Message: 1 Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2001 23:21:27 -0000 From: "D. David Lee" Subject: HellBlazer:DCF 2104 Hello All, Just a quick preview of the John Constantine excerpt from DCF 2104, being compiled and edited by Rob Nott. Look for it on the DCF pages soon, but for all of you subscribed to this list, a quick look at the HellBlazer:DCF contribution written by yours truly. Enjoy! :o) D. David Lee http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ ******************* "The Head of Vecna" ******************* HellBlazer:DCF 2104 Written by D. David Lee Edited by Rob Nott THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author. *** NorAm: New York City, New York State Psychiatric Institute The two psychiatrists stood calmly outside the observation window, sipping their tepid morning coffee as they took notes. The one-way glass kept them hidden from view, but the patient was obviously aware of their presence. He kept smiling at them, winking on occasion, and every now and then, he waved at them, much to their annoyance. They had no idea how this patient kept slipping out of his straight jacket, but they considered this behavior to be both highly inappropriate and disrespectful. "Maybe we should try handcuffs?" suggested Dr. Gabrielle Halloran, a young woman wearing glasses and a white lab coat. Her hair was done up tightly in a severe bun, and the hem of her skirt reached well below her knees. It was a rhetorical question, of course, but she absolutely detested awkward silences, and they always made her feel the uncontrollable need to say something just to break the tension. "Not a bad idea, but quite impossible, I'm afraid," responded Dr. Reginald Hornsby, a tall man with narrow features and a very inexpensive haircut. His British accent was strong, but not thick, and it conveyed humor well. He also sported spectacles with unusually thick lenses. "As psychiatrists, we're only licensed to prescribe straight jackets and hospital bed restraints, not handcuffs of any kind. But I wonder how long it would take him to slip out of them? Thirty seconds, perhaps?" "I was thinking a bit longer, but it would depend on the quality of the cuffs, I guess," agreed Dr. Halloran, nursing the bitterness of her coffee. It tasted terrible, as usual, but she'd probably need the caffeine. If past sessions with this particular patient were any indication, she'd probably end up needing or wanting something much stronger once the evening wore on, but caffeine would have to do. They were referring, of course, to John Doe number 52614. Several weeks ago, the local police had rounded him up along with a few score other homeless indigents. The United Nations had instituted a program requiring that all citizens be regularly screened for mental deficiencies and disorders on at least an annual basis, including transients. Most were released after a single day of testing, including several borderline cases, but every now and then, a patient would crop up who would demand special attention. This was such a patient. "Why was I summoned here, again?" asked Dr. Hornsby, bored out of his mind and extremely irritated with both his patient and his colleague. He had temporarily been assigned to the New York State Psychiatric at Dr. Halloran's request, but his own practice was at the Ravenscar Secure Facility for the Dangerously Deranged in Western Eurasia. Not that he missed London, but at least he could get his hands on a decent cup of tea there, something decidedly lacking in NorAm. "Because the patient has a British accent," said Dr. Halloran, trying very hard not to sound annoyed. Technically, Dr. Hornsby was a visiting specialist, an expert in multiple personality disorders and psychotic behavior. But he was also a pompous ass. "A patient doesn't develop multiple personalities without a long history of mental illness, and I was hoping that Ravenscar would have some records on him. If you'd simply released your files to me, then I wouldn't have had to call you here, but you insisted on keeping the files closed. And so, here you are. Here we are." "More than half of our files deal with the treatment of government agents and dignitaries, not to mention the royalty," said Dr. Hornsby, equally irritated but not quite as concerned about maintaining civility. He was her senior, after all. "Those files are classified, and you know it! Besides which, that accent of his is outdated by at least a century. I'm certain he must be faking it." "He's not faking it," growled Dr. Halloran, who only barely resisted the urge to smack herself on the forehead. Well, the urge to smack someone, not necessarily herself. "Computer analysis confirms that the subject's accent is natural and that his answers have been generally truthful." "What truth?" asked Dr. Hornsby, pursing his lips arrogantly. "That he's possessed by a demon? That he's haunted by the ghost of one of his mates? That both God and the Devil, the rallied forces of heaven and hell, are out to get him?" "That he believes in the veracity of his own statements, clearly evidence of schizophrenic tendencies and a severely delusional state," said Dr. Halloran, resorting to the use of technical jargon to emphasize her point. After all, the fact remained that Dr. Hornsby could still be right. They'd been studying this patient for almost three weeks with no sign of any second personality, no sign of any 'ugly yellow rhyming bastard' trapped inside him. Technology still had a lot of catching up to do when it came to analyzing the human mind, even in the twenty-second century. "And the signs of megalomania clearly indicate that he could be dangerous." "Dangerous? Hah!" exclaimed Dr. Hornsby, making a fist and raising it. "One on one, I'm pretty sure even I could take him. And considering I'm a middle-aged Brit with legs as skinny as my arms, that's saying something." At that, even Dr. Halloran had to laugh. Dr. Hornsby was many things, including an arrogant son of a bitch, but he was also a self- declared ponce and pratt. When self-directed, his wit was rather sharp, not to mention disarming and somewhat becoming. "Well, if you insist on going, I suppose I could call in someone from Arkham instead," suggested Dr. Halloran, her voice lacking any sincerity. "After all, they are much more famous than you people at Ravenscar." "Famous for treating patients that never get better," said Dr. Hornsby, emphasizing his statement with a distinct exclamation of 'harumph!' and a practiced sneer. "If that's your only other option, then I'd best stay on and make sure he's treated proper. The least that I can do, especially if he is, in fact, one of London's native sons." Sharing a laugh, the awkward silences had finally been banished, much to the relief of them both. Quickly refocusing their attention on the task at hand, the two psychiatrists got back to the business of implementing this recommended course of treatment for patients who exhibited difficulties separating fantasy from reality. Named after the inventor of a twencen roleplaying game, the Gygax directive had been known to produce favorable results, and with any luck, it would do the same here. Or so they hoped. In the padded room beyond the one-way glass, the patient sat in a chair, his hands bound to the arms of the chair by leather restraints. With him, some hospital orderlies sat at a table, with multifaceted dice, pieces of paper, and writing instruments in front of them. For the past hour, they'd been playing a game of Dungeons & Dragons with the patient acting as Dungeon Master. "So you couldn't get any of the other patients to play?" asked Dr. Hornsby, raising an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, no," said Dr. Halloran, a sad smile on her lips. "I'm afraid they still find our John Doe disturbing. I don't really understand the unsettling effect he has on them, but they persist in refusing to socialize with him." "He still disturbs them?" "He creeps them out." "I know the feeling." Very few psychiatrists ever found themselves disturbed by their patients. The driving force behind the profession was a commitment towards understanding the human psyche, no matter how twisted or malevolent, and fear normally arose only from ignorance. But in the case of this particular John Doe, or simply John as they chose to call him, it seemed that there would always be more questions than answers. "So do you think this will actually produce favorable results?" "Well, the procedure has had some favorable papers published on it," offered Dr. Halloran, going through her own notes. "The procedure has approximately a fifty percent success rate with patients exhibiting schizophrenia, statistics better than those for any other recommended mode of therapy." "Perhaps that's true, but in this case, the patient doesn't see himself as a superhero," replied Dr. Hornsby, making clucking noises with his tongue. "No, he doesn't see himself as a hero at all." "Indeed," agreed Dr. Halloran, pursing her lips. "When I explained the therapy to John, he asked me the most curious thing. He asked me whether or not I thought it would be effective on God." "What an odd question." "Not as strange as you might think," said Dr. Halloran, suppressing a shudder. "John has this theory that perhaps God and the Devil are in fact the same being, a schizophrenic being with multiple personalities. He went on to cite the fact that no one had ever seen God and the Devil together since the dawn of time as proof of his theory. As if he would know. Then again, perhaps it's an even stranger notion than you might think." With these words, that strange awkward silence reared its ugly head again as a chill went through the room and up and down their spines. As bizarre and implausible as the theory was, it still made sense in a very strange way, not that psychiatrists necessarily believed in the existence of higher powers at all. Avoiding each other's direct gaze, they read the observation computer's notes on the session as to how the therapy had progressed. The details, as always, were succinct yet thorough. The adventure had begun in some nameless tavern, where rumors had been whispered of the existence of a derelict temple dedicated to evil lost somewhere in the swamps to the north. Legend had it that an ancient artifact of great power lay hidden in the lowest depths of that temple, known only as the Head of Vecna. And the adventurers had set off posthaste in search of fortune and glory. "Are all adventures of this type so bland and predictable?" asked Dr. Hornsby, somewhat distastefully. "I couldn't say," said Dr. Halloran, surprised to find herself somewhat bored. If nothing else, John usually had something at least moderately interesting to present during sessions. "I believe John is making this up as he goes along. Who knew that someone with such a vibrant and complex psyche could produce something so stale." The observation data went on to indicate that the adventurers had found the abandoned temple with little difficulty. Apparently, the orderlies were playing high-level characters that had been able to navigate the temple's traps and monstrous guardians with relative ease. All of them were approaching twentieth level, whatever that meant. This had gone on for some five floors worth of evil-ridden, poison-laced, magic-warded hellhole through which the adventurers were forced to crawl. All of these dangers now bypassed, they had finally reached the final level of the ruined temple. "Is there a reason why the characters are so powerful?" asked Dr. Hornsby, finding himself even more disinterested in the scenario. "If forced to hazard a guess," began Dr. Halloran, narrowing her eyes, "I'd have to say that John prefers to deal with god-like opponents, just for the pleasure of taking them down a peg. Probably something to do with the megalomania we discussed earlier." "Right. You open the doors, and you see this mummified head on this pedestal like," said John, a wicked and mischievous grin on his face. "It's all gray and blue, see, and wrinkled all over. Right next to the pedestal is a guillotine, one of those Louis XIV contraptions what cut your head off clean and quick." "I check the place for traps," said one of the orderlies, one of the larger ones, who was playing a rogue. You couldn't call him the most imaginative player, but he knew his job. "No traps, mate. Just a head. Just a chopping block with a huge fucking knife over it." "No monsters?" "Not a bleedin' one." The two psychiatrists looked on as the orderlies darted their eyes from left to right suspiciously. Apparently, what remained to the adventure was going to require actual thought rather than just a roll of the dice. It was a situation in which they couldn't just fall back upon the various statistics associated with their characters or equipment. They would actually have to use their own brain power to finish this adventure, and needless to say, they were out of their element. "I guess one of us has to put the head on to make it work," said another orderly, scratching his head. "That's what you do with the hand and the eye, right? Pluck out your own eye and cut off your hand? So I guess we're supposed to use that guillotine thing first. One of us has to cut off our head." >From behind the one-way glass, the two psychiatrists turned to look at each other, suspicion evident in their expressions. "I'll do it," said yet another orderly, whose character was a fighter. He seemed very eager to gain the power that the Head of Vecna represented. "Just put the head on me after mine gets chopped off." "Why should you be the one to get it?" demanded the first orderly. "I disarmed all the traps. We never would have made it this far if not for me!" "Says you! Do you know how high my saving throw bonuses are? Besides, I've got over two hundred hit points, and I killed the most monsters. That's why I should be the one to get it!" The bickering continued for some time with each player expounding upon his own merits as to why he deserved to have the head most, but eventually, it was agreed that the fighter should be allowed to try first. Pulling on the rope, he had his character lock the guillotine blade into place and release it, severing his head from his body. "Thwack!" exclaimed John, to indicate that the head had been successfully removed. "So what do you do now?" Whereupon, more bickering ensued. With the fighter unable to argue anymore, the others decided to consider the possibility of keeping the head for themselves. John just looked on with amusement, making dripping sounds to indicate that time was continuing to pass. "What are you doing? You can't just let my character die!" exclaimed the fighter's player, very upset with his companions at this point. And at this, the other orderlies could only look at each other guiltily with sheepish expressions on their faces. "I guess he's right." "Yeah, he did already cut his head off." "And it would cost a fortune to resurrect him." That said, the rogue character picked up the Head of Vecna and attempted to attach it to the fighter's headless body. "Ka-thump!" exclaimed John, indicating that the Head of Vecna had not attached itself and simply fallen to the ground, causing the orderlies to glance about aimlessly in confusion yet again, wondering what had gone wrong. "Damn it, you waited too long! Now I'm dead!" said the fighter's player, made very upset by the turn of events. "Alright, we'll pay to have you resurrected," said the rogue's player. "Calm down. But since it didn't work on you, I'm going to try next." "You? Why should it be you?!" Additional argument ensued, but they eventually agreed that the rogue had the best saving throws of those remaining, leaving him the best chance of surviving should some unforeseen calamity again present itself. But as soon as the rogue's head had been cut off, the two remaining players started arguing yet again, but after only a round or two had passed, they quickly attempted to attach the artifact to the rogue's headless body. "Ka-thump!" repeated John, an evil grin plastered all over his face. "Damn it, we waited too long again," said one of the remaining players. "I'm sorry, dude. We'll get you resurrected, too. No worries." Feeling very guilty, the orderlies playing the two remaining characters flipped a coin to dermine which of them would get to try next, agreeing to attach the head to the body immediately. The head was quickly removed, and the Head of Vecna immediately attached to the headless body. "Ka-thump!" exclaimed John for the third time, and it was only then that suspicion began to dawn on the orderlies that perhaps, just perhaps, they had been had. And John could only laugh, loud, boisterously, and long. "Why you..." began the first orderly, who'd played the rogue, balling up his hands into fists. "Rotten little..." began the second orderly, who'd grown rather attached to his fighter. "Dirty stinking..." began the remaining two orderlies, their mouths agape with realization. "Royally twisted..." began Dr. Hornsby from behind the glass, making a note about the patient's compulsive need to trick others into screwing themselves and the absolute delight that he took in it. "Absolutely magnificent..." began Dr. Halloran, impressed at the last. This had proven interesting after all, very interesting indeed. And John just sat there smiling, taking it all in as they completed their sentences in unison, almost as if he'd been a conductor who'd purposely orchestrated this crescendo of harsh whispers and gritted teeth, sighing as if with physical release when the word was uttered. "...bastard!" And John just kept laughing, howling madly into the night, knowing that the psychiatrists were watching, knowing that the orderlies all wanted to beat the snot out of him but couldn't. They didn't dare. Turning to face the glass, he addressed his unseen observers. "So what did you expect, eh? A bloke's got to get off somehow, otherwise he could go crazy in this place, what with no tv, no smokes, and no pints. So how 'bout it then? How's about doing something to keep me from going over the edge? A little Silk Cut, maybe? A pint of stout?" *** End of HELLBLAZER: DCF 2104