In The Courtyard

by Matt Nute

Picture, if you will, a wall. Perhaps it is a brick wall, perhaps concrete, maybe stucco, definitely not corrugated tin. Now, imagine this wall stretches from the ground toward the sky. It is a sky filled with rolling gray clouds, promising the hint of rain, but never delivering. Or perhaps it is a clear sky, with the morning sun burning the drops of dew off  the lawn.

Today, it's all in how you envision it. But back to the wall.

The wall has four brothers just like itself, arranged in a neat square, forming a sort of courtyard. There's nothing ostentatious about it, it isn't a palace garden, or the croquet lawn of some foreign diplomat. It's merely a courtyard where people come to relax for a while, perhaps sit at one of the tables and share a few moments with a friend. There are trees, providing shade in which one could recline for a brief reverie, until they once again head through the door.

Ah, the door. Simple, gray metal. Plain brass knob. Opens out, has a tendency not to shut all the way unless you slam it a little. Just an ordinary door. The marvel, of course, lies on the other side of the door. But we're not there yet. Let us, if we may, direct your attention to the lone occupant of the courtyard, leaning against the wall by the door.

A young man, more appropriately, a recent man. He hasn't been around here for very long, but he holds himself with the confidence of someone who has become rather popular, rather quickly in certain circles. His short red

hair is touched for a moment as if by the breeze, and under his crimson eye-lenses, one can imagine soft blue eyes closed in thought. His hands, covered in fingerless gloves, are soft and well-kept, without scar or callus. One is casually shoved into the pocket of his coat, itself a constantly shifting pattern of deep violet and lavender whorls.

He smiles, a lazy grin that reveals a subtle shading of untrimmed beard, adding a slight tint of copper to his skin. With relaxed face, he sighs, captured up in the utter calmness that one finds in an autumn morning, a quiet woodland glade, or some faraway meditative temple.

Or, perhaps just in the hand-rolled ‘cigarette' smoldering in his left hand.

He is the Doctor. In some universes, he is the world's shaman, part of a pantheon of superheroic world-savers fighting epic battles against otherdimensional foes on a cosmic scale.

But here, here he is just a man with a cigarette, about to be joined. Let us look closer, if we can...

Inhale. See the world fade under your feet. Feel the pulse of the planet course through the veins, driven by the heart that fuels the world. Close your eyes, hear the thunder in your synapses, the lightning flashing in your soul. Touch the fabric of space, twist it to the side, warp the material world on a whim; remix reality. Exhale.

The Doctor opened his eyes, smelling the sweet smoke as it left his lungs. He felt good, relaxed. After all, he'd had a rather hectic time the last few months. Finding a pre-prehistoric entropic machine responsible for the faults of humanity, being repeatedly berated by Jenny Sparks, had his nose broken by a disgruntled Italian from another dimension, been yelled at by Jenny again, somewhere in there he had discovered a tiny microcosm inside one of Jenny's packs of unfiltered cigarettes, and finally been slapped, prodded, humiliated, and hollered at by none other than Jenny Sparks.

He smiled to himself. If only his Mainstream counterpart had it so good. They'd never met, of course, but the Doctor considered himself far luckier a man than his professionally published alter ego. While he found himself bounced unpredictably from situation to situation by any writer who chose to give him a purpose, his Mainstream analogue had to wait long weeks for mere moments of time on-panel, directed by the whims of a sole man, and plotted out in the "Coming Next Month" box at the end of an issue.

Here, the Doctor lived a life of unpredictable adventure, forced to exist in the eternal now, enjoying each moment as it came. And moments of relaxation like this came few and far between.

As if on cue, which it was, the door next to him opened, expelling a bedraggled Englishman in a tan coat, his unkempt blond hair dusted with flecks of soot.

"Bloody ‘ell!" he cried, waving two fingers in the vicinity of the closing door. "Right! See if I show up on time for your bloody crossovers again!"Grumbling, he looked over to the Doctor, then his eyes fixed on the remnants of his ‘cigarette'.

"Well there, mate..." he began, "It's, er, been a rough day and..."

The Doctor smiled, nodded, and passed his precious contraband over. He would always find more. A few generous writers kept him well supplied. Another one tended to take his stash away just as quickly, but he had faith.

The Englishman exhaled loudly, absorbed in the brief moment of peace. "Ah, that's more like it. A few moments of bloody feckin' quiet, that's all I ask." Turning to the Doctor, he extended a hand. "John Constantine."

"The Doctor." The shorter man replied, giving his comrade's palm a quick shake. Constantine blinked.

"Ah, so you're the new chap on the block. Buggered if I don't envy you the lot. Universe-spanning epics, character development, all the spliff you can handle..."

The Doctor merely shrugged, folding his hands behind his head as he slouched down against the wall. "It's not that bad, this life. I'm rather enjoying myself."

To contrast his laid-back image, the door was flung wide again, and out stormed a dark-haired man clothed in a rumpled black suit. With a contemptuous scowl, he grabbed his crotch and gestured rudely to the closing door. "An' keep yer silly arse-mongering Black Air commission! I'm back off to the Fonts, I am!"

"‘ey, Pete!" Constantine exclaimed joyously. "Where in th' hell ‘ave you been?" The two men smiled and embraced like brothers. "Ain't seen you since...?"

Pete Wisdom frowned. "Last year, one of Luba's sets? Or was it over at the Shifting Sands?" He smiled broadly. "Ah, what th' fuck. ‘Ow's life?"

The trenchcoat-clad blond shrugged. "It's a living. When I'm not being turned into a bloody wand-wielding Japanese trollop or being pestered by those sodding anime goddesses, they're th' worst, you know."

"Oh, not David and Rod again?" Pete Wisdom groaned. "They've got it in for you, so they do." He glanced over at the Doctor, who had produced a small pipe and was surreptitiously puffing away. "Him?" he jerked a thumb in question. Constantine nodded.

"New. Pretty big, too. One of Yours', if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh, HIM." Wisdom's eyes looked skyward in reverence for a moment. "Gonna just abandon him too, is he?"

"Next month, so they say."

Both men looked down at the red-haired magician, seemingly lost in his own little world. Wisdom knelt down next to him.

"Er, I don't know if this'll help, but you do know what's coming up over in the Mainstream, yeah?" His face was filled with genuine concern.

The Doctor inhaled and nodded. "He's moving on. Turning us over to one of those Scotsmen, they say. Can't say I'm not a bit hurt, but we'll survive. After all, we've got Here."

Constantine and Wisdom both nodded. "Catches on fast, he does." John murmured. Pete grinned in assent, then eyed the pipe enviously.

"Say, mate..." he began. The Doctor had already begun to offer his smoking bowl when a voice boomed from the heavens.

"PETE WISDOM. SET TEN. WISDOM, SET TEN."

"Bloody hell. I hope it's that Indigo lass." he groaned, reaching for the pipe. "Last she left me, I was in a flat with two gorgeous birds, I was. If she's picking up that where we left off..."

"WISDOM TO SET TEN. MISTER DEX DOES NOT LIKE TO BE KEPT WAITING."

Pete clapped both hands over his eyes. "Fuck!" he crowed. "Bastard Canadians, I'll never get back to shaggin' Kit at this rate. Ah well," he shrugged, opening the door slowly. "At least I'm guaranteed to get right pissed in this one. Cheers, mate." And with a wave, he was gone, back Inside.

Slowly, the Doctor stood and looked up to the sky. "There's always something for us here, isn't there?" Producing a small handkerchief, he removed his eye-lenses and began to clean them. Blinking against the light, he nodded to himself. "I've met people here who don't even get a mention anymore Out There."

Constantine knew the smaller man meant out in the Mainstream. The world of "real" comics. He grinned, searching his pockets for a cigarette. "Happens here too, mate. Even the most popular of us fall by the wayside from time to time. You get your moment, then it's up. Hopefully someday, you can dream that one of th' dino's decides to do a plot about ‘the good ol' days' and brings you back for a cameo."

Shaking his head, the Doctor sighed. "I know. But in here, no one's ever totally forgotten. I saw Kara Zor-El here yesterday, chatting with some little guy who looked... like a duck."

"Ah, that'd be Howard." Constantine chuckled.

"The very one?" mumbled the confused Dutchman, "You see? They're all but forgotten Out There. But in here? Never. In here we're immortal. We aren't forgotten."

"Or so you'd think." replied Constantine. "When's the last time you saw Sikudhani McCoy walking these halls? Or how about dropping down to the Café with the old crowd? Times change, mate. Even here."

"PAGING THE DOCTOR. SET THIRTY. THE DOCTOR, SET THIRTY." the booming voice reverberated off the walls, eliciting a sigh from the Doctor. He stood shakily, dusting off his purple coat and replacing his red lenses over his

eyes. He frowned for a moment, then grinned.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm on." He waved a hand to Constantine in camaraderie, then walked through the door, letting it close behind him. For a moment, John Constantine was silent, hands jammed into his pockets, cigarette dangling from his lips. Slowly, a smile crossed his lined face.

"That you are, m'boy. That you are."

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