Outcast

Written by Anakin McFly

He's one of the most distinctive characters Keanu ever co-created, perhaps precisely because he didn't want to... it came across in that cloud of self-loathing surrounding Griffin, and that look in his eyes of a person who's somehow at once dead inside and yet sparking with wicked intelligence, someone who's been through hell and wants to laugh as he drags other people into it, just because he can, because it horrifies them, and he finds that totally hilarious because existence is funny, people are funny, them and their easily-manipulated feelings;

in some ways, he's a lot like Constantine. Perhaps that's why he stays away from him. there's a kind of respect, there. Griffin knows he can't play with John and get into his head the way he can with others - like Jack, who's the best thing that's happened to him. Officer Traven with his guns and his bluster and his adorably sincere passion to save the world. It makes Griffin want to pat him on the head, but Jack never lets him get close enough. Except when he's sleeping. Griffin gently runs a hand over Jack's head, smoothing over his crew cut, and Jack twitches but does not wake. He finds it amusing - even in sleep, Jack looks so tense, as though he's chasing down bad guys in his dream, always the cop, always the hero, always the good guy who still can't bring himself to shoot Griffin and solve all his problems. Maybe because he looks like him. Or perhaps, more likely, because a part of Jack senses that that's exactly what Griffin wants - to die at his hands, smiling in the sweet release of death, whispering "I'm so proud of you, Jack," perhaps pitying Jack - just a little - at the sight of the horror spreading over that earnest face, the way Jack drops his gun and screams for help, falling to his knees, blood spurting over his hands as he tries desperately to stem the wound, choking with sobs, not knowing what to say, and still Griffin is smiling at him even as his breaths grow ragged, weakly lifting a hand and placing it over Jack's; and Jack screams again for Dr. Mercer, anyone, help, help... as the moment etches itself horribly and indelibly in his mind so that he wakes up every other night in a cold sweat and yells into the night, beating his fists bruised against the walls until everything is numb and his body stops trembling and he tumbles, exhausted, drained and broken, back into bed, the sound of Griffin's taunts still echoing in his head.

What was it that Annie said to him - I can't be with someone who gets hurt so much. and so Jack keeps on hurting, by himself, coming to realise that the last person who cared this much about him is gone.

Perhaps that's the end game. It's what Griffin wants, immortalising himself in another man's trauma.

And until that day comes... he's not going to leave Jack alone.

He's watching them, now. It's what he does. He stands far enough away to not be seen, blending into the shadows, a dark spectre by the lake. He knows this world is a meeting place for them, secluded enough as it is from other people. Sometimes, Alex almost sees him, in quiet moments chugging a drink on the deck; but then the figure is gone, and Alex decides it was just a tree, perhaps a deer, and placates his unease by telling himself that there's no reason for anyone to be after him.

They're having another gathering tonight. They're in the lake house this time, not their outpost, for it's a smaller group, and there's something about the Wyler architectural marvel that makes an already-surreal gathering just that bit more magical: seeing the lights sparkling off the water, the sounds of their revelry carrying across the lonely lake. Through the glass walls, Griffin sees people chatting with each other with food or drinks in hand, and Jack - his Jack - engaged in serious conversation with Tom Ludlow, mostly listening, nodding every now and then, neglected beer can by his side.

No one ever invites Griffin to these parties. He doesn't blame them. He can't do parties. Not that all of them can, either. Neo has wandered off as usual to a different room - does Alex even know he's there? - to be by himself, staring out the window at the lake. Griffin doesn't know why Neo even goes to these things.

"Why don't you join them?" a soft voice asks, and Griffin momentarily tenses.

But then he recognises the voice and the old man standing amongst the trees, and he scoffs. "Why don't you?" he asks.

"Oh, I'd love to," Dem says. "Someone brought creamed spinach." His eyes twinkle in delight. "But they might find me to be... well. Out of place. Whereas you, you're pure Reevesian stock." Dem smiles. He pats Griffin on the cheek, and Griffin pulls his hand away.

"I'm sure you have somewhere else to be," Griffin says.

"I know you've been watching them. You wouldn't do that if you didn't care."

Griffin swallows back a sudden burn of rage. "So maybe I do," he says calmly.

"Look at them," Dem says. "You could be anyone. Throw his body into the lake... take his place... no one would be the wiser." Dem smiles, partly from evil and partly because he's still thinking about that creamed spinach. "Think about it," he says, and when Griffin next looks around, he's gone.

#

“You look different from the others,” Dem says, reappearing by the trees soon after with a bowl of creamed spinach in his hands. “Do you know why? It’s because he loves them. They practically glow with it. You can sense that love a mile away.”

“Even the worst of them,” Dem continues. “Donaka, Donnie, Don John... He delighted in them. They are so loved. They are so loved.”

Griffin wants to tell him to leave.

“But you...” Dem steps closer, but Griffin doesn’t move even when the old man leans in close and whispers in his ear. “You disgust him.”

Griffin tenses. He keeps staring straight ahead, up where the others are gathered in Alex’s home, but his breath hitches in his throat.

Dem pulls away, smiling, and takes another spoonful of spinach.

“I know that,” Griffin says, his voice more measured than he feels. “Do you think that’s news to me?”

“No. But it’s something, isn’t it?” Dem licks his lips. This is good spinach. He might steal more. “His hatred has marked you, forever. Everyone can see it. So, you must understand, you can never really be one of them. I take back what I said earlier, about taking one of their places. Of course they'd be able to tell.”

“Are you finished?”

“Sadly, yes,” Dem says, scooping up the last bit of spinach. “Have a good night.”

Dem vanishes. Griffin is alone in the woods again, chest tight with unshed tears and fists clenched against the fabric of his jacket, staring at the lake house and the love he was excluded from, the words – you disgust him – seeping through and poisoning every fibre of his body.

And he doesn't notice, in the distance, the other figure staring at the house, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, the same look of painful longing on his face.

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