Strangers In Strange Lands

[EdTerryn]

May 5, 2017
11:00 PM.
The Ice Palace, Saint Petersburg

I cannot tell you what happens when you die.

Some who have made the journey and back again claim to have traveled a tunnel of light; or walked a stairway; approached a gate; felt comforted by an omnipotent disembodiment; heard a voice; or met a bearded saint. For all of its keen direction for holistic living and right action during your stay on this imperfect celestial body, the bible has instead managed to fill heads with ideas of what to do and expect once you're done living.

For my part, these things the faithful see after death is what stood across from me in that cage amidst colliding sinew, bone and muscle. A man, much bigger than I holding my fate in his grasp, a sense of judgment, a cacophonous multitude of voices a roar all around me, and a flash of light as I nearly dislocated the shoulder.

I cannot tell you what happens when you die, though, because Anton Voron did not kill me.

Now as it has been for the past thirteen years my eyes will forever open to disappointment.

While I cannot tell you what happens when you die I can tell you that it is no longer Edward Terryn that lives in this body, but I that live through him.

Lucky me.

The face in the mirror was a stranger staring back. Ed Terryn, an ugly creature by its assessment. Eyes behind eyes watched the head tilt to one side, shirtless, the left arm raised forcing a wince onto the face where one eye drooped, inspecting the rib cage for injury through the skin.

There was none, only tenderness. The hands itched after the application of fresh gauze of the slowly healing previously dead flesh. The mind worked to determine the best course of necessary remedy and upkeep for these more recent injuries. This much was routine.

Decay is a tough act to manage. Oh, how the inner prayer waging behind Ed Terryn's eyes begged it to just be over already.

The inspection turned to the face, close in the mirror to inspect where a bruise and a few reddened welts marred Ed's features.

"Good fight," came the voice of the janitor who emptied the nearby waste bin.

"It's not over yet," the voice spoke, Ed Terryn's voice. Thirteen years had still not softened the blow of hearing it. Whatever it used to sound like had been forgotten. "Soon, hopefully."

The janitor whose nametag was hidden in the glint of the overhead lights looked respectful lifted his hat and rubbed his head with a frown at Ed before pushing his trash collection cart out of the room and on to the next.

Ed's eyes went back to the mirror to flash the teeth. All still intact, the tired eyes surmised with disaffection, simultaneously and contrarily glad and disappointed he hadn't lost any. 

Earlier that night.
Adjusted for Standardized Time
Dempsey's Pub
Redcar & Cleveland Borough, United Kingdom

Greg Shears had not met with Doctor White the night he was supposed to rush out and pick up the birthday present for his son which he had forgotten earlier in the day. After a meanderingly thoughtful few moments parked in his driveway he dutifully made it to a toy shoppe he didn't bother catching the name of and made the keeper stand and wait an extra fifteen minutes after closing as he wracked his brain with what to gift his son.

[i[He likes these animal toys[/i], he remembered but he couldn't remember the name. Three minutes after awkwardly asking the annoyed storekeeper for help he was cashing out and carrying a PAW Patrol Rubble vehicle, and a Chase too purchased out of guilt for making the shopkeeper wait. Out of the store he went on his way to his car feeling proud of himself.

The pride didn't last long.

"He doesn't like PAW Patrol anymore," she glared, practically boring nails into an imaginary coffin.

"Right then," his shoulders slumped in defeat, my work here is clearly done, he thought and watched his proudly acquired gifts move to the side as his 5 year-old son instead manipulated his new Minecraft Lego bought courtesy of that one uncle he doesn't see very often and avoided the rueful gaze of his wife.

It's the little things that kill, after all.

Sunday, tonight, Greg made it to Dempsey's Pub to meet Karen, Doctor White she'd been previously. Now they were on first name basis even though she still called him Gregory, which he hated but was finding it easier to stomach when it came from her lips. They'd flirted quietly over the phone in his office during his escapist free moments of avoiding conversations about the growing elephant in the room while his son's party raged in chaotic full effect, the perfect mirror for his embroiled marriage.

"Gregory!" Karen White was genuinely happy to see him as he approached her. She stood outside Dempsey's Pub, her bare knees shifting back and forth for warmth in the cool night air. She was wearing a short skirt, he could tell, underneath a black skirted pea coat, stiletto heels amping up her calves. Her hair was curled and down framing her already attractive face which was done up with hints of bronze, blush and glitter, lipstick and eyeliner, all brought together immaculately to draw his eye to her every feature at once. She made him eager for a drink. He couldn't stop smiling as he offered a hug.

She smelled amazing, but kept an arm free in the hug and he pulled back to notice the slim cigarette smoking between her fingers.

"You smoke?" He frowned. She lifted it between her lips and he watched the cherry burn bright red. She eyed him coyly.

"Do you mind?" She carefully blew smoke into the air away from him.

"I—no. I just wasn't expecting it." He fidgeted. "You're a doctor." She sure could suck though, he thought with an inward grin.

"Yeah, well," she smirked with a gleam in her eye, "I'm a lot of things," This was and wasn't the same woman he'd met in a doctor's office a week ago. Less inhibited, a doorway to adventure, thoughts that helped him overlook the habit he detested. She butted the cigarette under the sole of her shoe after another drag.

"Come on," she motioned, taking hold of his arm and tugging him into the busy pub where he'd proposed to his wife thirteen years earlier.

She brought him through the crowd towards a table where a man sat. Long hair kept under a pompous looking top hat ribboned with charred and blackened flowers and crowned with a miniature raven figurine adorning the front of the brim like some gargoyle testament to Poe. He was dressed in black with what looked like a cloak draped over the back of his chair. Greg assumed he was handsome, but found himself disapproving of the darkened eyeliner framing this person's piercing blue eyes.

Karen quickly let go of Greg's sleeve and embraced this new man with a big hug then a lengthy kiss. Greg blinked his misunderstanding as the two gradually pulled apart. This new man whispered something into her ear that made her giggle throatily before she remembered he was there.

"Gregory, this is Patrick." She smiled, this new man, Patrick, looked to Greg with a sense of recognition as he offered a handshake.

"Heard a lot about you, mate." Greg reluctantly took the hand and noticed the black nail polish on Patrick's fingers, a frown pooling onto his brow before Patrick and Karen took a seat. He did so as well not to look as uncomfortable as he suddenly felt. The awkward silence tipped Karen off.

"Patrick's a friend," she grinned, Patrick snickering annoyingly and shifting as if to nudge Karen with his elbow. Greg noticed Patrick's hand had moved off the tabletop to rest beneath the table, on her bare knee. Greg leaned forward and put his head down a moment hissing to himself, instant dick softener sitting right across from me.

"Right." He said with a feigned smile, his hands clasping together on the table. Karen's perception continued to detect the sudden chilliness. For a moment their eyes met but Greg shifted his view. Patrick broke the silence.

"So, Kare-Bear's been telling me about this friend of yours. Ed."

"I hope you don't mind," Karen smiled, "Patrick and I go way back. He loves this sort of stuff." Greg frowned.

"What sort of stuff?"

Greg was about to add that he did mind before Patrick started in again, leaning in close and conspiratorially.

"Now, I've been thinking, Greg. I mean, aside from all the usual suspects like zombiism, and theories of the undead, what do you think the possibilities are that this Ed thing is some sort of spectrally occurring phantasm? They can take solid form, but they can't stray too far from some sort of sigil." Greg blinked once more and looked to Karen.

"Patrick's studied the occult extensively," she looked to Patrick proudly. Greg watched her with new eyes. "He's been eager to talk about this all week."

"But I guess that won't work if our boy's gone to Russia, I think Kare-Bear said, so I have other theories."

"That right?" Greg said with increasing disinterest, leaning back unsure of how strong he wanted to react. Karen could feel his spirits deflating. Greg's feigned smile toughened on his face.

"I'll be right back," he said primarily to Karen, "going to get a drink." The fake smile remained as he quickly stood off the large bar stool chair and waded through the crowd toward the bar.

He could imagine them wondering after him curiously, even if they were ensconced with one another, as Greg cursed into his hand as he wiped the back of it across his mouth to rid himself of the destaste. What the hell am I doing here, he thought. Karen White, Doctor Karen White was already shaping up to be a little different than he'd anticipated. The grass is always greener.

He glanced back catching a glimpse of them giggling together closely through the crowd. He leaned against the bar and slid his hand back through his hair. The young bartender in a low top and a high mini skirt was rushing to fill orders giving him a brusque, 'be right with ya' before rushing to the other end of the bar to serve another customer.

It felt like a boatload of hopes had came crashing ashore inside the pit of his stomach. His wife and kid at home, and him here under the initial pretense of starting something with the pretty young thing he'd met at the doctor's office who apparently had more going on than he'd assumed.

"Huge front kick from Ed Terryn," came the voice of commentary over the obnoxious television speaker. He glanced up with a frown to the screen mounted above the bar, many screens in fact playing different sports, this screen however was showcasing an MMA fight. He felt his jaw slacken, watching the two men's bodies colliding within the cage.

One a dark haired man he didn't recognize, but the other he did.

"Voron looking for a takedown, but Terryn's not having it." Greg's head tilted to one side as he watched the man he'd declared dead himself and had been lately searching for snap his opponent's head sideways with a precise and impressive elbow strike.

"What can I get ya?" Came the bartender's voice, startling him away from the screen. His eyes drifted down to greet her youthful and impatient stare with bewilderment.

"W-what is this?" He asked pointing up to the screen.

"Uhhhhh," she had to lean back to read something off the back of the monitor, "Amazon Instant Video. Some fight club thing. 'Unleashed' or some'thin'. You want something to drink, or what?"

Other customers' voices were drowning out the commentary as Greg's frown grew on his face as he looked up once more to view the screen. The fight was in the midst of getting a decision. It was Ed Terryn if his eyes and ears did not deceive him who stood there ambivalent as the scores for a majority draw appeared on the bottom half of the screen. The bartender rolled her eyes at Greg's indecision and rushed off to help another customer.

"Gregory." Her voice was beside him. She leaned along the wood of the bar to grab his attention. Greg looked struck towards her before blinking.

"Is everything okay?" She knew what he was thinking. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. It would take some explaining, an open relationship, bisexuality and an urge to explore wasn't an easy sell for any new friendship. It'd take some time to soften him up, but she could bring him back to the table and get some drinks into him and he'd be back on her page.

"I think I should go," Greg said finally after staring at her wide-eyed for a moment of gathering his bearings off what he'd seen on the television to this dwindling dilemma he was swiftly deciding might not be worth the time or effort.

Karen's expression melted away at first to mild confusion, shifting into indignant at the sense of being so suddenly and inexplicably rebuffed. The knock to her ego was about to weaponize before interrupted by Greg giving her a warm hug. He stepped back.

"Thank you for everything you've done." He smiled, staring at an afterthought coming to grips with that fact. He smoothed his fingers along her elbows and left her alone at the bar.

May 6, 2017
1:16 AM
Nevsky Prospect, St Petersburg Russia

Ed Terryn climbed the stairs to his rental apartment, thoughtful before stopping halfway to his open door. From where he was standing on the stairwell landing, he could see inside where his overbearing landlord, Piotr Orlov sat on his bed looking angrily down at the now toppled tower of books Ed had previously stacked immaculately.

He came to stand at the doorway andf looked inside to confirm his suspicions. Piotr had not approved of Ed's activities within his rental. There was liquid spilled on the floor , the bowls that had contained it tipped over, a set of sterilized maggots writhed confusedly nearby. Ed knocked on the door, rousing Piotr from an angry tirade in his mind, his thumbs sliding along the smooth cover of the book he was holding before glancing at his tenant and rising off the bed.

"Why do you keep dead dogs?" He was furious, pointing to the carcass that had once been a German Shepard, but now a mass rotting near the window. Each slow and plodding step toward him with clenching and unclenching fists a testament to the unbridled anger Piotr was readying to let loose.

"For the maggots." Piotr had crossed the distance between them quicker than Ed expected. Piotr expected a blink or a flinch, but Ed seemed his typical disinterested self.

"What's this?" Piotr held up the book written English which he obviously couldn't read. Ed didn't need to look at it to answer.

"Modern Quantum Mechanics, Second Edition." Piotr breathed heavily, a good foot taller than Ed yet never quite feeling that tall.

"Why would some cage fighting, maggot raising little man like you need to read books like this? No funny answers."

Piotr was bearing down hard. It was a budding bone of contention for him alone to solve the riddle of this seemingly implacable tenant he saw as some sort of opponent. Ed blinked.

"A matter of life and death." The answer angered Piotr, but he knew full well after watching Ed's fight himself that these were empty threats unless he got a lucky shot in. Something about this little man made him seethe with rage.

"I'll be moving on," Ed said, matter of fact, already handing forth a stack of bills earned from his earlier fight with Anton Voron. Piotr glared down at Ed before noticing the bills. His fingers clenched the book tightly in his hand, imagining it were Ed's throat.

"There's something different about you."

"I've heard that."

"I don't like you."

"I've heard that, too."

"I'll figure it out. I know people."

Ed's eyes blinked and glared upwards into Piotr's eyes. The taller man smirked, attention finally gained. He took the bills quickly from Ed's hand and dropped the book between them.

"Be out by morning. I want this entire place clean. You'll see me again." He brushed past Ed, their shoulders knocking against one another roughly enough to remind Ed of his fight with Voron earlier, and strode downstairs. Ed could feel Piotr's eyes on him as the stairs squeaked under his descent. 

"I'm excited," Ed said loud enough for Piotr to hear to complete lack of emotion in his voice.