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1 : Antiques and Animosity

Vance Dancougar decided then and there that diving behind a glass case during a drive-by wasn't the smartest thing he had ever done. As soon as he heard the sounds of hot, fresh bullets shattering the glass windows in front of him, though, he knew he had to move. He dove behind the display case of picks and tuners in the Plumbro Music store in downtown Pittsburgh, his face instantly buried into the dirtied carpet behind it. Bullets devastated the walls, ricocheting and splintering the crystalline case that was serving as Vance's shield. He felt a hot, sharp sensation shoot up his arm, and looked down to see a long shard of glass embedded there. Pain flooded his senses, and then blood started to trickle out onto the case, coloring it like the stained-glass windows in church.

Maybe I should have gone to confession last week after all. He stifled his thoughts immediately and kept his face down, hoping and praying that one of those bullets from the semi-automatics wouldn't give him a kiss.

The volume of glass flying around the room increased, and he could feel sharp raindrops trickling down his back. It wasn't the big pieces he was worried about, though, it was the little ones -- the little ones that bit into one's skin and held on like ticks. As he stared broodingly into his wound, the glass case above him exploded one final time. He could hear the gunshots dwindling, as they finished tearing up the next store down, and then the unsettling whine of police sirens. The destruction had passed, at least for now.

“What the hell's going on? Hey, man, you okay?!” A young man with scraggly blond hair appeared from the back room. As he came into the light, Vance strained his vision to read the man's name tag: Daryll.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Vance moved out from behind his shelter, which was little more than a busted-up wooden frame decorated with shards of glass. He shook his hair, and glittering silver pieces rained out from his black locks.

Daryll surveyed his customer -- for the most part, he looked okay. “Hey...are you hurt? I have some disinfectant in the back, you know."

Vance gave the man an irritated look. “I told you I was fine.”

“Alright, geez man, sorry.” Daryll shrugged, taken aback and not wishing to press any further. “Damn, I dunno about you, but I really thought I was dead there for a moment...”

Vance didn't reply, shifting his body forward and moving out the dilapidated door without a further word.

Thin streams of blood had soaked the sleeve of his jacket, spiraling around and coming to a rest in the small of his palm. He moved his thumb in it, smearing around the liquid and bringing it to his lips. His own blood, his own life-juice, had been taken from him by a single piece of glass. It frustrated him to know that he was this fragile -- this easily broken.

Vance pulled the glass out from his bicep without problem, ignoring the irritating pain in the back of his mind. He rolled his sleeve up, revealing a pale, thin arm tattooed with a jagged crimson line. He left the wound as it was -- he honestly didn't care whether he kept bleeding. Maybe then his father would take some interest in him.

His dirty blue sneakers connected with a discarded plastic bottle, sending it flying down the street with an angry crunch. It wasn't the fact that he was in the city alone that was pissing him off now...it was the fact that he had no idea where he was. He had walked from the block across...or was it the block behind that? Vance couldn't remember at all. He started downwards, passing Kaufmann's, the two-story monstrosity that qualified as a department store down here...but Vance didn't really care much for shopping. He didn't really care much for anything, to tell the truth.

“Hey, kid,” a raspy whisper shot out from behind a dumpster. “I got the goods. You dig?”

“No. I don't dig,” Vance spat. “Now get out of my face.” The dark-haired teenager shot the man one last icy glare before he turned from the alley onto another nameless street.

As his wanderings continued, Vance tried to recall memories of how life used to be. He had had a relatively normal childhood, growing up quietly with his father and mother in their small ranch house in Turtle Creek. Life was so simple back then, and he'd do anything to go back and be a kid again – with his mother.

There he was, just sitting on his small blue swingset in their tiny backyard, flying to and fro as if all was right in the world. His father was much healthier-looking and had a content smile upon his face, roasting chicken in their mini-grill. Vance followed the playback of his childhood memories like an old videocassette, as his mother stepped out of the door to his porch and started talking with his father. She came down the steps and floated onto the concrete driveway. Smoke from the grill rose up into the sky, and the sun shone down on their happy American family.

Fast-forward to age fifteen – the family had been relocated so that his father could be closer to work. Then, it happened: one day she had been in the house, and then, the next day she wasn't. They had said it was a “freak accident,” but Vance didn't – couldn't -- accept that. Two years had slowly passed...and his father had remarried.

The dark, dirty slums of Pittsburgh continued to unwind as Vance's memories came to a close. He crossed an empty street and the darkness began to fade, replaced with the neon glow of a small green lightbulb behind a dusty glass window. It was fastened into the neck of an old-fashioned lamp, apparently part of a haphazard display of the store's goods. Above the window the shop's name was carved into a wooden plaque that hung over the looming doorway: “CASKETT ANTIQUES.”

He tried remembering what his father had told him before the man had dropped him off at the music store. If he remembered correctly, his father was having an important 'business meeting,' which was surprising. Even Vance knew Edward Dancougar was completely worthless to his company, the type of worker who sat and did paperwork all day like a mindless drone, only to return to his house, position himself down in his easy chair, and stay that way for the remainder of the night. It made him sick just to think about it.

The miserable, glaring 17-year old continued through the streets, clinging hopelessly to the remains of his childhood. Lifeless, raven-black hair fell limply to his shoulders, contrasting terribly with his sharp, pale face. His abnormal eyes -- tiny black pupils with white irises -- stared blankly ahead, and he was all alone

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as she ran through the streets. The girl clutched her hands against her designer jacket, cherry hair bouncing lightly against her shoulderblades. Rapists were not an uncommon occurrence in her city, but she never thought one would target her. She had a pretty face, but she felt that her curveless, plain body left much to be desired. The man chasing her didn't seem to mind that, however – he had been tailing her in his car for the past five blocks. It wouldn't be long now until he eventually caught up with her.

The moon glared against the car speeding down the street behind her, and she took a desperate dive into the thin sliver of an alley. The girl peered down the dark passageway in fright, only to see rows of faceless buildings cast against a bleak dark sky. Every street looked the same now.

Suddenly she heard the screeching of brakes -- he was coming back. She ran down the alley as best she could on the worn soles of her sandals as the car started to jam its way into the tiny alley. The sides of the Oldsmobile Tornado screeched against the brick walls of the neighboring buildings, letting out the ear-shattering roar of a hungry monster as it came to a stop.

If the girl had lived in a perfect world, there would not have been a high brick wall at the end of the alleyway. However, miracles seemed to be an impossibility in this day and age, and the frail, young teenager had been trapped. Her big green eyes stared into the car's headlights, innocence and fright permeating from them like like a frightened doe. A bead of sweat fell down her forehead and slid down her thin, round face. Her features were childish, from her pouty red lips to her small, punctuated nose. Covering herself with her delicate, peach arms, the girl scrunched herself up against the wall and wondered if this was truly the end.

The shattering of fiberglass was heard as her pursuer kicked out the back window of his car, escaping from his metal shell and heading for his target. From what the girl could see, he had curly brown hair, a cocky smile, and a sleek, black gun.

“Get in the car,” he commanded, bluntly and quickly. I'm so sick of these fetch missions the Rabbit keeps throwing to me. Not only are they long and boring, but every time I come to this place, I get a killer headache – painful enough to make me split wide open. Not even the Stingers the boss sent me are enough to keep down that sense of suction. I can't stand it anymore!! I'm gonna end this...as quickly as possible.

The girl stood completely still, her bright hair flowing in the night breeze as she shivered, her bony arms shaking in fear.

“Whatever.” The man lost what little patience he had and fired at the girl. She jerked sideways, and the bullet ripped through the fabric of her jacket. It grazed the side of her jacket, tearing the soft leather away like a dog's teeth through meat and continued through the brick behind her. The alley was so dark that her assailant could hardly see what happened. He knew his own skill, though -- for all he cared, he had hit her.

"Tolerance to tranquilizers?” He cocked his gun. “Maybe you've had psynergy training after all. I'll just have to shoot you twice, then.”

She said nothing; he raised the gun. Panicked, the girl rolled downwards covering her head with her arms as she kicked upwards. Somehow, her legs connected with him, startling and throwing him off balance for a moment. She followed through, not wanting to miss this chance, and pushed as hard as she could. The gun flew out of the man's hands as he fell, skidding along the ground as he scrambled to get back to his feet. The girl reached for the hot pistol and snatched it, quickly swerving back to her assailant. She held the mysterious object outwards, desperately searching for the trigger.

Something's wrong, the girl realized, running her hands over its unearthly surface. It's so light, and there isn't a chamber for bullets or even any hint of a trigger. What...is...this?

The man barreled up from the ground then, elbowing the girl in the side and breaking her grip on the alien device.

“This is too dangerous a toy for a little girl like you.” The assassin smirked, reclaiming his gun from his victim's weak grip and re-aiming it at her body. Then, there was a shot

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that rang through Vance's ears. He looked to his right and saw a car screech around the corner.

They're back! he screamed in his mind, looking around frantically for any possible shelter he could find. Eventually, he moved toward the doors of the antique store, a broken padlock hanging dismally from their handles. The sound of screeching wheels became louder as Vance approached his new hiding place.

The brass handle squeaked as he put his hand around it and yanked open the door. It opened with a groan, a small silver bell jingling softly at the top to signify a customer's entrance. Vance entered the lobby, a small wooden room which was outlined by a glass door that led further into the store. He tried its handle, but this time it was definitely locked.

“Great,” he muttered, and began to study the glass lining. Without a further thought, he bit his lip, curled his fist up and slammed into it. The glass somehow felt as if it had shattered even before his fist had come in contact with it, but there was no way he could be sure. The shining pieces spewed into the store like the entrails of a slain beast. Vance kicked the remaining splinters out with his cheap sneakers and slid his body through the opening. At six feet tall, he realized he was quite fortunate to fit through.

It wasn't until he was hiding behind the corner of a large oak shelf that he realized that his middle finger was bleeding profusely. There was a slash all the way down the center, his short nail split in two by a deep red line. A tiny piece of glass glimmered in the gash, and Vance pulled it out as carefully as he could. He saw red creeping up through his flesh as it filled in the empty cut, and soon his finger was gushing again. Vance grimaced at the thin, metallic taste of blood as he began to suck: a taste that while now unknown to Vance, he would be tasting quite frequently in the next few months.

After a few minutes of taking it in, he cautiously removed his injured finger. Soon after, however, the cut began bleeding again. Frustrated, Vance rolled his finger up with the bottom of his jacket, squeezing as hard as he could to suspend the circulation. While this may not have been the best course of action, at least he wouldn't lose any more of his precious blood.

Standing up at last, Vance took another look at his new environment. The bottom floor of the place was all one room, as far as he could tell. At the opposite side, partially hidden by a jungle of cobwebbed shelves and displays was the checkout desk – minus the cash register. Guess that means no prize, Vance lamented. He stepped through the aisles, looking around carefully until he spotted a small wooden table next to the checkout counter. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there seemed to be a deck of cards spread out on the surface. In the center of the table lay the queen of spades.

How foreboding. Vance thought sarcastically, looking past the table to a lone display case cornered against the right wall. Wait, why didn't I see this from outside? Nevermind...it doesn't matter. He walked over to the tiny pocket of a window, hoping to get a better look out to the alleyway beyond. As he moved closer, however, he realized that beyond the glass showcase was nothing but a brick wall – whatever contents were displayed here seemed to be for private purposes only.

Centered on the thin glass platform was a small, cedar clock. Vance nearly tripped himself falling back in shock as a loud chime was emitted from the object, followed by a rickety cuckoo that ventured out from the opened windows. Vance hadn't seen a cuckoo clock in person before, but he had never imagined them to be like this. The bird in question was utterly crystalline in texture, each shard of its figure bearing a different color of the rainbow. The eyes were azure blue, and what he thought to be a tuft of hair at the top was dashed with emerald. It was breathtaking. He went to touch it, and as if it was evading his hand, the cuckoo zoomed back into the clock.

The rhythmic ticking of the clock continued as Vance studied the artifact. Had that deafening sound always been within the room? He couldn't remember. The hands of the mechanism were ticking at 1:01, and Vance slowly followed the Roman script with his eyes, eventually coming to an end at the numeral 'XIII.' Well, it was an antique -- but hadn't there always been twenty-four hours in a day?

Either way, Vance could sell this clock for tons of money.

There was another blast of gunfire in the distance, sending him once again diving behind the nearest structure – his new favorite reflex action. As the volume of the gunshots quit escalating and started descending, the teenager crept cautiously back to the front window to get a better look. The street looked deserted and silent – no strange bullet holes in nearby buildings, no fresh black tire tracks on the road. And yet...it had sounded like there was a war going on outside.

Vance flirted with the thought of insanity. Was there even a car at all? Forget it, just forget it...

He stood up and walked back into the darkness of the antiques store. Groping in the abyss, his hand smacked off the side of a desk lamp and sent a cloud of dust bursting up into the darkness. As soon as he had cleared his sinuses, Vance moved to switch on the apparatus.

The light illuminated a sleek black bar that spread out across the rear wall of the shop. It came to a stop at the far end, leaving behind the dusty antiques in exchange for shelves of old whiskey bottles. Directly in front of Vance, showcased by the desk lamp, was a brown leather diary. While the outside was void of any sort of identification, scrawled within the jacket in shaky, messy, print was one name: Edgar J. Caskett. The diary was thick, overflowing with hastily-written entries. At a loss for anything better to do, Vance opened to a random page and started to read:

Feb 12

I've been working all day. For some reason, our back wall was knocked out. There were pieces of wood everywhere--walls, ceiling panels, ripped up floorboards. It was as if a hurricane headed straight for our shop hit. I'm just glad it didn't hit our bedrooms upstairs. All it managed to do was knock out the washroom side and the back of some old stuff. It was when I woke up that I heard it, a big pounding sound, then the crash of some of the antiques. We couldn't use the washroom all yesterday, since the facing side was open to the whole alley and street behind us. It was a real pain to clean up the mess--the wood had flown not only inside but outside. How could that be? If the force was coming from outside, it would have pushed the wood in--not out. And if it had come from the inside, then how could the floorboards have been ripped up? It doesn't make any sense.

Could they have found me? No, it's impossible. I covered my tracks entirely – there weren't even any tracks to cover in the first place, since I disappeared so suddenly. She told me to hide here...and I trust her judgement, the judgement of the most powerful, knowledgeable person I've ever met. The immense amount of ground that they would have to cover to find me...it just doesn't seem possible, does it? If they somehow have found me, though...I must flee once again. My research has brought me so far, and I feel like I'm just on the verge of a discovery. Especially after what I brought with me – well, I'll go over it from the beginning some other time, I guess. I'm much too tired now.

I went to bed straight after the work, and in the morning I gathered the scattered antiques. Two or three were broken, the others had minor blemishes which I either sanded off or cleaned. I managed to get the shop open by 10, but I still didn't have a mass amount of customers. I also didn't really have any spectacular item to place on display, so I had no choice but to take “it” out of storage.

It looks just like a small clock to them, about one or one and a half feet tall. But we both know it isn't just a clock – it's a Clock. That's why this is a safe place, though. It's probably the only place I could stay anonymous like this. All is not safe even in this world, however -- especially with such a beautiful item. It's finished perfectly, shines every direction you look at it. There's no cardboard or strong backing to it-- it's all ancient wood. At the bottom it's kinda flat and comes out to a little curve, rising upwards with two thin wooden pillars on each side. There's no pendulum, though -- where the pendulum should be is just blank wood. It feels like there's something not right about it, but that's not the half of it. If only the public knew what was sealed inside this mechanism...we'd have quite the problem on our hands.

Additionally, even with the extended amount of time I've had the Clock in my possession, I have yet to figure out the correct rhythm of its hands. During my first experiment, I waited a few hours, and the minute hand moved twice. TWICE. I couldn't unseal it and look inside, either...not without the proper tools, which I had to leave behind in my haste.

I won't let them have it. My life's research, all the sacrifices that were made to bring us this far -- my entire point of purpose is riding upon this small, mystical object. It's alright, though. Even if I have to run forever, I won't let them have you. I'll leave you in a place where they'll never think to look for you – right under their noses.

Vance was interrupted from his leafing through the journal when he heard a clock chime again, a single chilling beat that hung forever in the air. He jumped from his position on the grimy barstool and stared around as best he could.

What am I doing here? Vance mentally slapped himself. I'm infiltrating some old guy's home and reading his diary, and now he's probably up there with a shotgun ready to blow me a new one.

The intrepid teenager turned from his position to face the 'Clock.' He felt it beckoning him to come closer, ripping deep into his unconsciousness and pulling him forwards with some unknown power. With Caskett's diary tucked under his shoulder, Vance prepared to take the item into his possession. He slid his hands down the cedar sides and grasped the bottom firmly. Surprisingly enough, the little item weighed much heavier than it looked. He tried again, putting much more shoulder into this one, and successfully hoisted the Clock up. As soon as it was off the ground, it was kind of weird, but...it wasn't so heavy anymore.

Vance's mind once again interfered with his body's actions. Hold on a second here. I'm ripping off some guy's clock...a 'Clock,' even. He set it back down tentatively, but before he knew it, his hands had returned instinctively to the mechanism's sides. For some reason, though...I don't think that guy is coming back.

As he stared out the window, he caught sight of a shadowy couple disappear into an alleyway, their hands locked firmly together.

Vance grunted, the image reminding him of a time long past. I suppose he will be waiting for me.

Looking deep within the Clock, he watched as his own eager eyes were reflected back through the glass face. I'll say I found it in the garbage. Yeah, the garbage – no, the pawn shop. I bought it at the pawn shop. It was on sale since it didn't work...yeah, of course. They'll buy that.

He put the clock under his arm -- it seemed to fit perfectly -- and walked out of the building.

Next: DEMONS