Chapter Text
John kind of thinks he’s beginning to understand why a lot of people move from government work and into the private sector, now that he’s seeing evidence of what obscene amounts of money can buy a business or organization. One of his teammates whistles in wonder as they are waved past an uplifted, red and white-striped gate arm.
The Zinco Corporation’s Headquarters is almost overwhelmingly nice, considering how little is known about the privately traded company, and John takes a somewhat unprofessional moment to shoot a text to Jared— who lives right across the hall back at base— about the pricey-looking amenities and facilities they’re seeing while just driving in.
Just what the hell does the company even do, you know? Or so he asks at the end of his final text message, attaching an emoticon that hopefully describes his bewilderment. His little 8-second distraction goes unnoticed by the team lead, who sits in the front seat of the converted full-size cargo van, but Agent Pete Matthews across from him shoots him a conspirational grin, as if he’s in on whatever John had been doing.
The guy’s super nice, but had initially reminded him so instantly and viscerally of some of the jocks that had bullied him in high school that it had taken nearly three full months for John to realize that the big dude is actually a more than decent person (and a damn good agent, to boot, hence his being poised for imminent promotion).
Plus, he’s joined John on the occasional morning run around base on the rare occasion Nuada isn’t available, so going from occasional workout buddies to work friends had been an easy transition.
As the van turns, Matthews waggles his brows and mouths a question, something to the effect of ‘Your guy?’, and John’s eyes widen and shakes his head as subtly as he can, trying not to let his cheeks redden at his implication. Alright, so maybe he sometimes texts updates to Nuada when he’s on missions, but it’s not like it’s uncommon for other agents to do so with their own partners or family members, so there’s no need to feel flustered at his teammate’s assumption.
‘No’, he mouths back. ‘Neighbor.’
Matthews nods in understanding and then puts on a faux frown before lightly tracing an index finger down from underneath one eye towards his chiseled chin, miming a single teardrop.
In response, John silently huffs out a chuckle and flips him the bird, which sends the other man into quiet snickers. Still, while he’s of the mind to do so, John surreptitiously sets his phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode by holding down the requisite buttons for a few seconds. And not a moment too soon, as his boss checks her watch before unbuckling her seatbelt so she can turn to face the team.
As the oversized van rounds one last, gentle bend that takes them underneath another wonder of architecture— some kind of walking bridge decorated with oblong reflective panels of all sizes and shapes— their team lead’s voice cuts through the momentarily buoyant atmosphere and brings them back to reality.
She keeps a firm grip on the sides of the passenger seat on which she kneels, facing backwards to directly address her subordinates.
“Alright team, ETA is 1 minute 30 seconds! Thibodaux’s parking the other van, which has the rest of your gear and some non-standard supplies we may need, depending on the nature of the threat.”
The terrain turns gravelly for a moment and the crunch and grind underneath the vehicle’s wheels as well as the slight rocking affects neither the van’s upright position nor the cadence of her speech.
“Apparently, on-site security managed to corral the bogey into a newly constructed lab wing. This is an unfurnished area of a new building, so there is no risk of injury from any chemicals, equipment, or any unusual environmental factors.”
“—yeah, just from the rampaging, 2-headed creature,” Koz mutters several places down from John, their comment going either unheard or being ignored by SSA Navarro.
“Weapon checks, gear checks, and then we head in to locate and contain the possible threat. Break into the same teams we had during the Mountain Ghoul case, and stick to the same rules: comms on at all times, periodic check-ins, and if we don’t find anything in an hour, we regroup here, clear?”
As the van stops and the engine cuts, the team voices their assent with a shared “Clear!”
“Good,” she responds, rigid features relaxing a bit as she turns away from them and then swings open her door to exit the vehicle. “Then let’s go! I wanna get home in time for dinner.”
*
The hunt for the cause of their being summoned to Zinco Corp’s campus only takes about 40 minutes of cautious, efficient searching of the building designated mainly as a backup set of laboratories.
The ‘culprit’ behind some of the malicious and damaging events detailed in the initial incident report turns out to be a particularly mischievous minor devil. Luckily, Chris “Koz” Kozlowski, the only member of the team newer than John, had been promoted to their spot on this increasingly well-regarded unit specifically because of their experience with exorcisms and related ceremonies.
Between the gear bag full of required implements, and Koz’s font of knowledge and experience, the bulk of the team’s equipment is back with the rest until tomorrow.
Now all they need to do is figure out sleeping schedules and/or watch shifts because the situation has evolved. After seeing the ease with which they banished the lesser demon, the Zinco Corp liaison had opened up regarding another issue and requested they stay into early tomorrow morning to investigate some kind of big, smoky entity wandering about one of the populated science wings.
The screenshots he shares from security video are of poor quality and in every single one, the subject looks a little different, as if its form can change from moment to moment. [Something about it sort of unnerves John, even being acquainted with Av, the friendly glow cloud back at base, which one might initially try and link as similar, a theory that Tibby (Thibodeaux) floats aloud and then dismisses in the same sentence as being unlikely.]
It would be classified as a simple haunting (with no need for BPRD intervention) due to the regimented times the being appears— between 3:20 and 6:00 AM— if not for its tendency to get violent when its path is literally crossed. At that point, it veers more toward poltergeist activity, except… it doesn’t quite, either, based on the collected accounts of the employees who have encountered it.
Thus, the enigmatic entity is interesting enough that their SSA contacts headquarters to provide an update and make a request for an extension to their time on-site. (The rest of the team loiters in the immediate area and takes the opportunity for staggered bathroom trips and snack breaks in turn.)
All the while, the lanky Zinco Corp liaison shamelessly eavesdrops on the conversation with interest, speaking up only a minute or two into what seems to be a mostly one-sided gripe session via the Director on the other line.
“—excuse me, Agent Navarro, if it would sway your… organization’s decision in any way, we do have several unoccupied rooms available in the dormitories we use for employees during orientation weeks. They would be, of course, free to use—”
Manning’s exact words are not audible, but his 180 ̊change in tone definitely is, as he enthusiastically capitulates.
And so, with a nod at Matthews, her senior-most agent, Navarro indicates that they should pack up their gear and get ready to move, pronto.
*
The dorm rooms are nice— really nice, actually. Like, Google campus nice, John finds out when they are led to said dorm rooms (which are closer to large apartments than anything else).
The liaison (he’d said to call him ‘Nick’, since Nicolai is a bit difficult for some to pronounce) had handed them off to a subordinate who had pulled up in a shiny, new sedan from what had to be the current year. From there, they’d tailed their new guide across the campus to a trio of 4-story buildings in complimentarily monochromatic hues of black, grey, and white sitting across a small road from a sprawling building complex designated for pretty much all their scientific research.
(God, what the hell kind of funding did this company have, John had found himself wondering again, as he gawked at the slick, modern design and spotless grounds on which it was all located.)
Once they’d each separated into their own rooms to drop off any personal effects, John had finally had a moment to switch off his phone’s ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode, and saw messages come in from both Nuada and Jared.
That had been 5 minutes ago. Now, John is contemplating if it’s worth sharing the information that his across-the-hall neighbor back at base sent him, or if he’d rather enjoy not sticking out like an awkward, sore thumb on this team that has pretty much wholeheartedly accepted him into their ranks. He’d had a bad enough time once Hellboy started ostracizing him from his initial team when he’d joined the BPRD, last year, after going through what he would have thought was a bonding sort of near-death experience, so…
Yeah. Probably best to remain quiet on the tenuously supported conspiracy theory from his neighbor that Zinco Corp was somehow linked to that whole near-eldritch-horror-summoning affair, right?
Right.
But what he should do is return the missed call from Nuada to update him on the extended nature of the mission.
With a glance at the time, John sighs and hits the ‘dial’ symbol next to his boyfriend’s name; apparently, neither he nor Agent Navarro would be home in time for supper, after all.
*
An hour and a half later, a delicious dinner that was apparently made in the Zinco Corp’s on-site cafeteria is delivered by the same guide they’d met earlier. Afterward, the team separates to spend time however they’d like for the next 6 or 7 hours, with the most popular choice being to get some shuteye, due to report time being 2 AM in the main science building where the mysterious being typically manifests.
John, ever able to sleep almost anywhere, settles himself in an obscenely comfortable twin bed and begins drifting off almost immediately. Strangely immediately, he detachedly thinks, a distant panic at the extreme heaviness of his limbs being blotted out by abrupt unconsciousness.
And then, what seems to be almost as soon as he’s lost awareness, he’s thrown back into complete clarity with a terrifying suddenness that has him gasping for breath and straining to sit up to catch said breath.
Except that he can’t because he’s been tied down to his bed. No. An— an altar of some sort, his whirling thoughts correct themselves as he registers the cold, unyielding surface underneath him.
Shit. Shit.
And his clothes are gone for some reason? Which he is very very much not into, even though, thankfully, there is some sort of long, plain sheet draped horizontally over him from waist to knees. Still, again, it is very discomfiting for several reasons to wake up sans clothing when your last memory was of wearing some…
Naturally, as befits the situation, there are several dozen robed figures positioned about the room in concentric semicircles, like some eerie audience to whatever the hell is going to happen to him. Whatever they’re muttering isn’t in any language he’s ever heard— not even in some of the BPRDs more recent training modules that NHR has promulgated to help mundane agents get used to encountering supernatural beings that have their own cultures and languages.
“Uh— sir, ma’am. Person,” he tries, breathless with repressed panic, when one exceedingly lanky figure parts the crowd and approaches the raised dais on which his… stone slab sits. “Th-there’s, uh— I’m, I have to get back to my team. Maybe you could just, um, untie me please? We’re supposed to be investigating a—”
“Cease your gibbering,” the robed person says in an… oddly familiar voice before lowering their oversized hood to reveal— the gawky liaison (Mick?) from when they’d first arrived. “Your organization haplessly sent us a gift so powerful, we could hardly believe either our luck or their foolishness.”
Trying not to hyperventilate, John feels ice flood his veins as the guy— and what a bitch it is that the creep who thinks he’s got some sort of ‘power’ hadn’t even made enough of an impression for John to remember his name— takes out a wickedly long, curved knife.
“Whoah! I— I don’t know what you guys think I know, but I really am just a regular agent at the BPRD! I’m not even one of the ones with powers or anything! Please- oh, what the fuck!”
John grimaces, unable to tear his eyes away as the bland-looking middle-aged man serenely carves bloody characters down his equally bland forearm. With every additional character in the curly-looking script, though, that intensely forgettable blandness begins to recede, until, after a final flourish, the morbid task is completed and the glamour is fully broken.
Words completely flee him as he looks up into a familiar, if warped face. The skin is no longer a shade recognized in humans—at least not living ones— and there is the impression of something writhing underneath his mottled flesh, pressing outward and bulging in odd places, occasionally.
And those eyes. There is nothing actually there in the sockets, but all the same, there is a cold, dark abyss within them that seems to be a window to somewhere else— somewhere awful that sucks away at John’s awareness the longer he looks into them.
“Rasputin,” he breathes, disbelievingly.
A rictus smile spreads across grey, cadaverous lips.
“Yes,” the corrupted wizard rumbles in a jumble of voices that serves only to disorient John’s already wavering field of vision.
With the identity reveal executed, the chanting and murmuring from the scores of similarly robed figures picks up in volume and pace, instantaneously triggering what feels like the absolute worst migraine John has ever experienced.
Groaning through the blinding pain, he attempts to arch up in his bindings, becoming overwhelmed when his heart begins to race even faster, if possible.
It feels as if something is burning in his veins.
“Please,” he whimpers pathetically through gritted teeth, pleading for respite that he is sure will not come, but which, in fact does, moments later.
Rasputin grins and leans forward over their captive’s prone body to lay a blood-soaked palm on the young man’s fevered forehead.
“Sleep, мой жар-пти́ца.”
(moy zhar-ptitsa)
And John does.
*