Dan Howell is Alive * sequel to HIAKDH

3. My God Has a Telephone

"Don't trust your government, kids." - Nick Miller, New Girl

***

It was dark when I left the relative safety of the crumbling apartment. Night was its own horror even before The Great War. My satchel made of fading brown leather was strung across my chest in such a way that made me feel almost powerful and invincible. That was a feeling hard to come by these days.

I walked along the dirty sidewalk, side-stepping the twisted metal fixtures and broken glass to get to The Hub. I knew a guy there who only went by the name Blade (I know, quite edgy) who could hook me up with some needed supplies.

It wasn't too busy when I pushed open the old doors of the abandoned bar. There was AC/DC playing loudly as if they didn't care if The Calvary heard them. They had guns, anyways.

"Lieutenant," Jeremy, the bartender said when I entered fully into the establishment. He was a big guy, with tattoos everywhere and a crew cut with knife nicks in various places from some nasty run-ins. He was cleaning a whiskey glass for me, his glass-eye not focusing on much.

"Jeremy," I greeted. I wasn't in the talking mood, but I did give a tight smile as I sat at the bar.

"There's someone looking for you," Jeremy said, pouring my drink.

"Oh yeah? Blade? I told him to have my cigs-"

"Nah. Someone else."

I frowned. Who else would need to talk to me in The Hub besides Jeremy and Blade? Sure, I knew a few Rouges here and there, but they could always radio in if it was urgent. And besides, they wouldn't have known I'd be at The Hub tonight.

"Who?" I asked, taking a long sip.

"Me," said a voice behind me.

It could be a million years since I heard him talk, but I would still know the owner of that strained tone.

"Phil."

I stood, drink in hand, looking at him. He looked just the same as he had when I first saw him earlier in the day, with just perhaps a bit more dirt coloring his cheekbones. He stood in a non-threatening stance, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his worn jeans.

"Hey, Dan."

I rolled my eyes. "So, you found me? What is it, you wanna gang up and defeat the government like some sort of movie? I told you, Phil. I'm done with you," I said roughly. I turned away sharply.

"Well, maybe I'm not done with you."

That caused a few heads to turn, including mine.

"I'm certain you are," I replied darkly.

"No. I'm not. We created this mess, we fix it-"

"Correction. You created this mess. If anything, I'm the victim!"

Phil didn't reply, he just looked around the dank establishment. "What is this anyways, the Korova Milk Bar?"

I rolled my eyes yet again, crossing my arms across my chest as I did. "Give it a rest, your jokes were never funny. What do you want from me?"

"Your help. And then I'll be on my merry way. Scout's honor."

I thought about it. Did I really want to help Phil Lester, my past murderer? No. Did I owe it to him? No, I owed no one, that was one thing the war taught me well. But then I thought about PJ. What would an angel do? Turn away the holy Father's favorite creation in some selfish vendetta? PJ wouldn't, and nor would Shane if... Well, he wouldn't. No matter how moody he could be. 

"What do you need help with?"