Being Human: Good Times, Bad Times [Hal/Cutler + ensemble] 3/?
Title: “Good Times, Bad Times”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Quotes from: "Friends" by Aura Dione; "Henry V" by William Shakespeare.
A/N: This chapter features car theft, gratuitous wackiness and Hal being pompous.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3
Our Dawn of the Dead
A good film is all about balance. You have to have your action scenes and your comic relief and maybe a romantic storyline. Clever dialogues, spectacular visual effects and a couple of surprise plot twists would also do your film a lot of good.
Which is why Cutler decides that his film, on the scale from one to ten, currently averages three. Mostly because it has got no balance whatsoever and is rapidly becoming a mindless popcorn action flick. Not that there’s anything wrong with it when you’re watching it at home with an actual bucket of popcorn on your lap.
Except Nick Cutler is no action hero. He can assess his capabilities well enough to understand that he won’t be scaling any skyscrapers anytime soon. He is pretty much Tobey Maguire’s Spiderman before the spider bite, and that, on the scale from one to ten, means LOSER.
Okay, enough wallowing in self-pity. He usually allows himself a total of about an hour a day, and he’s been whining silently non-stop ever since he jumped on the anti-Old Ones bandwagon. Are these things connected, or what?
Scene: EXT. STREET - DAY
Peaceful. Quiet. Nobody knows what’s coming.
EXT. EDGE OF THE FOREST - SHORTLY BEFORE
Two men running. ANGLE ON: their legs as they tear through the thicket
BACK TO: STREET
A CAR drives by leisurely. A WOMAN holding a mobile phone is pushing a pram in front of her. The sun peeks gingerly from behind the smoky veil of clouds.
VOICE (V.O.):
Do you think we’ve lost them?
CLOSE ON: THE MEN’S FACES
They are both looking around warily. Their hair is wet, faces are streaked with sweat.
VOICE (V.O.):
We need another car. The first thing they’d do would be damage the van.
CUT TO: The MEN walking out of the forest.
ZOOM IN ON cars of different models in succession.
The DISTINCTIVE SOUND of a car door opening.
CUT TO: A CAR speeding away.
DISSOLVE TO:
“What do you say?” Cutler turns his head and looks at Hal. “You, me, old times.”
He doesn’t know why he is whispering. Doesn’t even know why he is asking: he is driving; he can just-
Hal gives him a Very Cold Look.
“We must go back for them.”
Cutler sighs and wisely decides not to ask why.
“We should have at least tried to look for weapons or something. You know, to,” he air-quotes, “help us on our quest.” Hal knits his eyebrows. Half of what Cutler says obviously flies right over his head. Cutler snorts. “Wow, you’ve got an extreme case of genre blindness, haven’t you? It’s okay.” He pats Hal’s shoulder condescendingly. “It’s just old age.”
His newfound boldness is intoxicating.
“I’m glad you’re having fun, Cutler,” Hal says tersely.
“I’m actually screaming internally. This is just my defense mechanism. You should try it.”
If this were an American film, they would have guns. Lots of guns that would never run out of ammunition. (Cutler shudders at the thought of turning into Golda’s Bruce Willis wannabe sidekick. He doesn’t talk like that, does he?) They would also drive an off-road vehicle, an armoured Jeep or something. Or a Batmobile. And the world would be in enough disarray to let a little car theft slide. Especially if the owners are dumb enough to leave the keys inside.
Cutler sighs. They could be in England now. Instead their tiny bright orange Beetle is making its way through the forest in search of a dog and two unfriendly Caspers to rescue. Something tells Cutler Tom isn’t in that much need of a rescue per se. Cutler still can’t get over the fact that he has tracked and caught a deer pretty much bare-handed.
“You should see them on the day of the full moon,” Hal says distractedly when Cutler shares his grudging admiration.
“You’re some kind of an expert now?”
“I always have been.”
“You didn’t use to bunk with them,” Cutler scoffs.
“You used to feel sorry for them,” Hal replies.
It wasn’t a habit really. He never openly expressed any sympathy for Hal’s caged beasts. But he wasn’t, and still isn’t, a big fan of dog fights. They seem like a waste of time (and money, especially in Hal’s case, since he would frequently bet and lose).
The closer they get to the spot where they left the van, the more impenetrable the forest becomes. The trees grow too close to each other; sometimes the Beetle can barely squeeze between them. It gets bogged down; mud splatters from under the turning wheels.
Hal raises his head, listening. The forest is eerily quiet, apart from the noise their car makes. Cutler thinks they are at the height of stupidity now: to get away from the people who want to kill them only to find themselves wandering back like sheep to the slaughter.
No wonder he never had any friends.
“Hey,” he says thoughtfully, “what happens if you run a vampire over?”
“Depends on the vehicle, I assume,” Hal says. “And the vampire.”
Cutler grins. “Want to run a few tests?”
The Beetle finally moves off. Bouncing over the ruts and protruding roots, it reaches the van and almost crashes into it. It looks abandoned and the tires are perforated, but the sounds of a fight are heard in the distance. Cutler steps on the gas.
“Forget the vampires,” Hal says urgently. “Aim for him.”
There goes the battle of the century: a funny-looking orange Beetle versus a brutish black lyco. As the car collides with the body, it makes a very distinctive thud. One - zero in favour of the Beetle.
The werewolf (Milo; Cutler remembers that Mr Snow called him Milo) doesn’t stay down for long. And - oh! - he does have a gun. He rises like the Terminator, pointing the barrel at the windshield. The level of “cool” in reality has almost reached that of the films - just when Cutler has begun wishing it would go down.
Luckily, the others don’t need much prodding. Alex teleports straight in, grousing about the size of the getaway vehicle. Tom lunges at Milo, and the gunshot thunders up to the sky.
“If you care about the safety of the child,” Milo growls, “then this is the biggest mistake you could make.”
Annie tears him off Tom and flings him aside before he can add anything else. They both jump into the car, and Cutler drives off as fast as he can manage.
Major déjà vu, déjà panicked and déjà escaped.
* * *
They decide unanimously that the Beetle is far too conspicuous to keep it and leave it a few streets away from where they originally took it. It was a spontaneous test-drive. The owners should be grateful.
“We need to go back to the house,” Tom says. In Cutler’s opinion, few ideas are dumber than this one. Tom elaborates: “There’s some things that could be made into weapons. And a car.”
They plod on in silence. Eve squeaks occasionally, swaddled in Annie’s clothes.
“What about me?” Alex asks. “My unfinished business… thing?”
Cutler tenses, dearly hoping that she doesn’t mean revenge.
“Alex, I…” Hal trails off and gives a small, helpless shrug.
She nods, seemingly composed, but her chin trembles slightly.
“I know it’s pretty much the end of the world,” she says, “but what do you know, my world’s already ended.”
She looks like a ghost then, a little lost, a little scared and very dead. But there is steel in her, there is character that wouldn’t let her just fade away - which means the only way to get rid of her is have her pass over, and suddenly Cutler understands what promise Hal has made her, and he really wants Hal to keep it.
Hal’s train of thought must be going marginally in the same direction. He stops, looking vaguely apologetic.
Wait a minute. Now? Cutler’s mouth drops open. Hal wants to take care of it now?
“We’ll stop by the club, see what’s what,” Hal says. Alex visibly perks up.
Cutler hopes the others would protest, but they don’t. Tom nods silently.
“Uh, Let’s Split Up, Gang?” Cutler blurts out. “Seriously?” Okay, this idea is dumber than going back to the B&B.
Hal tells them to give him two hours and promises to meet them in the house. Cutler watches him and Alex leave in one direction and Tom and Annie in the other. This is what being the fifth wheel feels like. On top of everything, he has to choose a team now. As much as he wants to keep an eye on Hal, he doesn’t feel like returning to his crime scene, especially not with Milo’s people lurking everywhere.
“My God, I’m surrounded by non-genre-savvy people,” he mutters dejectedly and trots after Tom and Annie.
The house is clear, or maybe it’s a trap, but at this point Cutler isn’t sure how much he cares. Hunger stirs inside him along with irritation, but exhaustions tops everything. He hasn’t slept for ages, and in this department vampires are not nearly as superhuman as one would like to believe. He bumps into the invisible barrier that stings him in warning, and lingers on the doorstep.
“Okay then,” he calls out casually. “I’ll just wait outside, waving my banner that says: War Child is here.”
“Oh, come in,” Tom says testily.
Cutler edges forward. The invisible defence is gone. He shuts the door behind him and looks around. A bar in the living room; now that’s hip. Cutler inches closer to it. Nobody seems to mind, so he pours himself a glass of some liquor without even looking at the label and downs it at a single draught.
Annie is standing in front of a large mural on the living room wall depicting Hawaii. It’s your garden variety postcard scenery: a beach, a bright blue expanse of the sea and the sky, and rolling green slopes in the background. Everything about the house is gaudy and cosy at the same time. Cutler cannot imagine Hal living here.
The picture mesmerizes him. It draws his attention and makes it difficult to look away. He thinks about beaches and his ambition to own Brazil. Brazil is all about golden sand, latino jazz, bronzed bikini-clad girls and autonomy. Freedom from drab warehouses, the smell of fish and industrial fuel in the docks, from brutes like Fergus and old-timers like Griffin.
“When Mitchell first brought me here,” Annie says to no one in particular, startling Cutler out of his ruminations, “we had a party. Just the four of us. We wore flower necklaces and danced in front of this wall, pretending we were in Hawaii.”
Tom ambles up to her and tentatively wraps his arm around her shoulders. Annie sobs, covers her mouth with her hand, and for a moment Cutler is afraid she is going to break down crying, a full-on flood of hysterical tears. Crying and panic attacks unnerve him.
He slinks off upstairs and wanders from door to door before he finds a light, tidy room. He needs no confirmation that it’s Hal’s: it’s too clean, too neat to be anyone else’s. He smirks when he spots an exercise bicycle. Hal has been working out.
Books, too. Lots of books. Hal would read to him or make him read while casually sinking his teeth into Cutler’s shoulder or wrist or thigh, just because he could.
The bed is narrow, meant for one person.
There is a photo on the mantlepiece. A portrait of an old man. Cutler takes a closer look, wondering why Hal would keep a photo like that. Someone important?
Tom trudges in, takes the photograph away from Cutler and shoves it into the bag, saying that Hal might want it. It’s clear that Tom is far from certain they will ever return to this place.
They go back downstairs. Tom collects all sorts of stuff from all over the house. Some domestic junk: washing detergents, kitchen oil, screws and nails. He empties the fridge and after brief hesitation adds a change of clothes for Hal and himself. Knives, stakes and crosses go into the bag as well. Cutler squints and looks away.
Annie packs Eve’s belongings: crawlers, diapers, bottles. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, but she seems to have regained her self-control. Cutler fidgets and finally plucks up his courage to ask:
“Annie? That future you were talking about. What is it?”
Her hands clench around a pair of socks. She puts them into another bag and starts ramming the stuff inside it to make more room.
“Eve died in the future,” she says flatly. “She took me into Purgatory and showed me her memories. Our future.”
“It’s pretty bad,” Tom supplies. “Though you’d prob’ly like it.”
Cutler ignore the obvious dig.
“Let me get this straight. Some person who may or may not be the War Child took you to the theme park version of the future - and you believed her?” Annie doesn’t bother replying. Cutler prods again. “We are all operating under the assumption that the prophecy of the War Child is true. It’s one thing to have the Old Ones believing in it and another thing to let ourselves panic over it.”
“Everything else on the bloody parchments came true!” Annie snaps.
Cutler sidles closer, leans into her and says quietly:
“Then you know what must be done, don’t you?”
His insides twist like he is on a rollercoaster and his wagon is taking a plunge. He flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Pain jolts up his spine. Annie’s eyes are icy-blue as she relinquishes her ghostly grasp on him and lets him drop in a heap on the floor.
“Don’t you dare tell me I must kill my baby,” she spits.
Cutler’s tongue has always been his worst enemy.
“Ah, but she’s not yours, is she?” he says as he scrambles up on his feet. “She’s George and Nina’s. You’re just a caretaker.”
Another jolt of pain. This time his head hits the wall, and starbursts explode before his eyes. Tom calls Annie’s name urgently and grabs her hands.
“When this is all over, I’ll the first in line to stake him,” he says. “But right now we could use an extra pair of hands.”
Cutler can’t decide if this is flattering or insulting. He rubs the back of his head and reminds himself to stop pissing off ghosts.
“It’s too late,” Annie says. Cutler looks up at her and doesn’t like what he sees. Straight-up hostility is far less alarming than this strange vulnerability written across her face. “If the world that I’ve seen is already happening, then it’s too late. And if her death does not stop it, then… what does it make me?”
“A monster, I guess.” The sodding irony of having to say this to her is not lost on him. “But you’re in good company.”
They are saved by the bell (or rather the front door snapping open) from having to continue the awkward conversation. Hal and Alex are back, which means it’s time to go.
On the way out, Tom flashes Hal an inquiring look. Hal shakes his head silently.
“I’m missing,” Alex explains. “The police didn’t take my body, but someone did.”
A dead girl makes for a pretty macabre souvenir, Cutler thinks. He is a little disappointed: she is quite clearly sticking around, which means he needs to be on the lookout for two Darth Ghosts instead of one.
The car turns out to be an old soft-blue Merc. Hal used to have a much more sophisticated taste, colour-wise - and props for Cutler for not commenting on it out loud.
They squeeze into it, Tom claiming the shotgun and Hal being the designated driver after a short argument. Cutler ends up in the backseat with the ghosts, doing his best to look unaffected by this. Annie is once again swaddling Eve. If they are lucky, the War Child might just suffocate to death under all those layers of ghostly fabric.
They get out of town with no complications. Either it hasn’t occurred to Milo to set up patrols, or they just got lucky for once. They move on, quiet and determined, even though Cutler is pretty sure none of them has a clue where they are headed. The silence it getting on his nerves. He bends forth and manages to reach the radio, catching some pop station. The song that is playing is downright mocking him.
At least I’ve got my frie-e-ends…
Cutler cringes and turns it off.
They are moving north. The weather changes for the worse again; the sky becomes clouded, a few heavy drops plop down on the windshield. They are running low on petrol and stop to refill the tank before it’s too late. Cutler tries the radio again. This time it’s blaring Adele, which is even worse.
“I hate to bring this up again,” Alex says, “but, uh… Any idea what we’re doing exactly? It’s getting dark and we seem to be going nowhere.” That’s a valid question. “And what about the Old Ones? Do we give up and run or do we take the fight to them?”
All of these are valid questions. Naturally they are followed by uneasy silence.
“We would not seek a battle, as we are,” Hal utters eventually. “Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.”
Because there is no way Hal Yorke can speak plain English. The stars aren’t aligned for that.
Alex rolls her eyes. “Meaning?”
“Both,” Tom pipes in. He glances at Hal uncertainly. “Both, right?”
Hal nods. Tom grins like he’s just broken an Enigma cipher all on his own. Cutler is only too happy to let him have the chore of acting as Hal’s personal interpreter because Cutler himself hasn’t got a clue about what’s going on in his maker’s head anymore.
“We gotta find a safe place,” Tom says. “We all need rest. Some of us need sleep. Then we make new weapons and come up with new strategies.”
No one voices it but they are all thinking the same thing: “safe” is rapidly becoming the synonym of “non-existent”. Hal reaches into his pocket, fishes out a domino and twirls it absent-mindedly between his fingers. That’s a new quirk. Cutler catalogues it for future reference.
“We could go abroad,” Alex suggests. “Always wanted to visit France.”
“That would require proper papers,” Cutler notes dejectedly. France would be nice. Until such time as Mr Snow brings it under his control as well.
“How did the Old Ones even get here?” asks Alex.
“By boat,” says Hal. “In a cargo hold.”
“That explains the crankiness.”
Tom rubs his eyes wearily. He looks so worn out that Cutler is suddenly very glad he is not driving.
“Now I regret giving the camper van to Dewi,” Tom mutters.
Hal looks down at his domino and says thoughtfully:
“Don’t. We’re not going to live in a car.” He raises his head, lighting up with new determination. “I can think of a place. It is sufficiently isolated and has no known connections that could be traced back to us. So unless they follow us, which we shall hopefully notice and avoid, we should be safe there. The only problem is, some people might not be happy to see us there.”
Tom knits his eyebrows and then smiles. Annie looks resigned. Once again, Cutler decides not to ask.
Scene: EXT. ROAD - NIGHT
A BLUE MERC trundles along the road, passing by populated areas with caution. It continues north, carrying its weary passengers to the deceptive safety of the empty faraway lands.
BIRDVIEW SHOT: Fields and forests and city lights. A starless night.
FADE OUT.
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Quotes from: "Friends" by Aura Dione; "Henry V" by William Shakespeare.
A/N: This chapter features car theft, gratuitous wackiness and Hal being pompous.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3
Our Dawn of the Dead
A good film is all about balance. You have to have your action scenes and your comic relief and maybe a romantic storyline. Clever dialogues, spectacular visual effects and a couple of surprise plot twists would also do your film a lot of good.
Which is why Cutler decides that his film, on the scale from one to ten, currently averages three. Mostly because it has got no balance whatsoever and is rapidly becoming a mindless popcorn action flick. Not that there’s anything wrong with it when you’re watching it at home with an actual bucket of popcorn on your lap.
Except Nick Cutler is no action hero. He can assess his capabilities well enough to understand that he won’t be scaling any skyscrapers anytime soon. He is pretty much Tobey Maguire’s Spiderman before the spider bite, and that, on the scale from one to ten, means LOSER.
Okay, enough wallowing in self-pity. He usually allows himself a total of about an hour a day, and he’s been whining silently non-stop ever since he jumped on the anti-Old Ones bandwagon. Are these things connected, or what?
Scene: EXT. STREET - DAY
Peaceful. Quiet. Nobody knows what’s coming.
EXT. EDGE OF THE FOREST - SHORTLY BEFORE
Two men running. ANGLE ON: their legs as they tear through the thicket
BACK TO: STREET
A CAR drives by leisurely. A WOMAN holding a mobile phone is pushing a pram in front of her. The sun peeks gingerly from behind the smoky veil of clouds.
VOICE (V.O.):
Do you think we’ve lost them?
CLOSE ON: THE MEN’S FACES
They are both looking around warily. Their hair is wet, faces are streaked with sweat.
VOICE (V.O.):
We need another car. The first thing they’d do would be damage the van.
CUT TO: The MEN walking out of the forest.
ZOOM IN ON cars of different models in succession.
The DISTINCTIVE SOUND of a car door opening.
CUT TO: A CAR speeding away.
DISSOLVE TO:
“What do you say?” Cutler turns his head and looks at Hal. “You, me, old times.”
He doesn’t know why he is whispering. Doesn’t even know why he is asking: he is driving; he can just-
Hal gives him a Very Cold Look.
“We must go back for them.”
Cutler sighs and wisely decides not to ask why.
“We should have at least tried to look for weapons or something. You know, to,” he air-quotes, “help us on our quest.” Hal knits his eyebrows. Half of what Cutler says obviously flies right over his head. Cutler snorts. “Wow, you’ve got an extreme case of genre blindness, haven’t you? It’s okay.” He pats Hal’s shoulder condescendingly. “It’s just old age.”
His newfound boldness is intoxicating.
“I’m glad you’re having fun, Cutler,” Hal says tersely.
“I’m actually screaming internally. This is just my defense mechanism. You should try it.”
If this were an American film, they would have guns. Lots of guns that would never run out of ammunition. (Cutler shudders at the thought of turning into Golda’s Bruce Willis wannabe sidekick. He doesn’t talk like that, does he?) They would also drive an off-road vehicle, an armoured Jeep or something. Or a Batmobile. And the world would be in enough disarray to let a little car theft slide. Especially if the owners are dumb enough to leave the keys inside.
Cutler sighs. They could be in England now. Instead their tiny bright orange Beetle is making its way through the forest in search of a dog and two unfriendly Caspers to rescue. Something tells Cutler Tom isn’t in that much need of a rescue per se. Cutler still can’t get over the fact that he has tracked and caught a deer pretty much bare-handed.
“You should see them on the day of the full moon,” Hal says distractedly when Cutler shares his grudging admiration.
“You’re some kind of an expert now?”
“I always have been.”
“You didn’t use to bunk with them,” Cutler scoffs.
“You used to feel sorry for them,” Hal replies.
It wasn’t a habit really. He never openly expressed any sympathy for Hal’s caged beasts. But he wasn’t, and still isn’t, a big fan of dog fights. They seem like a waste of time (and money, especially in Hal’s case, since he would frequently bet and lose).
The closer they get to the spot where they left the van, the more impenetrable the forest becomes. The trees grow too close to each other; sometimes the Beetle can barely squeeze between them. It gets bogged down; mud splatters from under the turning wheels.
Hal raises his head, listening. The forest is eerily quiet, apart from the noise their car makes. Cutler thinks they are at the height of stupidity now: to get away from the people who want to kill them only to find themselves wandering back like sheep to the slaughter.
No wonder he never had any friends.
“Hey,” he says thoughtfully, “what happens if you run a vampire over?”
“Depends on the vehicle, I assume,” Hal says. “And the vampire.”
Cutler grins. “Want to run a few tests?”
The Beetle finally moves off. Bouncing over the ruts and protruding roots, it reaches the van and almost crashes into it. It looks abandoned and the tires are perforated, but the sounds of a fight are heard in the distance. Cutler steps on the gas.
“Forget the vampires,” Hal says urgently. “Aim for him.”
There goes the battle of the century: a funny-looking orange Beetle versus a brutish black lyco. As the car collides with the body, it makes a very distinctive thud. One - zero in favour of the Beetle.
The werewolf (Milo; Cutler remembers that Mr Snow called him Milo) doesn’t stay down for long. And - oh! - he does have a gun. He rises like the Terminator, pointing the barrel at the windshield. The level of “cool” in reality has almost reached that of the films - just when Cutler has begun wishing it would go down.
Luckily, the others don’t need much prodding. Alex teleports straight in, grousing about the size of the getaway vehicle. Tom lunges at Milo, and the gunshot thunders up to the sky.
“If you care about the safety of the child,” Milo growls, “then this is the biggest mistake you could make.”
Annie tears him off Tom and flings him aside before he can add anything else. They both jump into the car, and Cutler drives off as fast as he can manage.
Major déjà vu, déjà panicked and déjà escaped.
* * *
They decide unanimously that the Beetle is far too conspicuous to keep it and leave it a few streets away from where they originally took it. It was a spontaneous test-drive. The owners should be grateful.
“We need to go back to the house,” Tom says. In Cutler’s opinion, few ideas are dumber than this one. Tom elaborates: “There’s some things that could be made into weapons. And a car.”
They plod on in silence. Eve squeaks occasionally, swaddled in Annie’s clothes.
“What about me?” Alex asks. “My unfinished business… thing?”
Cutler tenses, dearly hoping that she doesn’t mean revenge.
“Alex, I…” Hal trails off and gives a small, helpless shrug.
She nods, seemingly composed, but her chin trembles slightly.
“I know it’s pretty much the end of the world,” she says, “but what do you know, my world’s already ended.”
She looks like a ghost then, a little lost, a little scared and very dead. But there is steel in her, there is character that wouldn’t let her just fade away - which means the only way to get rid of her is have her pass over, and suddenly Cutler understands what promise Hal has made her, and he really wants Hal to keep it.
Hal’s train of thought must be going marginally in the same direction. He stops, looking vaguely apologetic.
Wait a minute. Now? Cutler’s mouth drops open. Hal wants to take care of it now?
“We’ll stop by the club, see what’s what,” Hal says. Alex visibly perks up.
Cutler hopes the others would protest, but they don’t. Tom nods silently.
“Uh, Let’s Split Up, Gang?” Cutler blurts out. “Seriously?” Okay, this idea is dumber than going back to the B&B.
Hal tells them to give him two hours and promises to meet them in the house. Cutler watches him and Alex leave in one direction and Tom and Annie in the other. This is what being the fifth wheel feels like. On top of everything, he has to choose a team now. As much as he wants to keep an eye on Hal, he doesn’t feel like returning to his crime scene, especially not with Milo’s people lurking everywhere.
“My God, I’m surrounded by non-genre-savvy people,” he mutters dejectedly and trots after Tom and Annie.
The house is clear, or maybe it’s a trap, but at this point Cutler isn’t sure how much he cares. Hunger stirs inside him along with irritation, but exhaustions tops everything. He hasn’t slept for ages, and in this department vampires are not nearly as superhuman as one would like to believe. He bumps into the invisible barrier that stings him in warning, and lingers on the doorstep.
“Okay then,” he calls out casually. “I’ll just wait outside, waving my banner that says: War Child is here.”
“Oh, come in,” Tom says testily.
Cutler edges forward. The invisible defence is gone. He shuts the door behind him and looks around. A bar in the living room; now that’s hip. Cutler inches closer to it. Nobody seems to mind, so he pours himself a glass of some liquor without even looking at the label and downs it at a single draught.
Annie is standing in front of a large mural on the living room wall depicting Hawaii. It’s your garden variety postcard scenery: a beach, a bright blue expanse of the sea and the sky, and rolling green slopes in the background. Everything about the house is gaudy and cosy at the same time. Cutler cannot imagine Hal living here.
The picture mesmerizes him. It draws his attention and makes it difficult to look away. He thinks about beaches and his ambition to own Brazil. Brazil is all about golden sand, latino jazz, bronzed bikini-clad girls and autonomy. Freedom from drab warehouses, the smell of fish and industrial fuel in the docks, from brutes like Fergus and old-timers like Griffin.
“When Mitchell first brought me here,” Annie says to no one in particular, startling Cutler out of his ruminations, “we had a party. Just the four of us. We wore flower necklaces and danced in front of this wall, pretending we were in Hawaii.”
Tom ambles up to her and tentatively wraps his arm around her shoulders. Annie sobs, covers her mouth with her hand, and for a moment Cutler is afraid she is going to break down crying, a full-on flood of hysterical tears. Crying and panic attacks unnerve him.
He slinks off upstairs and wanders from door to door before he finds a light, tidy room. He needs no confirmation that it’s Hal’s: it’s too clean, too neat to be anyone else’s. He smirks when he spots an exercise bicycle. Hal has been working out.
Books, too. Lots of books. Hal would read to him or make him read while casually sinking his teeth into Cutler’s shoulder or wrist or thigh, just because he could.
The bed is narrow, meant for one person.
There is a photo on the mantlepiece. A portrait of an old man. Cutler takes a closer look, wondering why Hal would keep a photo like that. Someone important?
Tom trudges in, takes the photograph away from Cutler and shoves it into the bag, saying that Hal might want it. It’s clear that Tom is far from certain they will ever return to this place.
They go back downstairs. Tom collects all sorts of stuff from all over the house. Some domestic junk: washing detergents, kitchen oil, screws and nails. He empties the fridge and after brief hesitation adds a change of clothes for Hal and himself. Knives, stakes and crosses go into the bag as well. Cutler squints and looks away.
Annie packs Eve’s belongings: crawlers, diapers, bottles. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, but she seems to have regained her self-control. Cutler fidgets and finally plucks up his courage to ask:
“Annie? That future you were talking about. What is it?”
Her hands clench around a pair of socks. She puts them into another bag and starts ramming the stuff inside it to make more room.
“Eve died in the future,” she says flatly. “She took me into Purgatory and showed me her memories. Our future.”
“It’s pretty bad,” Tom supplies. “Though you’d prob’ly like it.”
Cutler ignore the obvious dig.
“Let me get this straight. Some person who may or may not be the War Child took you to the theme park version of the future - and you believed her?” Annie doesn’t bother replying. Cutler prods again. “We are all operating under the assumption that the prophecy of the War Child is true. It’s one thing to have the Old Ones believing in it and another thing to let ourselves panic over it.”
“Everything else on the bloody parchments came true!” Annie snaps.
Cutler sidles closer, leans into her and says quietly:
“Then you know what must be done, don’t you?”
His insides twist like he is on a rollercoaster and his wagon is taking a plunge. He flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Pain jolts up his spine. Annie’s eyes are icy-blue as she relinquishes her ghostly grasp on him and lets him drop in a heap on the floor.
“Don’t you dare tell me I must kill my baby,” she spits.
Cutler’s tongue has always been his worst enemy.
“Ah, but she’s not yours, is she?” he says as he scrambles up on his feet. “She’s George and Nina’s. You’re just a caretaker.”
Another jolt of pain. This time his head hits the wall, and starbursts explode before his eyes. Tom calls Annie’s name urgently and grabs her hands.
“When this is all over, I’ll the first in line to stake him,” he says. “But right now we could use an extra pair of hands.”
Cutler can’t decide if this is flattering or insulting. He rubs the back of his head and reminds himself to stop pissing off ghosts.
“It’s too late,” Annie says. Cutler looks up at her and doesn’t like what he sees. Straight-up hostility is far less alarming than this strange vulnerability written across her face. “If the world that I’ve seen is already happening, then it’s too late. And if her death does not stop it, then… what does it make me?”
“A monster, I guess.” The sodding irony of having to say this to her is not lost on him. “But you’re in good company.”
They are saved by the bell (or rather the front door snapping open) from having to continue the awkward conversation. Hal and Alex are back, which means it’s time to go.
On the way out, Tom flashes Hal an inquiring look. Hal shakes his head silently.
“I’m missing,” Alex explains. “The police didn’t take my body, but someone did.”
A dead girl makes for a pretty macabre souvenir, Cutler thinks. He is a little disappointed: she is quite clearly sticking around, which means he needs to be on the lookout for two Darth Ghosts instead of one.
The car turns out to be an old soft-blue Merc. Hal used to have a much more sophisticated taste, colour-wise - and props for Cutler for not commenting on it out loud.
They squeeze into it, Tom claiming the shotgun and Hal being the designated driver after a short argument. Cutler ends up in the backseat with the ghosts, doing his best to look unaffected by this. Annie is once again swaddling Eve. If they are lucky, the War Child might just suffocate to death under all those layers of ghostly fabric.
They get out of town with no complications. Either it hasn’t occurred to Milo to set up patrols, or they just got lucky for once. They move on, quiet and determined, even though Cutler is pretty sure none of them has a clue where they are headed. The silence it getting on his nerves. He bends forth and manages to reach the radio, catching some pop station. The song that is playing is downright mocking him.
At least I’ve got my frie-e-ends…
Cutler cringes and turns it off.
They are moving north. The weather changes for the worse again; the sky becomes clouded, a few heavy drops plop down on the windshield. They are running low on petrol and stop to refill the tank before it’s too late. Cutler tries the radio again. This time it’s blaring Adele, which is even worse.
“I hate to bring this up again,” Alex says, “but, uh… Any idea what we’re doing exactly? It’s getting dark and we seem to be going nowhere.” That’s a valid question. “And what about the Old Ones? Do we give up and run or do we take the fight to them?”
All of these are valid questions. Naturally they are followed by uneasy silence.
“We would not seek a battle, as we are,” Hal utters eventually. “Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.”
Because there is no way Hal Yorke can speak plain English. The stars aren’t aligned for that.
Alex rolls her eyes. “Meaning?”
“Both,” Tom pipes in. He glances at Hal uncertainly. “Both, right?”
Hal nods. Tom grins like he’s just broken an Enigma cipher all on his own. Cutler is only too happy to let him have the chore of acting as Hal’s personal interpreter because Cutler himself hasn’t got a clue about what’s going on in his maker’s head anymore.
“We gotta find a safe place,” Tom says. “We all need rest. Some of us need sleep. Then we make new weapons and come up with new strategies.”
No one voices it but they are all thinking the same thing: “safe” is rapidly becoming the synonym of “non-existent”. Hal reaches into his pocket, fishes out a domino and twirls it absent-mindedly between his fingers. That’s a new quirk. Cutler catalogues it for future reference.
“We could go abroad,” Alex suggests. “Always wanted to visit France.”
“That would require proper papers,” Cutler notes dejectedly. France would be nice. Until such time as Mr Snow brings it under his control as well.
“How did the Old Ones even get here?” asks Alex.
“By boat,” says Hal. “In a cargo hold.”
“That explains the crankiness.”
Tom rubs his eyes wearily. He looks so worn out that Cutler is suddenly very glad he is not driving.
“Now I regret giving the camper van to Dewi,” Tom mutters.
Hal looks down at his domino and says thoughtfully:
“Don’t. We’re not going to live in a car.” He raises his head, lighting up with new determination. “I can think of a place. It is sufficiently isolated and has no known connections that could be traced back to us. So unless they follow us, which we shall hopefully notice and avoid, we should be safe there. The only problem is, some people might not be happy to see us there.”
Tom knits his eyebrows and then smiles. Annie looks resigned. Once again, Cutler decides not to ask.
Scene: EXT. ROAD - NIGHT
A BLUE MERC trundles along the road, passing by populated areas with caution. It continues north, carrying its weary passengers to the deceptive safety of the empty faraway lands.
BIRDVIEW SHOT: Fields and forests and city lights. A starless night.
FADE OUT.
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage