship? Can you call someone you’ve known for less than a day your friend?
After a healthy dose of lighthearted bullying Gerry for his “basic as shit” music taste (“Metallica? What’re you gonna request next? The fucking Beatles?”) Brody agrees to put on Ride The Lightning.
Just as the first few notes of Fight Fire With Fire ring out, Gerry has a sudden idea. “Can we, like, contact Zakk? Or is it a one-way landline?”
Brody shrugs. “Dunno, I haven’t really tried. And anyway, I don’t think he’d answer. Out of spite. He doesn’t care about people.”
“Well, if he doesn’t care about you, why would he possess your record player to call you all the way from the fucking afterlife?”
“’Cause he’s bored? Or wants to annoy me?”
“Jesus, dude, you said he met Dio down there. Hell’s probably a never-ending backstage party. The whole thing sounds like a fun time. I bet my ass he’s not bored. He misses you, too.”
Silence.
Finally, Brody rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever, you can try. Fuckin’… softie nerd. Change the album, though. Zakk’s not gonna answer to ‘tallica.”
Gerry approaches the record player carefully. “Is Haxan Sword enough?”
“Yeah.”
Vinyl in hand, he considers the best course of action. He hadn’t thought about it, really. What was he even hoping for? That The Eye would grant him the necessary technical knowledge?
“Rad. Okay. So. Here comes nothing.”
He puts the record on, gives the turntable an experimental slap and focuses all his attention on the image of Zakk plastered on the wall opposite.
“Maybe say his name three times?” Brody suggests, half-amused, half-apathetic.
He does.
Nothing happens.
Gerry paces the room impatiently. There has to be a way, he knows it. If this was a book or movie, how would the characters act? How would the writer approach this particular plot point? What’s the solution that makes the most sense in-universe?
Oh. Bingo.
“Uh, can you play the intro to a Deathgasm song? Like, something you wrote together?”
In lieu of an answer, Brody takes his guitar off its stand, plugs it in and plays a couple of hesitant chords, then clenches his jaw. Suddenly, the bedroom is drowned in the sound of a heavy, bone-rattling riff. It resonates with a force that shouldn’t be possible – not with Brody’s cheap amps and the room’s shitty acoustics.
The Haxan Sword song playing in the background pauses and for one tense second, all Gerry can hear is crackling static.
And then it stops. An unfamiliar voice takes its place.
“Brody? You motherfucker, did you summon me?”
“Uh… Zakk?” Gerry feels the ghost of a headache pressing at his temples.
“Who are you?” Zakk’s voice sounds on edge.
Brody puts down his guitar.
“That’s Gerry. A… friend. He said I should try and… see if this whole record player bullshit works both ways. Well. It does.”
“And why’re you fucking bothering me at this hour?”
Gerry snorts. “Nice to meet you too, Zakk. I wanted to ask you something about the King of Demons.”
“Shame. I’m not answering any questions, shithead.”
Brody has the decency to look embarrassed.
“Uh, don’t be a dick about it, man. Gerry wants to know… what made the ritual fail. What stopped Aeloth – he calls it The Slaughter – from ascending.”
“You slit my fucking throat, remember?”
Gerry involuntarily shudders at the mental image. He’s no stranger to violence, and you’d hardly expect a less gorey solution from the Entity associated with brutality and carnage, but still. He can’t even imagine how Brody must’ve felt – how he still feels.
“It’s just that… usually, Avatars can’t be killed. Not after they transform.”
“Well, tell that to my corpse. I’m fuckin’ dead. Kaputt.”
“You came back, didn’t you? You became human again. You snapped out of it. And you told Brody to finish you off.”
Static.
“You thought of him, and that brought you back.”
“Listen, fucker, whatever you’re getting at here-”
Gerry has gone past the point of no return – he can feel it. He might as well press on.
“The antidote to any given fear is something that conflicts with its very essence.” He starts pacing the bedroom again. “The Hunt shies away from the final kill that ends the chase, The Lonely stands no chance against genuine love and connection. And The Slaughter… it’s war, it’s violence, it’s the absence of mercy. And the only thing that stops it… tenderness. Affection. Human nostalgia. To some, it’s a flaw. A crack in the lens. You care. Both of you. You care about others, about the world, about each other.”
Brody stares at him, speechless. Somehow, Gerry knows that at the other end of the ether, Zakk is doing the same.
“I’m not… trying to prove anything. I came here, to this town, to research. Rituals aren’t supposed to fail. I wanted answers. And I think I found them. I think I know how it works. And I.. I should go, actually. Gertrude is probably waiting for me. Have fun. Talk about your feelings, for fuck’s sake. See ya. Ciao.”
Gerry doesn’t wait for either of them to respond. Instead, he runs down the stairs and out the front door. Whatever exchange follows his neat little soliloquy is none of his business. Hopefully, they’ll sort it out.
Gertrude’s rented Volkswagen is parked a few blocks away.
Brody’s bedroom is still silent.
“Zakk, I uh… I get it if you’re pissed at what Gerry said.”
Nothing.
“It sounds fucking stupid, I know. But it also makes sense Maybe. Brotherhood of Steel, yeah? We’re friends. We are, right? And friends care about each other.”
Nothing.
“Okay, whatever, you can go bitch about it in Hell. I have better shit to do, anyway.”
This time, the static crackles.
“Hey. Brody. Listen to me, asshole. Fuck. We’re friends. That guy, whatshisface, was right. I do… care about you.” The last three words sound impossibly strained.
Brody smiles.
“Good.”
“And… I wanted to say thank you. For having the guts to end it all. I mean, it wasn’t easy, yeah? To kill me. You didn’t chicken out. Damn. You saved the fuckin’ world. That’s… fuckin’ brutal, man. I owe you one.”
“Anything for you.”
“I know.”