||[Oct. 31st, 2008|12:49 pm]
The Dark Angel Halloween Ficathon
Disclaimer: This is by no means mine. I’m just playing
Summary/prompt In his secret life, Normal is a demon hunter. [not as AU as you might think]
Author's note: ZOMG guys! Halloween! Have some crack fic! ( I was planning on posting this right at midnight, but as it turns out I fell asleep right after supernatural was over. EPIC FAIL.)
Letter sent to R. Ronald received 5/31/09
They call me Normal, but that’s not my name. Strictly speaking, that’s not even accurate. My name is Reagan Ronald and I am not normal. It was pretty hard to stay normal when you spent half your nights crouched in the sewers with a shotgun in one hand and a homemade flamethrower in the other.
I should probably back up a second.
My name is Normal and I run a bike messenger’s service in Seattle Washington and as far as anyone knows, I leave the day job, go home and dream up new ways to torment my employees.
Only that’s not true. I had more important things to do then concentrate on Jam Pony.
Jam Pony’s not even the real point. I needed a sector pass. I needed a way to get my shipments in and out of the city. And of course, by shipments, I usually mean firearms. See, you need a fire to take down the infestation in the sewers and heavy caliber silver bullets to take down werewolves. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to get that kind of artillery through sector police.
It’s funny how little attention people pay the messenger services. It’s like having a business front make this sort of arms dealing more socially acceptable. Of course, I make it a point to hire the dregs of society for my employee. If one of them gets caught with my shipments, I claim ignorance. It’s not my fault all my employees are buffoons. If they’re not sharp enough to realize their boss is anything but normal, well, they deserve whatever comes to them.
I was there when the pulse hit.
It wasn’t terrorists, that much I can promise you.
The government cover story was an electromagnetic pulse.
The truth of the matter is someone opened a Devil’s Gate.
It was just as bad as it sounds.
Excerpt from the journal of R. Ronald dated 9/15/19
It is my suspicion that my newest employee, the so-called Max Guevara is a succubus. Subject displayed disturbingly erotic behavior in my direction, assaulting me in the back room, pressing me up against the wall and violating me with her demon tongue. Before I had a chance to retaliate, Original Cindy came in and distracted her. I could not make the move to attack while a civilian was present.
I don’t know what it is about this city but it attracts the freaks. Even the so-called good guys, like Eyes Only hide behind a creepy-ass vigilante mask. Sometimes I feel like everyone’s got something to hide. You know like the holy water I pretend use to gel up my hair and the gun loaded with silver bullets that I carry at the ready.
I guess I fit right in.
My name is Reagan Ronald and I am the last line of defense between Seattle and Hell on Earth.
Scary thought, isn’t it?
Notes from the journal of R. Ronald titled: The Joanne Ronald Possession
*responds adversely to the God’s name
*physically harmed by holy water
*appears to retain all the memories of the person possessed.
*I couldn’t save her
Seattle is infested.
It isn’t just demons. No, there’s something about this place, something in the water. In the years since the Pulse, I’ve run across demons, werewolves, poltergeists, vengeful spirits, banshees, witches, vampires and plethora of other things you can’t even imagine.
And then there’s whatever the hell Max is.
Excerpt from the journal of R. Ronald dated 10/17/19
The male Max has chosen for her consort appears to have suffered no negative effects from the relationship suggesting that the subject cannot be a succubus. Extreme strength of the subject coupled with periodical mood swings still points to something supernatural. The mildly cyclic nature of these traits lead to my current operative theory that Max Guevara is a werewolf.
The worst part was the dreaming. It was there every time I close my eyes. The wisp of blonde hair. The glint of black eyes. The edges of the familiar mouth in an uncharacteristic smirk. The voice that was too deep, too dark whispering, “Kaboom!”
I couldn’t save her because I didn’t know. How could you know? How could you expect something like that before it happened too you? My dad used to tell me stories about that. Before the Pulse I mean. I used to think they were just stories. It’s why I couldn’t kill her when I had the chance. Why I didn’t put two and two together before it was too late.
On June 1st 2009, terrorist set off an electromagnetic pulse...
Only it wasn’t an electromagnetic pulse, it was a Devil’s Gate.
And it wasn’t terrorists.
It was Joanne Ronald.
Excerpt from the journal of R. Ronald dated 1/8/20
She can’t be a werewolf because the lunar cycle doesn’t quite match up.
She can’ be a vampire because I’ve seen her out in daylight.
She’s doesn’t have the sweet tones of a siren.
She’s not a banshee.
She’s not a witch or a harpy or a sandwalker or a boo hag or a topielec. Nothing fits. Nothing at all and all that leaves is the worst answer possible.
Max Guevara is possessed by a demon.
I don’t like demons. They slip into a person in their sleep. Finding a chink in their armor and force themselves inside. They’re almost impossible to detect. There is no way to kill them. The best job you can do is send them back from holy water. The majority of demons flinch at the sound of Christ’s name, loose all extranatural powers upon arrival on hallowed ground and burn at the touch of a cross or holy water. Most of them at least. The more powerful they get, the more unpredictable things get. Some demons can speak Christ’s name. Some touch holy water to no ill effect.
Still, there are rules every evil thing needs to abide by. There are ways to bind demons to a host. Ways to bind demons to a spot. And of course, ways to send them back to Hell. I am an excerpt on demons even if they are some of the rarest creatures that cross my path. I have been doing this for more then ten years and I am not dead yet.
But if I’m right, I’ve never met a demon this strong before.
And that’s a problem.
It took three days to set up the room--which was unfortunate because one of those days was a business day and after the debacle with Mr. Sivapathasundaram, leaving my business in the hands of those miscreants wasn’t something I relish. But this was important. This was a demon who has been moving among my employees for almost a year. This was a demon who was too close and too dangerous.
I left Jam Pony with Original Cindy that Friday and spent the afternoon turning an abandoned church into a demon graveyard. I had to be careful this time. I had to make sure. If I got lucky maybe the real Max Guevara trapped inside by the demon would still be alive.
Excerpt from the journal of R. Ronald dated 6/3/09
There are demons out there. Things your worst dreams can barely imagine and I’d feel pissed if I knew this was only happening to me. But it’s not just me. There are hundreds of these things out there and people self-destructing at every turn.
Seattle’s under marshal law. The police is firing into the mob and not everyone hit falls down. There are demons out there. There are zombies out there. One of my dad’s old friends called to make sure I was all right and I got the whole story. This is real and this is bad and if we don’t do something, the demons are going to take over.
If I don’t do something.
God, Joanne would have killed me if she saw me writing that like I’m some kind of superhero.
“Max,” I said. “Max, I need to talk to you before you leave?”
“Normal, can’t you see a girl’s busy.”
She couldn’t know. She didn’t suspect.
I caught her in a sleeper hold and covered her mouth with a cloth dipped in holy water. She thrashed around kicking and trying to scream. “Quiet there, Missy-Miss,” I mumbled as the body went limp. “This is all going to be over soon.”
The first thing Max said when she woke up was: “You son of a bitch. You don’t have any idea who you’re messing with here."
Then she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the surroundings. And then her eyes found me.
The second thing Max said when she woke up was: “Normal?”
She pulled at her arm but it didn’t move. It didn’t move because she was strapped into my homemade shackles. It didn’t move because the chair was cast iron and bolted into the floor. It didn’t move because we’re on hallowed ground and the thing possessing Max Guevara was powerless here.
“Normal,” she said. “You’ve got to find the keys and get me out of here before the guy who took us gets back.”
I crossed the room to look at her and very slowly, I pulled the keys out of my pocket and jingled them in front of her. “Jig’s up, girly,” I said. “Have fun hellside.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Max asked. “Normal this is insane. This isn’t you.” Her face creased in sudden confusion. “I can’t believe you got the drop on me.”
I was vaguely insulted of course, but that was the whole point of running Jam Pony. The whole point of having this stupid normal cover was to appear as mild-mannered as possible. Ignoring the comment, I started reciting the exorcism, closing my eyes as I felt the familiar forces swirling into being all around me. Demons were my specialty after all. You didn’t run across many of them in Seattle anymore, but friends from all over the country call me for help with exorcisms. I was good at this. I hadn’t botched an exorcism in more then ten years on the job.
Only when I opened my eyes, there was Max Guevara sitting in the cast iron chair looking at me like I was insane. “What the hell, Normal?”
I blinked from behind my glasses, and pull out a flask of holy water before splashing it in her face. She sat there shocked for a moment, water dripping smoothly down her chin and then sputtered, “Oh, you’re going to pay for this one.”
But she didn’t burn.
“Christo,” I said and she didn’t react in the slightest. “Christo! What the hell are you?”
“What the hell am I?” Max said. “What the hell are you? You’ve kidnapped me. What was trying to get me jailed not good enough?”
“You’re not a demon?” I asked.
“A demon?” Max repeated. “Of course I’m not a demon. There’s no such thing as demons!”
This may have been a huge mistake. “What a second here,” I said. “This may have been a huge mistake.”
“You know what you’re going to do, right now,” Max said in a seductively low voice. “You’re going to come over here and get me out of this chair and hope to God I don’t decide to put you down myself.”
There wasn’t much else I can do. So I pulled out the keys and unlatched the cuffs. Max was eyeing me suspiciously which was great because she was one of the few riders I had at Jam Pony who consistantly delivered to the correct address.
In the end I was saved by zombies.
Funny thing about zombies in comparison to all the other multitudes of supernatural bests is that they tend to crop up around churches. You know because there usually happens to be cemeteries around churches. The other thing about zombies is they tend to rise when there’s unused magic floating around the air.
Like, oh say, a botched exorcism. The moans were picking up by the second. Max was looking at me like I’m some kind of alien. “What is that?” Max asked.
I crept over to the boarded up window and peeked outside. “That? That would be a hoard of zombies.”
“I’m sorry,” Max said in what I had come to recognize as her don’t-mess-with-me voice. “But I could have sworn you just said zombie.”
“What the firetruck did you think I said?” I said, moving back into the room. There was a disregarded plywood board by the doorway and the rusted metal piping of the church’s old organ scattering the floor. I picked up the piece of organ, judging the weight. “Here,” I said, shoving it into Max’s hands. “Since you’re not a demon you may as well make yourself useful. Bip, bip, bip.”
“What the hell is your dealio?”
I stopped and turn around. “Now listen here, Missy. Out there, we’ve got about a dozen zombies all too willing to eat your pretty little brain. Now you can either stop and help or sit there and whine. Either way, I’m killing some zombies tonight.”
Excerpt from the journal of R. Ronald dated 4/9/13
I should be a lot more serious about the dangers involved but I can’t help myself sometimes.
Killing zombies is just plain fun.
As it turned out, a night spend bashing in zombie head could mend a lot of fences. Even if you’d accused your zombie hunting partner of being a demon just a few hours ago.
“What I don’t get,” Max said in between blows. “Is how you do something like this for a living and still let those art thief losers get the drop on you.”
I ducked, jabbing the piping into a zombie’s eyes and told the truth. “I don’t know how to fight people.”
Max laughed, swinging her own piece of piping to catch a zombie with such force that it lifted off its feet and positively flew into the air. “Look pretty good at fighting by normal Earth standards.”
“I mean I don’t know how to disarm people without killing them,” I sputtered. Swing, jab, swing, duck. Kill shot, kill shot, kill shot. “It’s a problem.”
It was a dark and dreary night and Max laughed and laughed and laughed. “Who are you anyway?”
My name is Normal and in my secret life, I am a demon hunter.