After The End

Missing Home

It was still in the middle of a very warm day, but the shop looked dark and cold, its curtains drawn tight and its doors firmly locked against the world outside. Dread crawled up Corvus’ skin as he read the ‘Closed.’ sign pressed against the glass. Again…? he thought. What set him off this time? He walked up the steps and tried the main doors. The handles jiggled under his grip, and he could hear the bell bouncing against the wooden frame from the inside, but the doors refused to budge any further. He took a step back to stare at the building and sighed. Okay, let’s try the side door….

In the end, he found himself breaking in through a window by slipping a dagger through the windowpanes and lifting the latch. There was no way Jerome would’ve normally let this slip under his watch--was this deliberate? He couldn’t really tell. Sometimes it was a trap, other times the guy just clean forgot. Whichever it was, he was going in anyway. The windows screeched as he forced it open, but otherwise didn’t seem to trigger anything.

He dropped into what was probably supposed to be a kitchen, though the place looked more like an extension of Jerome’s workshop, what with stacks of clean plates sitting next to piles of screws and cogwheels. Walls were papered with detailed schematics, toolboxes were crammed onto the side of the sink. Sitting atop a dining table covered with notes full of cramped, narrow handwriting was some massive contraption of polished metal and gears. Corvus took a moment to examine it, but he couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. A quick glance at the notes didn’t reveal much--all he could tell was that it was written in Jerome’s shorthand, but the language wasn’t anything he knew. His own tongue? wondered Corvus. Never did stay around long enough to learn it. He moved on--he respected Jerome’s need for secrecy enough to not try deciphering whatever it is this project was, however tempting the idea.

Corvus moved into the living room. From here, he could visually see Jerome’s workshop spilling down the staircase and into the rest of the house. He gingerly stepped over a sack of wires, then proceeded up the staircase that squeaked with every step. “Jer?” he called. There wasn’t any response, but that wasn’t really unusual. Corvus rapped his knuckles on the wooden bannister. “Jerome?” He took a few more steps, then paused. The top of the landing was completely dark and quiet--no tv set was blaring away into the space as it was wont to normally do on slow days, no whirring of a drill as something was being worked on. A final step onto the landing allowed Corvus to see light bleeding out from under Jerome’s bedroom door. He winced at the sight, knowing what it probably meant. Oh boy…. he thought. His stride was hesitant as he came up to the door. He raised his hand and grasped the doorknob. ...Maybe I should come back later, he thought. He probably needs time. On the other hand, this wouldn’t be the first time he needs a distraction. Corvus thought about it for a moment, then came upon a decision. Right, distraction it is. He twisted the knob and swung it open.

Light leaked through the heavy curtains, bright enough to illuminate the room in a soft glow, but not enough to banish the shadows. Here, the walls are again covered with paper, but this time its contents are different. Coal-black streaks scratch out scenes and landscapes on the thin paper--towns mushrooming between canyon walls, ice palaces blossoming out of snow, children laughing at some show, falcons with containers on their backs soaring into a background-consuming sunset, what seemed to be figures encouraging a house to grow from the ground, a girl with cropped black hair enveloped in fire, a studio Corvus recognised as Jerome’s old one from the one time he described life back at home, and a young man and woman arguing as the environment around them flew with the unseen wind. There was more illustrations layered under the ones Corvus could immediately see, but he was more concerned with the ones on the floor. In the middle of the bedroom sat Jerome on his knees, and the drawings immediately around him were wilder and darker. Tanks crashing through a wall of bodies. Cities crashing into ruin. A woman, the same one who in another picture was gleefully embracing fire, stabbed in the back vomiting blood. People screaming as needles from the machines around them stab into their skin. Corvus was starting to recognise these now. The land crumbling into a yawning black mass. A dead young man with fair hair. A young woman bleeding from her mouth, clutching her torso as she reached out for help. A curvaceous woman laughing maniacally, her eyes wild and and her skin melting, her ruby-red lips the only spot of colour amidst the sea of black lines.

Sweeping away some of the paper with his foot, Corvus made his way to Jerome. Standing next to the brunnette, he can see the picture Jerome was huddled over was a piece of paper coloured nothing but black, and in the watchmaker’s hand splinters of wood and graphite. The bounty hunter kneeled down, placed a firm hand on Jerome’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “Jer?”

The seconds that ticked by between his question and Jerome’s answer seemed to stretch out into minutes. The brunette inhaled, and his body shuddered with the intake as he tried to gather himself. “I… saw a... paper plane… today,” said Jerome, his voice thick and wavering. His shoulders trembled under Corvus’s palm. “And… I…”

“Alright, that’s enough,” said Corvus. He yanked Jerome up and ducked under his arm to support the shaky young man. “Let’s get a drink.”

*

Jerome’s answer was simple. “No.”

They were sitting in the kitchen, and Corvus was pouring both of them a generous amount of scotch he found lurking in the back of Jerome’s pantry. “I’ve got the eyepatch now, Jer,” he said, topping up the glass with a flourish. He passed the refilled glass to Jerome and began topping up his own. “It’ll be easy!”

Jerome glared at him, but the effect was slightly negated by the fact his eyes were still red from crying. “I’m not an i***t, Corv.”

Corvus sipped his drink. “Okay, so maybe this might be a tad harder--”

“Silver, I will not allow you to go after that thing, no matter how badly you want it,” said Jerome. He downed half the glass of scotch and slammed it back onto the table. “Now get the hell out of here before I throw a screwdriver at you.”

“That’s your best threat?” asked Corvus, laughing. “Fine, fine, I’ll let myself out.” He strolled to the door, stopped, then turned around and waved the glass at Jerome. “This is some good stuff, Jer. Mind if I finish it?”

Jerome shook his head and turned his attention back to his drink. “Just bring back the glass.”

“Will do.”

“Corv?”

Corvus stopped the door he was opening mid-swing. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

The bounty hunter smirked. “Well, if I get a free drink out of it, why not?”