John Walter Valentine rubbed his hands together, trying vainly to worry the chill out of his fingers. This, he reflected, was deeply unacceptable.

He'd burned down his principal's house as his dark master had commanded -- that part had gone fairly uneventfully, since he'd patiently waited until nobody was home and it had been blazing quite merrily before anyone noticed and called the fire department. He had stuck around only long enough to ensure that his assignment had been completed, then returned home, but that had been the point at which things had started to go wrong. His keys and wallet had gone missing, and when he finally managed to get into the house by taking the window screen off, everything had been moved around and all the pictures were of a different family. At first he thought he'd broken into the wrong house, but the street and address had all been correct -- obviously, something else was going on here. He'd called his father at work, but everything was wrong; the company had a different name, his father's name wasn't in the directory, and the one other person he knew at the company (Nancy Williams, his father's secretary) had pretended not to know him for some strange reason. He'd definitely be seeing to it that she was sacked once this was all sorted out.

But, for the present, things were becoming quite dire. With no money or identification, he couldn't purchase lodging or contact anyone for assistance. He'd been forced to wait in the bus station like a commoner until he'd been -- audacity of audacities -- asked to leave by an attendant. And now he was huddled under an overpass, freezing and hungry and quite put out by the whole state of affairs. Words, he decided, would have to be had with whoever was responsible. The only bright spot in all of this was that he'd had his spell grimoire with him, so he could at least use it as a pillow if he got tired enough to lie down for a nap.

To his abject horror, a foul-smelling old man tottered over to him. "'Ey, kid," the man wheezed, "what's a fancy fella like you doin' out here? Daddy take away the keys to the Bentley?" He chuckled, then went into a fit of choking coughs that made Valentine recoil in disgust.

"My circumstances are temporary, I assure you," returned Valentine calmly. "Now, please be on with your business."

The old man sputtered. "Oh, forgive me, your lordship!" he spat, assuming a mocking aristocratic accent. "I didn't know I was addressin' a member of the landed gentry!" He shook his fist at Valentine, causing the young man to shrink back. "I was gonna offer you a blanket, you little asshole, but I guess you can just freeze!"

Valentine clenched his fists. "I would think your own thermal comfort would be a higher priority to you."

The old man squinted back at him. "Eh? What are you talkin' about?"

"Aloh zorFAH."

The vagrant, obviously not suspecting anything of this particular nature, fell back and threw up his hands as the sudden blaze of fire engulfed him. He managed one scream -- a short, bubbling ululation of pain and terror -- before the white-hot flames consumed him utterly.

Curious, thought Valentine, stretching out his hands towards the huddled corpse placidly. The jets of fire had obviously been much hotter than his previous attempts in this instance. Perhaps his emotional state affected the strength of the conjuration? He'd have to do some further experiments.

It trickled into his consciousness that he had just murdered another human being, but he found himself surprisingly unmoved by the fact. After all, it seemed as though John Walter Valentine, privileged high-school student, no longer existed and thus was unlikely to be arrested and/or prosecuted for murder. Maybe he should come up with a new name.

What was it that this crusty scrounger called me, again? The Lad Gentry? He turned it over in his mind a few times, trying it on for size. A man, he supposed, could do worse for a moniker.

Orton murmured, his head lolling lazily to one side as he half-dozed; a firm grasp on the back of his neck gently moved his head back into an upright position as the clippers sheared another stripe from his hair. He glanced around the barber shop, taking in the things he always enjoyed in barber shops: the jars of combs in blue liquid, the lights around the mirrors, the raised tubs for hair-washing. He was contemplating asking for a neck massage when he noticed that the barber's hands were shriveled and black. Quickly, his attention snapped into focus, and he glanced into the mirror to scrutinize its reflection carefully; shapes took form in the reversed image, but they were hazy and lacked detail until he focused on specific aspects. He was in a created reality.

Although regressing to his eighteen-year-old self had cost him most of his power and a good deal of the fruits of his training, his mind still possessed great knowledge and a set of painstakingly cultivated cognitive habits. He swiveled his gaze to read one of the labels on a bottle of shampoo, and relaxed a little when the letters swirled and jumped around chaotically. Not a mindscape, and not an internal domain; just a dream. Dreams he could handle.

"You be gettin' a mite slow on the uptake, son," mumbled the barber. His voice, although possessed of a charming and twangy dialect, sounded like the croak of a long-rotted throat filled with half-solid phlegm. "I reckon you usedta notice me in half that time."

Orton chuckled. "What, are you worried I'll forget you're in here?" The barber snorted and shaved more of Orton's head; Orton let his eyelids droop and unclenched his fists. "I don't think either of us is going to get rid of the other so easily."

"Could kill ya," the dead man mused, repositioning the clippers for another pass over Orton's skull. "Might take me a while, but I declare it could be done."

Orton shrugged. "Kill me, and you kill yourself, remember? You can't survive outside my mind, Nej. Hell, your physical body is still alive in this timeline, and I don't think he'd be thrilled to know another copy of himself is kicking around -- even in just a mental engram state."

Nej huffed -- a weird, vaguely musical sound, coming as it did from his decaying throat. "No life for a man. Livin' rent-free in another fella's skull."

"Are you saying I should start charging you rent?" Orton grinned. The clippers dug into his scalp suddenly, eliciting a yelp at the sudden jab of pain.

"Ain't nobody ever told you not to sass your barber?" croaked the corpse. "A man holdin' sharp instruments close to yer noggin ain't a man to displease."

Orton concentrated, redefining the room -- it was his own mind, after all, and lucid dreaming techniques were one of the first ones he'd mastered. The floor between him and Nej seemed to expand and stretch, distorting as the perspective of the dream angled and skewed in weird ways, and Nej was suddenly several feet away despite neither of them having moved. Orton rubbed his sore scalp. "A man holding sharp instruments next to your mind is a much bigger problem, Nej. You want me to start chewing on you again? Your memories are pretty tasty."

Nej paused, hefting the clippers. "You ain't got the power. Not while you're a babby like this."

Orton shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. You willing to gamble?" The two of them regarded each other for an uncounted length; time was strange in dreams.

Finally, Nej lowered the clippers, slouching. "Ain't fair. You shoulda died like you was s'posed to. Didn't have no call to go survivin' like you did."

"Sorry." Orton untwisted the room with a thought; abruptly Nej was shaving his head again as though nothing had happened. "I imagine I ruined a lot of people's plans by surviving at various times."

Nej grunted. "A fella might call you a nuisance in that way." He ran the clippers over one more measure, paused, and then stepped back, satisfied. "There y'are, son. A nice, non-conformin' buzz, sure to piss off yer paw."

Orton ran his hands over his scalp, luxuriating in the simple feel of short hair under his palms and fingers. This dream was mostly composed of a memory from when he was fourteen, just before everything had gone completely to shit, and it cropped up now and again when he was least prepared for it; still, it was better than some other dreams Nej had invaded. Like the ones with Ally Sheedy. "Just out of curiosity, Nej. If you could get free, what would you do? Not a lot of job openings for your demographic, in the '90s or otherwise."

Nej pondered a moment, then shook his head. "I reckon answerin' that would get me in a whole heap of trouble. A fella should know when to keep his yap shut. Which is a lesson you could stand to learn, son." With startling quickness, Nej's grip on the clippers reversed, and he jammed the blade down into Orton's face.

Orton jolted awake, his heart pounding and his body buzzing with shock. "Fuck you, Nej," he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. Dead enemies weren't supposed to be this much of a pain in the ass.

A quiet snort to his left startled him; he blinked a few times and tried to get his bearings. His body hurt, which wasn't new, but he was lying down in a weird, half-inclined position and something was preventing him from moving his right arm too much. There were also all these beeping noises around him.

Oh, shit.

Orton froze, hardly daring to breathe, before his memories caught up with him. At eighteen, he was still very much connected to the mortal realm. A hospital wouldn't be immediately harmful to him. He could probably be here several hours or longer fairly safely. He let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm himself, and started taking stock just as a bleary gaze seated in a face surrounded by tousled copper hair rose, like the moon, from somewhere below and to the left of him. He scowled. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "I can't believe you followed me. Why are you still here?"

"Hey, what's your problem?" groaned Julie, rubbing her eyes. "I was worried about you. Ngh. Must have fallen asleep..."

Orton rolled his head to the side, exasperated. "There's a lot I didn't get to tell you yet. A bunch of it is stuff you should know before making any kind of final decision about whether to set your entire life on fire forever."

"Yeah, well, teenagers aren't supposed to make good decisions." Julie reached over and put the back of her hand on his forehead. "Good. Your fever's gone down. The doctor said you had some kind of infection and also a blood sugar problem, but he couldn't figure out why you weren't waking up. He said your thigh wound didn't even need stitches."

"Revenant bites aren't good for the equilibrium of your humours. Another couple hours and he'll start scratching his head over a mysterious and sudden eruption of scurvy." Orton started peeling off sensors. "Just give me my bag and go home. I can fix it myself."

"What are you, crazy?" The girl waved her arms in frustration. "You have to wait for them to discharge you!"

Orton casually ripped a strip of tape off his IV, then carefully removed the needle and stanched the hole with the tape. "I really don't. If I'm lucky, they'll spend two weeks puzzling over my charts while my plans get further and further behind. If I'm not lucky, something else might come sniffing out that revenant's scent." He rolled out of the hospital bed, staggered, and grabbed onto the bed-rail for support. "And if I'm really lucky, I'll find where they put my pants."

A curtain behind him flew open with a rattle; he half-turned, hoping his bare ass cheeks weren't showing. Julie bustled past him, his bag bouncing in her hands, to block his path. "I was going to page you. He just started jumping up and pulling stuff--"

"No time," interrupted Orton, "I have a court appointment and it can't be waived or extended." He had found this particular excuse very useful at getting people in America to shut up and stop trying to prevent him from leaving. "I understand that by waiving my right to treatment and leaving against medical advice I may be endangering my health, but it can't be helped. I'll check in with my G.P. as soon as possible."

The doctor, a young black-haired fellow not much older than Orton's current body himself, clearly didn't know what to make of all this but was quite bureaucratically bowled over by Orton's abrupt and masterful assault on his policies and procedures. He clutched his clipboard as if it were a shield. "I, uh, quite understand, sir, but, uh, at minimum we need your name for the discharge paperwork. You don't seem to have any identification, so--"

Orton tugged his jeans on, not caring who was watching. He had to get out of here. "Lost my wallet. My name's Dennis Wilkerson, live at 1229 Fairway Lane, 70821 zip code. You can send my bill there." He charged past the nonplussed doctor, grabbed his bag rudely from Julie's hands, and tried to dash away down the hall.

The dizziness slammed into him before he'd even gone five steps, fetching him up against the wall with a crash and turning his legs to jelly. Julie grabbed him as he fell, slinging an arm over her shoulder and shoring him up. "Jesus, you're a mess. You can't really be thinking of leaving!"

"No time," he gasped, gulping air. "Just need... a second."

Rummaging in his pack, he finally found the vial he was looking for and hauled it out, scattering trading cards and pogs everywhere. He really needed to clean this bag out. Unsteadily, he managed to unscrew the cap and down the bitter contents in one swallow. Instantly, his balance steadied, and strength flooded into his limbs as the contents of the vial (olive oil, orchid extract, coriander, and the dissolved minerals of a large brick) interacted in complex and multifaceted ways with his black and yellow bile levels with corresponding effects on his astral composition. He started to throw the vial away, but thought better of it and carefully tipped it into a recycling container instead. He'd save this damn Earth one way or another.

"Are you seriously okay? What was in that?" Julie trailed after him as he hurried through the corridors. Why are hospitals always so hard to find your way out of? he thought.

"I'm fine. Why are you still here? Go home. I'll call you later." He needed to get somewhere secluded, do a bunch of meditation and mix more potions. Revenant bites weren't as scary as a lot of other afflictions, but they could kill you at least as effectively as a mundane infection if you didn't treat them.

"I can't go home." Her words froze him in his tracks, and he spun around, mouth agape and finally seeing the look in her pale green eyes. "I can't ever go home again."