A tall, bird-like Goetia sat slumped in the seat of Stolas. His face was gone. Stagnant blood had gathered at the very top of the throne. Octavia stared at the body. She couldn't believe it. She knew what her dad wore… and there was that outfit, now covered in detritus, on a man who was certainly deceased.
Lucifer rose an eyebrow, speaking quietly. "They didn't tell you about that either. Who are these people… right, so… he's sitting in your seat, so you just… let him down the stairs."
"…what."
"Yes. You take him off your seat and kind of… chuck him down."
"…" Octavia squinted her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. "…no. No, what the fuck-"
"Octavia. This represents an ancient Goetia tradition that has been occurring for thousands of years. This is how succession goes. Your father did it, your grandfather before him... I'm surprised nobody's told you about this."
The heiress threw her hands up. "Nope. Nope nope nope." She began storming out of the Assembly. "Fuck that. I'm out."
"Octavia- hey! Come back, we're not-" Lucifer stood up from his throne. Seviathan stopped him midway by placing his hand against the monarch's chest. The sovereign, in turn, sat back down.
The spymaster whispered to Lucifer. "It's fine. At least next time she'll have some time to steel herself." He looked over to the Frumentarii under his command. "I'll make sure she's under our wing."
A small corner in the Pride Ring of Hell. A rundown building made solely of concrete. Brutalist, looming over the landscape and contrasting with the architecture around it. 'Vigiles Goetia - Stolas Regiment Headquarters'. The sign looked well weathered.
Two black vans pulled up to the building. Unmarked, civilian. Its true purpose was only made known when the back doors opened. Men armed to the teeth. They hopped out, rifles in tow. Those who were too close scattered. Those who were far enough away gawked. Two imps guarding the entrance lifted their rifles up, panicked, and began shooting.
Cracks and booms echoed out into the cityscape. Brass hit the asphalt. The projectiles hit the imps square, vital red fluid expelled from the other end.
They fell to the ground. The armed men, giving each other commands in Latin, marched into the police station.
A group of imps sat at a round table. Their skin was darkened to a near pitch black, undertones of red barely peeking out. Two of them were sitting on thrones of bone, goblets in their hands filled with red liquid. The atmosphere had a veneer of cordiality, but underneath was tension.
One of the imps rose and spoke. "Nicola and Bartolomeo. Sergeants of the Vigiles Goetia. They have served their master, Stolas Septimus von Goetia, until the end of his days. Their magical affinity, thus quenched and grown by their fallen comrades, has reached its apotheosis. After these goblets, they will no longer be imps. They will be gods. As fellow members of the Breach Team, we commend your success and wish you the best of luck during your transcendence."
The two sitting on the thrones stood up. One rose his goblet. His voice rung out with a slight echo, his sclera white and his pupils barely visible. "I thank you for the luck. Truthfully, after our decision to aid Andrealphus… we'll need it." A few murmurs and chuckles. "I don't know how I'll perceive the world after this. Truly, I am unsure if I will remember any of my previous life… or if I'll care to follow it." He stood to attention. "The only way I will find out is if I cross the threshold… and there's no better time like the present. Sugarra zain dago!"
"Sugarra zain dago!" All the imps shouted in unison, raising their goblets in the air… before beginning to drink from them.
Footsteps. Gunshots in the hallway. The imps paused and hurriedly put the goblets down. "…we got company!"
For one imp, it was too late to reverse. The transcendence had begun. They rose up into the air. A sharp, animalistic scream, unnaturally loud and followed by a burst of energy radiating outwards. Their impish form mangled itself. As the unarmed imps of the Stolas Breach Team were slaughtered one by one, the floating Vigil was unphased. It no longer recognised its comrades. It no longer recognised the pain of bullets passing through it. "Surrender immediately," it echoed out. The armed men fled into the hallway, just moments before the wall was annihilated.
The form floated out, now completely lacking all detail, silhouetted and pitch black. A sphere-like device was rolled down the hallway. As it activated, the form began sputtering, growing unstable, roughly falling to the ground. It struggled for breath, black slipping off of their skin to reveal the red underneath. White began soaking in, patches growing and growing as the Vigil struggled. As it took its final, agonal breath, it collapsed fully to the floor, now bleached of all colour.
The sphere deactivated and the armed men stepped towards the deformed imp. Their shirts were red, mixing in with the crimson of shed blood. One of them declared, "Id omne."
"Vulpem introduc. Factum est."
