Two imps, unmoving and drained of blood, lay on gurneys in front of the Material Disassembly Team, a newly minted department within the black site. No longer would the dismemberment, dissection, and beheading of demons be handled informally, but rather by those who were trained specifically with the task. They were covered head to toe in personal protective equipment, goggles, translucent plastic garb, blue nitrile gloves, masks. One man that had handled Blitzo had gotten sick beforehand; while it turned out to be just a cold, the experiences of the surface and the historical experiences of first contact led to a deeply cautious approach to imp-on-human contact.
One of the humans, unrecognisable as such within the moving coffin of polymer they've been dressed in, looks at the surveillance camera of the room. "Disassembly log number one." The human-like entity backed away from the camera, took a bonesaw, and flicked it on.
"Aye, I'm tha sheriff o' this here lil' village."
The imp, tall and lanky, had an exaggerated handlebar moustache drooping down from his septum, spiked up spectacularly to heights unseen in nature. The soft scent of lard emanated from around his mouth, either a sign of his diet or the composition of the product he uses.
The whitish-grey of his hair suggested advanced age, only signified greater by the bleaching of his skin, only slight patches of red left. Wrinkling had crept up on his eyes, and the cowboy hat that he wore poorly covered up the loss of his hairline, bald peeking out from the brim. "Been here almost… gosh-dang, 'bout forty years now?"
Millie, as promised, was sitting in a chair closer to the man in front of them, Moxxie sitting at the side. "It's a nice here town! Compared ta som' other places, it's downright pleasant!"
A soft, deep, paternal chuckle flew out of the sheriff's gut, and he played with his steel badge, easily the brightest part of his attire filled with browns, greys, and blacks. "Dang right! We even got a doctor 'round tha place! Gosh-darn place is well-off compared ta tha other villages down tha road." He points back with his thumb. "Them places don' even got plumbin' sometimes. Gotta wash up wit' well-water."
Millie nods, Moxxie waits. The southern belle interjects. "Ya-huh, I getcha… there's one liiil' detail that might soil that there wonderful image o' yer town."
The sheriff's cordial smile drops for a moment. "…what'd that be?"
"You have a murderer either in town or close to it." Moxxie, quiet at first, spoke up. "He's killed a Goetia and he's killed our friend. We need help looking for him."
The lawman paused. Then he laughed. "Mills, why ya keep bringin' city slickers 'round these parts?" A hearty chuckle, increasing in its intensity as time went on. "A Goetia!? Ya really think someone could jus'… cap a Goetia?" He suppressed his laugh, then cleared his throat. "Look… ya really gotta com' back ta me when y'all are serious-"
Moxxie grit his teeth, squinting. He was starting to shake. Millie looked to her side, rubbing her husband's shoulder. This may have been what tipped him over the edge. Finally, the guns expert stood up quickly from his chair, his reedy voice mustering up as much as it could. "Oh, come on!" He pressed his hands against the sheriff's desk. "Look, I've had it up to here with being dusted off by every single piece of bureaucratic trash down here, so forgive me for getting a little cross when you laugh off the death of my FRIEND!" Moxxie slams his fist on the table, baring his teeth and practically snarling.
The sheriff… didn't move. His smile was dropped, his eyebrow raised, and he looked over to Millie midway through the city boy's rant. He let out a sigh. "…damn, this one's shrilly, too."
The rifleman's wife stepped forward, hand on her husband's shoulder, slowly rubbing it. "Don't mind 'im, he's jus'… we've been dealin' wit' a lotta stuff and nobody seems ta be responsive… look, guy we're lookin' fer's tall, beige, he's probably an imp… farmhand… dresses like one too."
The taller, older imp tensed up a bit. Despite being a subtle reaction, it was readily apparent the moment he recognised that description. "…wha', Striker?" A confused tone filled the sheriff's voice, and although shock and disbelief were prevalent on the surface, something seemed… wrong underneath. "Ain't seen that ol' guy in yeaaars… decades, prob'. Nah, sorry, can't help ya." The lawman shrugged.
Moxxie's eyes lit up in furor. "What!? You're not gonna investigate!?" Another venomous slip of the tongue, words flying through his teeth.
The sheriff stood up. "I don't like yer tone a' voice, mister." He towered over Moxxie, his shadow draping over, cloaking the city slicker in darkness. "Y'all better be goin' now, I reckon. Before I find a reason ta throw ya out."
Moxxie stood his ground. Millie let out a nervous laugh. "C'mon, hun… let's just go-"
Before Millie could drag him away, his hand flew into his pockets, and out came the five hundred. The stack of clash was slammed on the desk. The weapons expert gestured towards it. "There! There! Is that what you want!?" His wife froze, her eyes widening.
Seconds passed. They felt like hours. The sheriff looked at the stack of hellbucks. A rubber band was wrapped around them. "…who put ya up ta this?"
There was no response from the two imps. Silence filled the room like noxious fumes, their pulses quickened, hearts beating in their chest.
The lawman, symbol of justice in Wrath, took the stack… and slowly started running his fingers through. Nobody talked. Nobody even dare look at each other. Not even the couple could find solace in one another, fearing that they'd incriminate each other. As if it would make a difference. "…five hundred, huh? Ya really tried ta bribe a sheriff wit' five hundred?"
No response. This was the end. Both of them were sure of it. Nobody would come to help them. They were alone.
The sheriff shoved the stack into his pocket. "…he drove inta tha city wit' his lil' van o' his. Said he had business ta attend ta. That's all I know." He gestured with his head to the door. "Now get outta here."
The two imps took the signal as fast as they could, opening the door behind, slipping out. The sheriff interrupted. "Oh, an' one more thin'…" He sat down in his chair, leaning back, and kicking his boots up on the desk. "Don' be gettin' yerself involved in shit ya don't understand."
"Any difference?"
The MDT personnel shoved a chunk of thigh, its femur sticking out and broken off, into the receptacle of gore used to power the grimoire's arcane energies. One of them looked to the readings, dials and meters slowly shooting up. "…mmh, hard to say. We're still getting a lot."
"Do we have the readings from the alive specimen?"
A few moments of thought. "…Albright's probably got 'em."
"He in the office?"
"Should be, yeah… I'll give him a call."
Dr. Albright sat in his office, windowed and with stiff, fabric blinds dangling to the sides. Through the window was a vast wilderness, coniferous trees stood proudly and blankets of snow drifting through. The ground was flat, only broken up momentarily by meandering hills. The phone rung and he picked it up. "Albright."
"Hey, it's MDT."
"Heyyy, it's the butchers. How are you guys holding up?"
"We're doing alright, just wondering if we'd be able to get a copy of your findings on the alive specimen faxed to our offices here."
The doctor momentarily looks at the family photo on his desk. His daughter. She was only fifteen. "…no dice, I'm afraid. We had a system crash a couple of days ago, didn't have backups."
"Ah. That's alright, then."
"Okay, well, I'll tell you what. I'll get some more material from the alive specimen, ship it over, and you can test both at the same time."
"How soon can you do that? Admin's getting antsy about expanding operations here."
"Mmh… probably tomorrow. Surgery's gone home for the day. Just don't throw everything in. Alright?"
"Alright, we'll hold off until tomorrow."
"Okay, fantastic. You take care now."
The line was disconnected.
