Narrative: The Demon Beneath Characters: Johnny Blaze and Zarathos Where: 115th and Broadway loft shared with Betsy What: Johnny is made away he is not alone. When: Day 14, Afternoon Rating: PG
It had been a restless night for Johnny, sleep was far and in between and the waking hours were filled with strange thoughts that shook him to the core. He had the most unnerving sensation that his body was not his alone and it didn't matter how covered he was or how close to Betsy he lay, there was a chill in his soul that wouldn't be warmed. Among the few times sleep was obtained there were dreams of chaos and destruction - nothing specific that he could recall but enough to feel like it was something he was capable of and had been fighting for years to keep from becoming. Though he had no memories, it felt like a familiar battle and he wasn't sure how well he was doing or ever had been with it.
He'd acted as normal as he could once morning came, claiming a restless night due to the chill in the air and general unease in the camp after being attacked by the swarm like they had been. Not wanting to alert Betsy to anything too unusual - he was glad she wasn't keen on invading his mind without permission - he waited until she'd left on some task or other before he stared at the wall and tried to recall the dreams and feelings that he'd struggled with throughout the night.
There was something about it and he was determined to understand it so he would't be caught off guard at the wrong time; or anyone else here. He'd occasionally jokingly referring to himself as 'possessed' because of the flaming skeleton that he'd erupt into when it was needed. That particular part of himself, although it would happen unbidden, had felt safe enough for him to know he could help others and be a protector of the weak here. This new feeling, however, was new and it whispered of dangers that threatened to shake his resolve that he had himself under control.
He stood and rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, moving across the room to a mirror that rested on top of an old faded dresser. The surface of the mirror had age spots on it and a few cracks on one side and he stood before it, looking at himself like it would give him the answers he needed. As he turned his face to the side there flashed another face in its place. It twisted his features into a demonic face shrouded with shadows and he quickly turned back and leaned forward to try and see it better only for it vanish from sight almost as quickly as it had appeared.
This appearance disturbed him and quickened his heartbeat and breathing. He gripped the edges of the dresser and stared at it's top, almost afraid to look in the mirror again. What was he? He felt dangerous as his assurance of who he was slipped from his grasp and left him weaker and, perhaps, more susceptible to the whispering of another part of himself.