Second Chances Part 14
Disclaimers in Part 1.
Pain. His entire being radiated agony.
Sebastian lay flat on his back, looking up into blackness. He turned his head slightly, then tried to lift himself, sit up -- impossible. He was paralyzed.
He concentrated to find out where he was, what part of him was hurting.
The answer: he had no idea where he was, and everything hurt.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe his way through the pain, one lungful of air at a time. His breathing rattled in his chest. Fluid in his airway.
“Hello, baby.” A male voice.
He recognized that voice.
A hand caressed his hair. “Have a good vacation? I would say ‘sabbatical’ but that word doesn’t seem entirely appropriate for people like us.”
He forced his eyes open. A man stood next to him, a long-faced man with close-cropped hair, dressed in an immaculate white suit.
Sebastian knew who this man was. The First of the Fallen, Master of Hell: Lucifer Rofocale.
With a mocking smile, Lucifer reached over and gave Sebastian’s cheek a slap “Wakey, wakey. Time to get back to work. Back to the salt mines, nose to the grindstone.”
Sebastian took a ragged breath, tried to move. Couldn’t.
Lucifer continued, “Of course, people who get sent away on extended vacations can’t expect to step back into the exact same job upon their return Everything’s a tradeoff; you have your fun, you pay for it later. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy working your way up the ladder again.”
There was an invisible flash - and Balthazar remembered everything.
Out of that rush of memories: regret, despair, impotent anger.
He remembered. He was trapped, again. Bound by an oath he swore millennia ago, he was both victim and victimizer; a slave, a tool, a toy for his master’s amusement as he himself toyed with others.
Everything he did, everything he wanted, everything he touched - warped, twisted, ruined. Falling to pieces in his hands, while Satan watched with amusement, like a father watching an abused son torture his pets out of frustration and anger and self-hate.
“Need to get back, my boy, busy day, busy day. Just have time to drop you off at your new assignment. You’ll recognize the gang. They have a nice surprise waiting for you. Well - maybe it won’t be so nice, from your perspective.”
Lucifer seized the prone man’s shoulder, started to pull -
In Spanish: “Excuseme, Senor.”
Lucifer froze, stared.
“Necesito un momento con Sebastian.”
Balthazar turned his head incrementally to the right.
Miguel Allarde stood there, his previously cataract-clouded eyes now crystal clear. He was wearing rough off-white homespun, and there was a hint of transparent wings over his shoulders.
Lucifer said, “I don’t have time for this. He’s mine.”
“No, Senor,” said Miguel firmly in English. “He is not. And yes, Senor. You do have the time.”
Miguel looked down at Balthazar and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, a counterweight to Lucifer’s fisted grasp. “Sebastianito,” he said in Spanish, “I have something to tell you.”
Balthazar managed the strength to blink in acknowledgement.
Miguel continued, “I spoke to my elder daughter. She says she is very sorry, but they threw your clothes away. They were very angry and frightened about what had happened to me. I explained and they understand now that it was not your fault. She said to tell you they are very sorry. We all know that you worked hard for the money to buy those clothes and that you liked them very much.”
Balthazar cleared his throat. “Thanks a lot, Miguel, but if that’s your idea of how to do the angel routine, you need more practice. It’s not much of a comfort for me to go back to Hell knowing that somewhere there’s a vagrant walking around in my $150 Diesel jeans.”
Miguel laughed delightedly, wiped the tears from his eyes in amusement. “I have something else important to tell you, Sebastianito. You don’t have to go back to El Infierno.”
“Sure he does, Pops,” Lucifer interrupted. “I own him. He’s mine.”
Miguel clicked his tongue. “No longer, Senor Diablo. You were the one who took away his past. With his history erased, he could exercise his will freely, without the weight of old sins and obligations upon him. In this new time that you granted him, he has done nothing that would condemn him back to your kingdom.”
“Sure he has,” said Lucifer.
“Such as?”
Lucifer considered. “He killed people. Course, they killed him right back, thus here we all are.” He made a stagey arms-out gesture.
Miguel replied, “He deported some of your minions back to you. Disembodying a demon is not the same as killing a human being. He acted in anger and grief, and that is a sin, but not, under the circumstances, a mortal one.”
“That’s a matter of debate,” countered Lucifer.
Miguel replied, “I have been given advice from the highest authority in this matter.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes, then smirked. “All right then. He committed sodomy. No denying that one.”
Miguel chuckled. “Come, Senor Diablo, we are not within the bounds of Earth, where they are confused about such things. No act of love is forbidden, if it is done with the right heart. One could say much of the history of Sebastian Balthazar and John Constantine, but one cannot say that it is a shallow or short-lived thing.”
Lucifer said, “Damn it, I’m not going to stand here and debate the finer moral points of buttfucking with some crazy spic wetback. Hurry up and say what you gotta say.”
Miguel looked down at the halfbreed who was struggling for air. “Sebastian….Balthazar. You must choose now. Go back with Senor Diablo…or go back to Earth.”
Balthazar laughed, then choked, blood running from his mouth and nose. “That’s some choice. Be a prince - “ Lucifer waved a warning hand - “an aspiring prince in Hell, or a homeless janitor in a slum in the so-called City of Angels.”
“You would not be homeless,” Miguel pointed out. “You could live with the exorcist John Constantine.”
Balthazar spit blood.
“Perhaps,” Miguel admitted. “But you are bound by history and by fate, whether either of you intended it or no. And this Constantine, he needs keeping by a competent person. Without good keeping, he gets himself into difficulties. That young taxi boy, that young angel - he means well, but he is no match for such a stubborn man as that exorcist. Now you, you are a stubborn man yourself -- ”
“Shut up, Miguel,” said Balthazar, and grinned, teeth washed red in blood. “Fuck Constantine and fuck Earth and fuck all of it. But one thing I know. I’m not going back with you, you sadistic prick,” stabbing a finger at Lucifer. “If my oath to you is nullified - it’ll be snowing in Hell before I sign away my soul again. Not to you, not to anyone.”
Lucifer loomed over the dying halfbreed. “Better rethink that, *Sebastian*. You’ll come back to Hell one way or another, faggot. If not in the management ranks - then among the condemned. Your soul ripped apart and devoured, over and over through the ages. Come on, my boy. That’s not your style.”
“At least I’d be the one taking it rather than dishing it out, which’ll make a change,” said Balthazar. “I know all the tricks, Lu, and if I have to endure them through all eternity, then I will. I’m not afraid of what you can do. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. I *know*.”
Lucifer glowered. “Nothing’s a bigger pain in the ass than some upstart subordinate who thinks he knows everything.”
Miguel chuckled. “You make a good joke, Senor.”
The Devil threw his hands up dramatically. “Fine. *Sebastian.* Your call. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The Master of Hell checked his watch. “Gotta go. What a timewaster this was.”
Miguel said, “Sebastian made his choice. Now you return him.”
“Return him yourself. I don’t owe you any favors,” and the Devil vanished.
Miguel looked startled. Balthazar coughed, vomited a red gush. He was suffocating, drowning in his own blood. He looked imploringly at Miguel.
The Guatemalan angel reached down and grabbed the shoulders of the choking halfbreed.
As he lost consciousness, Balthazar heard Miguel at a great distance saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, del Fantasma Santo, por Maria la reina del cielo y todos los santos -“
Pain. His entire being radiated agony.
Sebastian lay flat on his back, looking up into blackness. He turned his head slightly, then tried to lift himself, sit up -- impossible. He was paralyzed.
He concentrated to find out where he was, what part of him was hurting.
The answer: he had no idea where he was, and everything hurt.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe his way through the pain, one lungful of air at a time. His breathing rattled in his chest. Fluid in his airway.
“Hello, baby.” A male voice.
He recognized that voice.
A hand caressed his hair. “Have a good vacation? I would say ‘sabbatical’ but that word doesn’t seem entirely appropriate for people like us.”
He forced his eyes open. A man stood next to him, a long-faced man with close-cropped hair, dressed in an immaculate white suit.
Sebastian knew who this man was. The First of the Fallen, Master of Hell: Lucifer Rofocale.
With a mocking smile, Lucifer reached over and gave Sebastian’s cheek a slap “Wakey, wakey. Time to get back to work. Back to the salt mines, nose to the grindstone.”
Sebastian took a ragged breath, tried to move. Couldn’t.
Lucifer continued, “Of course, people who get sent away on extended vacations can’t expect to step back into the exact same job upon their return Everything’s a tradeoff; you have your fun, you pay for it later. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy working your way up the ladder again.”
There was an invisible flash - and Balthazar remembered everything.
Out of that rush of memories: regret, despair, impotent anger.
He remembered. He was trapped, again. Bound by an oath he swore millennia ago, he was both victim and victimizer; a slave, a tool, a toy for his master’s amusement as he himself toyed with others.
Everything he did, everything he wanted, everything he touched - warped, twisted, ruined. Falling to pieces in his hands, while Satan watched with amusement, like a father watching an abused son torture his pets out of frustration and anger and self-hate.
“Need to get back, my boy, busy day, busy day. Just have time to drop you off at your new assignment. You’ll recognize the gang. They have a nice surprise waiting for you. Well - maybe it won’t be so nice, from your perspective.”
Lucifer seized the prone man’s shoulder, started to pull -
In Spanish: “Excuseme, Senor.”
Lucifer froze, stared.
“Necesito un momento con Sebastian.”
Balthazar turned his head incrementally to the right.
Miguel Allarde stood there, his previously cataract-clouded eyes now crystal clear. He was wearing rough off-white homespun, and there was a hint of transparent wings over his shoulders.
Lucifer said, “I don’t have time for this. He’s mine.”
“No, Senor,” said Miguel firmly in English. “He is not. And yes, Senor. You do have the time.”
Miguel looked down at Balthazar and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, a counterweight to Lucifer’s fisted grasp. “Sebastianito,” he said in Spanish, “I have something to tell you.”
Balthazar managed the strength to blink in acknowledgement.
Miguel continued, “I spoke to my elder daughter. She says she is very sorry, but they threw your clothes away. They were very angry and frightened about what had happened to me. I explained and they understand now that it was not your fault. She said to tell you they are very sorry. We all know that you worked hard for the money to buy those clothes and that you liked them very much.”
Balthazar cleared his throat. “Thanks a lot, Miguel, but if that’s your idea of how to do the angel routine, you need more practice. It’s not much of a comfort for me to go back to Hell knowing that somewhere there’s a vagrant walking around in my $150 Diesel jeans.”
Miguel laughed delightedly, wiped the tears from his eyes in amusement. “I have something else important to tell you, Sebastianito. You don’t have to go back to El Infierno.”
“Sure he does, Pops,” Lucifer interrupted. “I own him. He’s mine.”
Miguel clicked his tongue. “No longer, Senor Diablo. You were the one who took away his past. With his history erased, he could exercise his will freely, without the weight of old sins and obligations upon him. In this new time that you granted him, he has done nothing that would condemn him back to your kingdom.”
“Sure he has,” said Lucifer.
“Such as?”
Lucifer considered. “He killed people. Course, they killed him right back, thus here we all are.” He made a stagey arms-out gesture.
Miguel replied, “He deported some of your minions back to you. Disembodying a demon is not the same as killing a human being. He acted in anger and grief, and that is a sin, but not, under the circumstances, a mortal one.”
“That’s a matter of debate,” countered Lucifer.
Miguel replied, “I have been given advice from the highest authority in this matter.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes, then smirked. “All right then. He committed sodomy. No denying that one.”
Miguel chuckled. “Come, Senor Diablo, we are not within the bounds of Earth, where they are confused about such things. No act of love is forbidden, if it is done with the right heart. One could say much of the history of Sebastian Balthazar and John Constantine, but one cannot say that it is a shallow or short-lived thing.”
Lucifer said, “Damn it, I’m not going to stand here and debate the finer moral points of buttfucking with some crazy spic wetback. Hurry up and say what you gotta say.”
Miguel looked down at the halfbreed who was struggling for air. “Sebastian….Balthazar. You must choose now. Go back with Senor Diablo…or go back to Earth.”
Balthazar laughed, then choked, blood running from his mouth and nose. “That’s some choice. Be a prince - “ Lucifer waved a warning hand - “an aspiring prince in Hell, or a homeless janitor in a slum in the so-called City of Angels.”
“You would not be homeless,” Miguel pointed out. “You could live with the exorcist John Constantine.”
Balthazar spit blood.
“Perhaps,” Miguel admitted. “But you are bound by history and by fate, whether either of you intended it or no. And this Constantine, he needs keeping by a competent person. Without good keeping, he gets himself into difficulties. That young taxi boy, that young angel - he means well, but he is no match for such a stubborn man as that exorcist. Now you, you are a stubborn man yourself -- ”
“Shut up, Miguel,” said Balthazar, and grinned, teeth washed red in blood. “Fuck Constantine and fuck Earth and fuck all of it. But one thing I know. I’m not going back with you, you sadistic prick,” stabbing a finger at Lucifer. “If my oath to you is nullified - it’ll be snowing in Hell before I sign away my soul again. Not to you, not to anyone.”
Lucifer loomed over the dying halfbreed. “Better rethink that, *Sebastian*. You’ll come back to Hell one way or another, faggot. If not in the management ranks - then among the condemned. Your soul ripped apart and devoured, over and over through the ages. Come on, my boy. That’s not your style.”
“At least I’d be the one taking it rather than dishing it out, which’ll make a change,” said Balthazar. “I know all the tricks, Lu, and if I have to endure them through all eternity, then I will. I’m not afraid of what you can do. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. I *know*.”
Lucifer glowered. “Nothing’s a bigger pain in the ass than some upstart subordinate who thinks he knows everything.”
Miguel chuckled. “You make a good joke, Senor.”
The Devil threw his hands up dramatically. “Fine. *Sebastian.* Your call. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The Master of Hell checked his watch. “Gotta go. What a timewaster this was.”
Miguel said, “Sebastian made his choice. Now you return him.”
“Return him yourself. I don’t owe you any favors,” and the Devil vanished.
Miguel looked startled. Balthazar coughed, vomited a red gush. He was suffocating, drowning in his own blood. He looked imploringly at Miguel.
The Guatemalan angel reached down and grabbed the shoulders of the choking halfbreed.
As he lost consciousness, Balthazar heard Miguel at a great distance saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, del Fantasma Santo, por Maria la reina del cielo y todos los santos -“