𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐝 | 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚇 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Wild Card

Shattered glass flew across the room, and then once more, as you rapidly snatched sticky yet empty pitcher after pitcher - dusty, not unlike the rest of the stranded bar, which served as another reminder of your continued failure. The town was crumbling before you, bodies were dropping left and right, and the visions in your head were growing more painful every day. You so desperately wanted to light up every single angel and demon responsible for this nightmare. But, the tracks grew seemingly colder with each passing week, so here you were, raging and defeated, surrendering to futility in one of the last buildings standing. Alone with silence. And the musky, dimly lit interior didn't help your mood much, either. It was the end of the world.

You groaned, eyes scanning the tap selection, and then the red barstools before you, engulfed in cobwebs, followed by the assortment of antiques strewn aimlessly upon the aging walls, unsure if you were finished with your makeshift game of darts with old empty bottles. Broken pieces of miscellaneous materials and debris littered the old floorboards around you. Blood rushed to your face, and tiny pools began to well up out of the corners of your eyes, and before you knew it your fist swiftly collided with the bar in an attempt to choke it all back. Your hair fell to your eyes and embraced your jawlines as your head sank to your chest in defeat. The old blood stains on your worn leather jacket were barely darker than it's burgundy color. You then scrutinized your weary hands and soiled, faded jeans for a minute before releasing a sigh.

"Please, God, give me a sign."

"Oh, God can't help you now."

Startled, you spun and drew your blade, hiding the apprehension on your face as best as you could.

"And who the hell are you?" you spat, fed up with apparitions by now. But as the figure began gradually closing the gap between the two of you, the single ray of light shining through the busted wall to your left and colliding with the body suggested that it might even be human after all. But you weren't about to let your guard down. You knew better.

"I said," you began, shifting your weight, but still wielding your knife as your other hand dropped to your hip holster, "Who the HELL—" you demanded, drawing your pistol in record time, but your words escaped you when he matched your actions and speed with his colt.

"Come on, you didn't seriously think you were gonna get away with this, did you?"

A strong, lean frame, just a few inches taller than yourself, he was stolidity and hellfire wrapped in flannel. The sunset seeping through the hole in the wall brought out the lighter colors of his dirty blonde crew cut. Unfazed by your weapons, he stood his ground in his faded blue Jean getup, boots drawing more creaks from the floorboards as he shifted, green eyes emitting resolve and exhaustion while he demanded some sort of answer from you. You quickly replaced your knife and braced yourself, both hands gripping your Sig.

"Drop the gun."

Immediately, he chuckled. "No, see, that's not how this works." He pursed his lips and cocked the gun, voice growing deeper and stare intensifying. "Now you can fix this planet, right now, and make our job a little bit easier—or, don't, and my brother and I will blast you and all your friends straight back to hell either way," he smirked.

"Back to hell?" you questioned, repeating his words without hesitation. "Funny. I don't know what friends you're talking about, but I guess you could send them my regards when you get there." You sensed his confusion, as his eyes moved from yours to your dominant hand, currently engaged with the hand grip but visibly bleeding nonetheless. And then the emerald pools darted to the floor beneath him, observing the bloody sigil trap before meeting your gaze once more.

"Now, let's try this again," you retorted, more stern this time, but he didn't let you finish; his eyes softened, and he lowered the colt ever so slightly.