Chapter Text
The Dersian alleyway smelled like sour milk, sweat, and the old brandy John Egbert's father would take out on the anniversary of Nanna's death and sip, slowly. A sort of smothering sweetness that had more to do with rot than anything; once upon a time, John thought to himself, his friend Rose Lalonde would have appreciated that little visual. Or at least he liked to think so, though not too often, as that brought John back to an unfortunate truth he had realized all too late.
But all hard truths must be confronted, and as John used the bladed tip of his hammer to gently saw through the strange, silky material hanging off of the side of the alley, he was cornered by reality. Thread split, sour acid boiled in Egbert's throat and he touched the mottled black carapace. There it was, in black and fluorescent blue; John might never have known the real Rose Lalonde at all. It took a few precious moments to realize how to close the eyes of the carapace, but the other option was too hard to swallow right now. The Reckoning was bad enough, and John refused to cede any more of his humanity to sburb if he could at all prevent it, wasted time or no.
You're stalling, Egbert. John wondered when his conscience started sounding like the Wandering Vagrant, adjusting his tie and stepping further into the inky hollow the alley led into. Faint traces of ectoplasmic activity were like a trail of radioactive breadcrumbs to John's upgraded goggles; the red and blue lights were indicative of the psychic trauma most commonly associated with sudden, terrible violence. Fear, pain, hate, desperation, all in a strange spiral that indicated....John shuddered at the faint, cool sensation on the back of his neck; he lunged forward, ducking his head and rolling as best as he could in these cramped conditions. The gleaming silk snapped straight like razor wire, close enough to capturing John that he felt phantom pains on his neck. Touching the side of his glasses, Egbert kicked up onto the side of the alley lair, flipping around just before a needle embedded itself into the solid rock; John pulled his body around, leading with his hammer, and smashing into a garbage can like he was playing some kind of crazy trash polo. The can flew, the cheap Derse tin splitting under the pressure of John's enchanted hammer a second after it hit the air, sending a scattershot of refuse all along the opposite alley wall.
The silvery blue color he could only see out of the corner of his eye ripped, and if the situation were not what it was, John would probably be busting out some kind of juvenile victory dance right about now. That damn witch thread had been foiling his most sensitive ectobiological equipment for weeks, now, and his hunch about the subject retaining some of her squeamishness with personal hygiene was…
"What." Rose Lalonde murmured, shoving the old gushers wrappers and silky yarn out of her hair, "No victory dance?"
There's knowing something abstractly, and there's seeing something with your own eyes. The worst part, John felt as he fell to one knee as though struck, was how much she looked like…herself. No bloody stigmata, no unholy sigils, no third eye, just some redness from not sleeping. Be strong, John ordered himself, ask what you want to know, buy time, she's just waiting for you to blink. "…Rose…" John said instead; years of experience or no, he had the same bad habit of ignoring his better judgment, "…Rose, it doesn't have to be this way. We can get you help…"
"We?" Rose raised a slender eyebrow, crossing her arms as if assuming the superior position in one of their old conversations. The quiet triumph in her expression was a kick to whatever was left of John's guts that had not been numbed already.
"Fine," John relented, "I can get you help. You know something's wrong, or you wouldn't have let me get this close…"
Egbert's point, though he felt it was a good one and had in fact dedicated the better part of a week to carefully crafting this last plea, was severely undermined by the six inches of razor sharp knitting needle suddenly sticking out of his shoulder.
"Don't you." Rose hissed, tugging the yarn and John towards her, his face and her left knee if we need to get specific, "Patronize ME," Her eyes were furious now, hard and sure and John barely got his ghost glove activated in time to block the second needle to the throat, "John Egbert!" Rose moved like poetry, twisting to the left and flicking her wrist, causing the supernaturally strong yarn to snap and John Egbert to spin like a top through a weak wall of cheap plywood.
Not one of his better speeches, all and all. Groaning, John checked the data, smiling a little at Plan B's progress. It made the whole 'your oldest friend is trying to gut you with flashy versions of the needles you got her for her birthday' deal easier to parse, and John was nearly ready for Rose's next attack. Or, to be more honest about it, he jumped up to his feet, saw Rose, and was kicked in the face by the roundhouse Lalonde had prepared for when he recovered. Stumbling back, John kept his footing and shoved his fist forward, a ghostly green hand shimmering into existence and shoving Rose away from the ruined building. The angry bobcat's yelp from the alley told John that, no, Rose did not see his using the ghost gloves on her as being any less patronizing as trying to talk her out of this.
Dave would have something great to say about that, John thought, tapping his glasses again and running deeper into Derse's core. On his ecto scanner, John saw what he was looking for, flashes of red and green. Triumph surged in his chest(or possibly it was his being out of breath) as John finally broke through Rose's ecto-obfuscation. He could do this!, John said to himself as he turned a corner and ran right into Rose's gleaming yarn web; a snare wrapped around his leg, tugging him up, as the rest of the net wrapped around him, weights moving delicately to force John's weight in unnatural directions.
"…I knew you'd be good at this." John bluffed, closing his eyes and letting a breath out. Soft warmth brushed against his cheek and for a second, Egbert thought about all of the horrible things that could make their home in the nightmare planet's worst neighborhood.
"You always were sharper than any of us gave you credit for." Rose's voice had a new dimension to it, and for some reason John felt the back of his neck heat up. "…and…as always…too late to make a difference. I knew all I had to do, John, was just enough to make you think you could "save" me, and in you'd rush, all alone, with no plan or second thought towards what you would do when you arrived."
"…could…enjoy this…less…" John managed through the makeshift gag Rose had spun around his mouth, struggling as best he could against the arcane fibers.
"What can I say." Rose smiled, a little, and for the first time in over a year she looked like herself again. "I've always had a weakness for the thought of you at my mercy, Egbert." There was a spark of purple fire in her eyes, or maybe John just imagined it, because a second later they were cold and black again. "Yes. Yes, I understand. The Gods have been patient enough. It is time."
Rose motioned with one of her wand-needles, while the other continued to knit John's cocoon. More invisible silk parted, and John's stomach turned at the two complete cocoons inside of the alcove Rose must have carved out herself, or at least decorated with the likenesses of her three patrons. One was highlighted red, the other green, festive compliments to his own blue-white tomb. Poop, John thought to himself, a sure sign of his new post-reckoning maturity and seriousness towards his duties as a boy skylark and doer of good deeds. Double poop!