The secrecy of Safehouse Alpha stagnated the rebels arrival. It was in the locked basement of a derelict cannery, its deserted shell clutching onto the Lilith River along the barnacled concrete coast of The Bends. It's still there to this day, hollow and exsanguinated, its vacant skeletal remains graffitied over by bored and angstful hands. I heard some years ago that some young, radicalized individuals tried to occupy the space with the express intent to breathe life back into the dead notions that Ornthir had been immortalized for. From what I've overheard in recent news bulletins, those youths have yet to be found. During the days of Ornthir, of the rebels and The Cause, it was flush with everything needed to fuel an effective resistance. Weapons recessed in hidden cubbies and tucked away shelves, reconnaissance intel taped on the bottom of tables and behind immovable walled paintings, safe routes etched across an enlarged map of the city, locked away in the supervisors office, our meeting room; the operations warm, vibrant, patriotic heart. We had to err on the arduous side of caution, there was never a way of being too heedful. It took the rebels and I a month to get the proper untraceable spells to purge the area of any trace amounts of lingering river rot that stuck to the cold, indifferent walls.

The ground floor was where the fish was minced into "servable" portions and entombed in palmable aluminum pucks. According to the leftover paperwork, the cannery was independently owned; though there were still decaying decals of Ridley The Ripjaw, with his toonish piscine caricature flashing its trademark friendly smile slowly peeling off the corrugated metal walls. The basement of the cannery had water access, small tight concrete docks that housed incoming fishing vessels to streamline the off loading process. We occupied those spaces with second hand, decommissioned boats, our transports for the coup, and outfitted them with speed and agility in mind. Alenka, one of our lead techs, had her own engineering clutch to help make the needed tune-ups and modifications along with scrubbing any lingering credentials that could trace the vessel back to any legion's navy.

Originally, most of the basement area was unused by us, still frozen in time with the faint echoes of those many back breaking days galvanized to spite the success of the other mechanized canneries in the city. That's what Ornthir told us, and after reviewing the pulpy testimony he unearthed from the recesses of the supervisors office, we formed a unanimous consensus that to move any of the industrialized litter would be a desecration to the purity of what those workers fought for. It was wrong, we agreed, to disturb those many sleeping ghosts within the rusted conveyor belts and corroded, decaying dock ties. It was a matter of reverence, of an understanding that the men and women who worked there gladly surrendered benefits, retirement plans, even salary for the same autonomy and respect that Ornthir preached about, that we strived for. He referred to them as altars, homes to the phylacteries of those many faceless working individuals who chose a road many denied. During those times, however, with the clock ever ticking closer to that fateful uprising, most of those spaces were usurped by guns and ammo, as if we were planning to drown the whole city in lead.

We were in the supervisor's office, our war room, a rather spartan collection of foldaway furniture that was now cluttered with rolled out maps detailing our every step from the moment we left the safehouse, through the winding, chaotic streets and palace hallways, to the myriad of abandoned bunkers and forgotten corners of Hell we would all scatter to after our escape. We had everything measured down to the exact area where Ornthir would kill Bram. It was in his study, facing out his balcony so that his body would fall and crumble before all of Hell, slain by the very same bullets used to protect them from exorcists, fired by the hands that were sworn to keep him safe. We did, however, make sure that it was far away from his family or any of the servantile imps. We didn't want Violeta or Stolas to see our crime, chiefly because we knew that no amount of explanation would sway their weeping hearts.

Ornthir waited behind the supervisor's desk with a bold patience, his shoulders sitting firm and square as he leaned forward, looking at the closed doorway. I was behind him, leaning against the wide cabinet counter that used to house categorized paperwork of the building's logistical operations. It was also home to the legible chronicle of the supervisors' protest against River Chicken, the company the cannery belonged to. That too was defiled; evicted and tucked away into some unknown corner of the cannery. The cabinet doors were almost bulging with the amount of ordinance and high-caliber rifles we had in there.

Nim was the first to arrive, a bulldozer of a woman whose punctuality was almost as good as her aim. Durin followed shortly after, that familiar spiced cigar reek still sewn into his clothing. Then came Malik and Flova, Lydia and Rom until bit by bit the rest of the rebels trickled in. The usual conversations that would flow through them was absent, snubbed when they saw the bomb. Ornthir had it on the supervisor's desk, unapologetically in front of everyone. A lurid sludge of trepidation silenced most conversation as we waited for Ornthir to speak. Alenka tapped her thumb against her index finger as Durin sent probing looks around the room, usually to me. Ornthir was patient and gave the room time to simmer before spoke.

"Good morning," he began, "I'm glad you all were able to make it." He paused, surveyed the rebels, and took a measured breath.

"I must first start off with addressing the obvious: I salvaged this bomb, made by the hands of The Men of Sodom, from under my car this morning. There was no damage accrued to me or my family, this was simply a vehicle for a message. A message that comes with it an unfortunate conclusion."

He gauged the room, surveying it with a calm inspection.

"What is it?" asked Durin, his voice steadily impatient.

"The Men of Sodom want a cut of the action in toppling Bram."

The rebels paused. Malik blanched and Lydia went wide eyed. Rom looked at me. I glared back.

"You reached out to them?" asked Nim.

"No," Ornthir replied, "One of you did."

When an explosion goes off in the distance, it's seen first. The sound and fury of that far off carnage is only heard after the shockwave crashes through. It was the eruptive silence in between that made it all that more explosively violent when it finally rips through you. I could see it in their eyes, that wave, that thundering boulder of consternation and disbelief careening through them. There was an ethereal pause for a moment, as if the soft ringing within even the deepest silence left the room. Durin was first to draw his gun, pointing it at Nim. She returned the display in kind. Then Lydia trained her sights on Durin, Molidan on Alenka, Flova to Rom and Rom to me until all of them pointed angry barrels at those they called comrades. Only Malik kept his gun holstered and instead moved in between Nim and Durin, his worried eyes fixed on her.

"Malik, get out of the way," Nim asked firmly.

"Yeah, Malik," cooed Durin, "do what mommy says."

"Hey!" I yelled, "Fuck's the matter with you?"

My hooves moved swiftly towards him, intending to rip the gun away from his meaty hands. The sound of a revolver hammer cocking stopped my approach. I knew the sound well, fought alongside it for years. I looked at Rom.

"Really wanna fuckin' do this?" I asked.

"It'd be my pleasure, daddy's boy." he replied coolly.

I heard another pistol slip out from a holster and saw a barrel press into Rom's temple.

"Save your breath Rom," said Alenka, "before I take it."

Durin laughed and whooped, "Looks like we got ourselves a real sticky situation right here!"

"You really wanna do this now?" said Nim, "This close to rebellion, you wanna cock it up?"

"I ain't about to go to war with a fuckin' traitor by my side," replied Durin with his rattlesnake voice.

"I agree," added Rom, "Way I see it, we're all dead until whoever did it fesses up."

"Start talkin' then," said Flova.

Rom kissed his teeth, "I don't think I'm the one with loose lips, sweetheart."

"Enough!" spoke Ornthir authoritatively as he slammed his fist against the dry wood of the desk, "from all of you."

"There's a leak, Elias." emphasized Durin.

"I am well aware of that but this is not the answer!"

"Then what is?" bit Rom.

"Put your goddamn weapons down and listen!" he barked before moving towards Rom. No one stopped his advance, no one pointed a gun towards him nor did they try to block him. They parted, secure in the notion of his incorruptible innocence. He marched over and yanked the gun from Rom, flicking the safety on and resetting the hammer. Rom gave him a sour look. His eyes bore into Ornthir's before he relented.

"Better have a good fuckin' explanation," muttered Rom as he crossed his arms. Putting her gun away, Flova accosted towards Rom and hit him across the jaw with such force he was unconscious before his head slammed against the concrete. Ornthir could have stopped her, but I was glad he didn't. That punch was a long thing coming. Satisfied with her work, she propped herself against the wall and lit a cigarette, inhaling deep.

"Anything else?" Ornthir asked. She exhaled, letting the gray plume escape her cherry lips to populate the space between her and everyone else. She waited, thinking, holding the room as if it were an ant underneath her boot.

"Not sure yet."

"Alright," he said before turning his attention to the rest of us, "Yes, there has been a breach. Yes it was unexpected, but this could still benefit us yet."

"You really gunna turn a blind eye, Elias?" said Durin.

"The fact that one of you went behind my back is pertinent, but not as pertinent as the information we have been dealt. The Men of Sodom have a solid history, violent to a fault. They may be exactly what we need to crush Bram. We have an opportunity here. Not only that, but I needn't explain to you what we could lose if we don't do this. The Men of Sodom, however you may think about them, may just be the people we need to help tip the scales, and, in fact, it doesn't seem like we have that much of a choice."

"The Cleansing is a month away," Lydia chimed in, "Can we really afford this?"

"We have to."

"What are our contingencies?" asked Molidan, one of our techs.

"You're agreeing to this?" asked Durin.

"I'm testing its fallibility."

"Ornthir, this is crazy!"

"And trying to kill one of the Goetia's isn't?" Alenka retorted.

"Someone betrayed us!" Durin spat, "What happened to loyalty? To unity?"

"He has a point, Durin." Lydia replied, "Who would expect them? 50 year old ghosts lost to time and they want to join? Fuck it, if they're as good as they used to be, they'll be a perfect distraction. If not, that's just less bullets sent our way. Either way, Elias is right. Sodomites could help, so quit your bitchin'."

Durin sneered and looked around at his fellow revolutionaries. They all seemed on Ornthir's side, looking steadfast in the slowly forming solidity of his plan.

"So it's like that, huh?"

"Whoever contacted The Sodomites had good reason for keeping quiet, if you or Rom got wind of that, you'd've skinned them alive," reasoned Alenka, "and don't bullshit us and say you wouldn't."

"You're loyal, Durin," softly added Malik, "You mean well. Don't let your fever get the best of you."

"Don't analyze me, boy," he snarled, "don't like interlopers, that's all. Thought all a y'all would feel the same but it don't look like that, so fine, fuck it, guess we're doin' this, but if anything, anything goes south, I'll make sure whoever talked gets the bullet they deserve."

Nim smiled, flashing a palisade of sharpened cuspids, "you can try."

"So we are agreed," said Ornthir, "I thank you all for understanding."

"So," began Flova, snubbing the cigarette under her hoof, "Now what?"

Ornthir gauged the room, taking in his conspirators and then settling his gaze onto Molidan, "In regards to contingencies, I have some in place in the unlikely event of The Sodomites betraying us, of which I have no doubt that they too have their own reciprocal plans. I will inform you of our strategy when the rebellion draws nearer. Therefore, after due consideration, I have elected to accept their terms as they are on the express stipulation that whoever decided to tell them our plans, let me know at once in private, through either phone or in person, when and where the bomb will go off so that my men and their families can be at a safe distance. I will remain here for the next three hours to ensure the confidentiality of the meeting." He paused, letting the plan sink into us, "any questions?"

We were silent, casually looking at each other with a raw newness that felt distant. We all knew the score now, all knew who hated who and who suspected who of doing what.

"With this in motion, I am beyond confident that a month from now, Bram will finally face the righteous justice that he has evaded for all these years. We mustn't let our conviction waiver. We must stand strong, we must stand together so that when that day finally arrives, all of Hell will sing out in celebration to the glorious death of our oppressor. Sic Semper Tyrannis."

We all echoed that tagline with a sober communion, void of pomp and muster. It felt like condolences for the bereaved. Malik was shaking and I saw Nim tenderly take him under her broad arm and walked him out, giving the others a wide breadth. Alenka talked to Flo as Molidan and Lydia avoided eye contact with each other. After they all trickled out, only Durin remained, himself taking leave in the form of extracting a fat cigar from his tac-vest and lighting it up. Durin looked over to Rom, who was still out cold.

"Mean hook, that one."

"Fuck you," I said, "Think any of that shit was fucking necessary?"

"Oswald…" said Ornthir. I wanted to kill Durin, wanted to thrust my first flush through his face, through his skull and drive his body down through the dense concrete he stood on. If there wasn't any doubt in any of our convictions, Durin's little stunt brought to light all of the ugly things we withheld in contemptuous silence that I thought were nonexistent. It was a frightening confirmation that our band of unified rebels was something less, was something that, after Durin's action, began to show its first fallible signs of stress, of wear.

"If you got something to say, Golipski, say it." said Durin, "Don't think we've got time to pussyfoot around."

I felt Ornthir's eyes on me, the waiting judgment patiently standing by, the caliber of reprimand contingent on what I would say. I felt like if I gritted my teeth any harder, they'd shatter.

"The only thing separating union and dissension is action, Durin. Choose. More. Wisely."

He took a drag as if my words were a faint wind that passed by him, "That all?"

"Yes," said Ornthir, glaring at me, "that is. I believe you have something to tell us?"

"Didn't snitch if that's what you're askin'. Stayed behind just 'cuz I wanted to see who'd pick the poor bastard up.."

There was a small ebbing of scorn in his eyes giving way to an almost callous sympathy, something like a distant pity.

"I'll bring him home," stated Ornthir, "you needn't worry."

"I don't think it's me you gotta worry about," he said, "I think our plate's getting mighty full and I ain't sure some of us got the stomach for what's comin'."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm in this, Elias, in this to the bloody fuckin' end, I'll gladly kill the whole royal fuckin' family if you want me to, but I don't think the others share our convictions," he took a drag, "We need 'em in line, Elias, need 'em ready to win."

"You think they aren't."

"Seein' as we're working with a traitor, yeah, I think one of us ain't got what it takes; and I ain't puttin' my life on the line with someone who ain't willin' to chew the grit."

"Are you refusing my orders?"

He took another drag, thinking, sending his venomous eyes over to me before looking back to Ornthir, "Nah," he purred, "just sayin' that if push comes to shove and you want 'em dealt with before the big day, know that I would be more than willin' to put 'em in the dirt."

"Noted."

Durin smiled and gave a small acknowledging nod, "Alright then."

"And for the record, Oz," said Durin, "I ain't tryin' to fuck us up, I'm tryin' to keep us together."

"Dismissed, Ieshia."

He gave Ornthir a weighted look at the mention of his last name before taking another drag and leaving. He let the dense steel door close behind him and his steps echoed through the basement until they faded under the small murmuring of the vacant looming silence of that old, old cannery. Ornthir took a breath, exhaling as if with relief.

"You can leave, Oswald," he said, "You don't need to be present."

"Would you prefer it if I was here?" I asked.

"No," he replied, rubbing his forehead, "I want whoever talked to feel safe, Lords know they need it. I'll be fine."

I somehow doubted that. Not that whoever betrayed us needed a space in which to feel safe or that Ornthir would be taken advantage of in some fatal encounter with them, but that he would be okay. I could see the wear in his eyes, in his tired face, shit, I felt like I looked as bad as he did at that moment. I had expected the path of sedition to be a difficult one, that the road less traveled would be a grueling and arduous fight, yet I also believed that such tribulations were to be solely against external threats. The notion of internal schism was as preposterous a thought as defeat, yet I found myself before my leader in the wake of what I had deemed as an impossible contrary. I did not expect that the once perceived invulnerability of our bond would become compromised, that our pure and isolated solidarity was susceptible to the common slings and arrows of doubt and deception.

Yet as I write this I can see now the many errors in which I had possessed in my unwavering belief. We were a crew, an ensemble of men and women that united under a banner of commonality, of undivided agreement whose conception was living proof of the seemingly inconceivable notion of a solidified, perfect union. Yet there was a reason why we were buried under the fresh sod of the earth, why it seemed like heaven was as far away from us as the dusty ends of the universe. It was because we deserved each other, that the errant ways of our living were subject to the recurrent habits of our own self destruction. Hell was for the defeatists, for the cynical non-believers that were the wardens of their own self imposed prisons. It didn't matter how unified we were, it didn't matter how zealously we believed in anything outside of ourselves because the mechanisms of our hearts were broken. Because we were broken. A pile of shattered glass is not the sum of its parts, but the discordant gathering of a million inharmonious things, and with this revelation I find myself looking back as though what befell Hell that night was not at all a surprise, but rather the culmination of months of unspoken protests and grievances that metastasized into Durin's pivotal display.

I decided to leave Ornthir, walking out to the hydrocarbon and ozone stink of the city that clung onto the salted wind that carried the odor of wood rot and oil across The Bends. I found myself aimlessly driving around Imp City, despite the impending shock of a terrorist attack that could occur at any given spot. I didn't care, in fact I had found myself not caring about a wide number of things as I drove around. It was a quarter past one, and the rust iron sky hummed with the trailing sounds of traffic and heat pumps. I took The Machiavelli Loop into Little Wrath, that small pocket backwater nestled underneath the Paimon Bridge. It was always full of music, of Podunk melodies and twangy rhythms that seemed to echo down each and every block, the streets covered with a thickening film of dirt and sand. It was a tradition, I heard, for new arrivals to bring two pouches of earth with them to the city. It had to be from their home, from the familiar sands of their birthplace, and upon moving in, they would cast the contents of one into the misshapen concrete streets outside of their new home as a means of joining the community. It was usually paired with a communal gathering that would fill the streets with the smell of smoked hell hog, spiced gumbo and whiskey. The other bag they would keep inside, placed centrally in a shrine populated with items that kept them connected to Wrath. Most also wore a locket or some kind of personal keepsake close to them, a small portion of that very same sand kept tucked away and dear to their heart.

No other imps in the city did such a ludicrous ritual and in fact most Imp City residents saw the neighboring Little Wrath as nothing more than a cult commune, but they were happy there. Underneath the choking shadows of the surrounding city, sequestered to sixteen crowded blocks with rent and utilities doubling what felt like every week, they still found a way to leave their apartments with not a smile, but with an emanating disposition that gave even an outsider pause as they thought about the city. Out of my infrequent, estranged trips around Pentagram City, I always found myself coming back to Little Wrath, that space only a neighborhood over from where I lived. It was there, among the decorative cattle skulls and lopsided wooden fences, that existed some elusive, living machination that whined like a faint, distant howl, like some unheard question submitted to the immeasurable night that sunk into the trees like a memory.

I parked at the end of a three-way junction across from Satan Street, the main drag bordering the Lilith River. Most of the roads were off limits to cars outside of an established motor vehicle corridor to sate the infrastructure bureau. Most residents walked and some even strolled around atop calm and fiery steeds. Satan Street was for the tourists, but not in a pandering way. It did not go out of its way to attract the curious, whimsical appetites of those who visited, but rather drew them in with an almost incorruptible authenticity that only fed into the street's peculiarity. No local complained, if anything it was a comfort to them to know that they were generating a sizable profit off of the humble creations of those many food venders, mariners and tanners that occupied both the street and the nearby storefronts.

I was across the street from a restaurant nestled on the corner of Satan and Cassidy. It was a quiet, refined establishment with glossy wide paned windows revealing the spartan happenings within. I did not see hoedown dressed waiters parading around fat dishes of smoked brisket or fried chicken, but rather ensconced individuals who were the sole occupant of the many booths that lined the smoky windows. Most were stone faced male imps, smoking and periodically taking to a tumbler glass filled with some kind of brown liquor. I saw a few women there too, who themselves looked at ease as they partook in the same ritual, savoring the drink as if contained within those few burning seconds were the ever fading answers to the common plagues of their uneven lives. But no answer came. Epiphany, it seemed, was always one drop too far away.

There was one man who gazed aside out the window, toward the yawning street before him, down the path that I myself was parked in front of. He had a delicate stubbled jawline and an effeminate, lithe facial structure complemented by a slender neck that led down to a petite and confident frame with an almost concealed bulge at the bodice. He was the only one that didn't have horns; the flat, smooth plateaus hidden under a tight crew cut. There was a searching look in his eyes, not out of paranoia or acute awareness, but out of a pensive searching, as if there was some creeping revelation edging towards the discernable border of recognition if only he looked for longer. I kept my eyes on him, intrigued and uncertain if what he was staring at was me or some other engaging event or item just outside of my sight. I wondered if he could see me, if he knew, to some uncaring degree, that I was observing him as he nursed a thin cigarette with full, supple lips.

I watched them, those quiet, lonesome shadows recessed in their vinyl confessionals, until I felt my phone vibrate. Ornthir was done and wanted to debrief me back at the safehouse. When I looked back at that gazing man, I saw that some matter relating to his phone had prompted him to rise from his seat and take to the foggy innards of the restaurant. I didn't see him leave out the front door, and as I watched the edge tip of his tail fade into the dim interior, I was left alone to the calm rouge neon of the building's exterior, the curvy lettering spelling out 'Atillia's' dressing the sandy streets in a thin, glistening, amorous haze of red.

I took a more direct route, hopping onto the Baal Highway straight to The Bends' forgotten docks. When I got back to the safehouse, it was five past four. I remember feeling a bitter pressure in the air, as if some grand invisible hand took the atmosphere around the city and, centering it on the ramshackle cannery, pressed down with an overbearing weight enough where I thought I could see cracks buckle on the old concrete. It was quieter than usual as I walked down the echoing emptiness of the basement, and as my footsteps talked in vain to the unresponsive silence, I began thinking about Ornthir's family, about Zora and Isaac.

I wondered about them, about what they were doing at that very moment knowing that whatever transpired that evening would mark in his personal history a definitive and irreversible moment in his life. I was confident that Ornthir would be able to bear the varying consequences for his actions, even if it meant death, but what gave me pause was wondering if his family would be able to do the same. I knew Zora well, mainly because she shared many of the same indominable qualities of my mother, but I also knew that she, much like the rest of us, was fallible to the dulcet song of love. The same went for his kid, who saw Ornthir as his own personal god. They loved him on a scale that empowered them through even the most impossible of hardships, but it was because of their unshakable unity and togetherness that they were able to persevere where even I would falter. Yet such dedication was still subject to an obliterating loophole. It was their physical bond that kept them as a whole, corporal unit; that through his constant, tangible presence were they reminded that heaven was a place in the eyes of those who you love. Yet if that was taken away, if Ornthir or any of them died, that crucial pillar would be lost forever, and their whole structure would be put into jeopardy much like what happened to my own family.

But I knew I couldn't convince him to stop, knew that we were too far down our path to look for a better alternative. The plan was in motion and no amount of tangential thinking could halt the thundering momentum that we had already built up. If anyone had to worry about his family, it was him, and knowing how good of a father and husband he was, I felt alleviated of any anxiety when it came to his relationship with his family. I knew his ability, knew of his capacities as a leader and of his steadfast determination to take care of those he held dear. I felt a flush swelling in my chest that was close to valor, close to that bright and thankful look in a civilian's eyes when words fail at describing their gratitude. I felt like I was done worrying, that Bram was as good as dead, that a new era existed beyond that riveted steel door leading into the supervisor's office, and when I turned that knob to enter, I felt an assured stability.

The blinds to the window behind the desk were up as Ornthir stood aside with a lit cigarette. He was gazing out of it, taking in the towering skyline of the city across the river. It was wider here, the river, and our distance to the city was farther than most safehouses. Even still, the reaching fingertips of the skyscrapers' shadows clawed at the docks, some even getting further back towards the other dockside warehouses. A rouge strip of shadow laid across the desk and from where I was standing I could see that it may have been from the tall looming obelisk of The Extermination Clocktower. It was quiet in there, the only sounds coming from the passing currents of the placid river outside, its babbling murmurs gently trickling through the slightly cracked window. His tail twitched as the door clicked closed, but he paid me no mind. I could see the bags under his eyes, newly puffy, as he took a deep drag.

"'And with thundering retribution God rained down his wrath on Lucifer," he said, '"casting him down into that yawning chasm known as Hell. Yet when he did, no siren song of victory escaped the archangels mouth nor did any freedom cry let slip from any of the horns of the angels. When Lucifer fell, the angels wept, knowing that they had defeated a brother.'"

"It's a good read. Ardeathanial, page 213."

"Your mothers favorite book."

I nodded.

"How is she?"

"Doing as good as she can do."

"Have you visited her?"

"Yeah," I lied, "was with her before you messaged me."

"Good," he said vacantly, "that's good…"

"Have you talked to Zora?"

"Hm?"

"...your wife."

"What about her?" he asked quickly

"Have you talked to her?"

"No," he sighed, "I haven't. She's fine, Oz…she's fine."

"So where's it going to happen?"

He took a deep breath and dug into his pocket and took his phone out, placing it on the far side of the desk, towards me. The slice of shadow bisecting the old wood loomed next to it, creeping toward it inch by ravenous inch. I saw the location and that The Sodomites accepted our terms. I recognized the number.

It was Malik.