Chapter 3: Archetype

The estate was quiet. The servants silently set about their work, careful not to make too much noise lest they rouse the predatory instincts of their masters. Keeping silent was an impressive feat, considering their masters' strigiform heritage, as was the quality of their service. The staff worked to the clock, ensuring that their masters' needs were seen to before the need arose.

Octavia's eyes slowly opened, the light filtering through her window was golden and soft, unlike the harsh red glow outside. This was imported morning sunlight from over a scenic mountain range on earth, the Alps, to be precise, though she neither knew nor cared.

She smacked her lips and reached out, eyes still bleary and unseeing, grabbing a cup of clear, cool water that had been placed on her bed-stand some twenty minutes earlier. She shuffled out of bed, feet sliding into a pair of perfectly placed slippers as she sipped the water. She put on her robe and made her way to her beauty station, her make-up at the ready and her ensemble for that day already assembled. Her mother insisted that she have an aesthetician to coordinate their outfits. For a while, she'd rebelled, disregarding their choices and selecting the most incongruous get-ups to her parent's meticulous style.

After a while, though, her aesthetician surprised her with an ensemble that was tasteful and stylish but also clashed with her parent's fashion. Octavia suspected her parents had no idea this servant was helping her subvert their image, and so elected to adopt the style as her own. Besides, the punishment for such impudence was no doubt worse than death. She'd never met this person, but all the same didn't want anything to happen to them. Besides, she got to look good while sticking it to her mother, win-win.

She slipped on her clothes and went about doing her make-up, a simple base with dark eyeliner, and popped on her toque, the gilded tiara inlaid on it glowing with a royal seal. She got up and set out for her father's office, she had some time to kill and knew who she wanted to kill it with.

Staff scurried to and fro as she made her way down the hall, ensuring that everything was in its proper place while the Prince was indisposed with business. Her Highness did not like to see her servants, but enjoyed the fruits of their labor. Octavia held out her hand and a mug of hot black coffee was placed in it by a maid as she ran by with an armful of laundry.

"Thank you, Merriam," Octavia said, looking up from her Hellphone to smile.

Her mother hated when she treated the staff like people.

She flicked through her instagram, watching with wry amusement at the absurdities her social circle got up to the past few hours. She was hesitant to call any of them 'friends', hangers-on, parasites maybe, sycophants definitely, and a whole host of other words her father would gleefully deem 'impish'. Still, she was forced to associate with them because, well, she was an aristocrat and so were they, no matter how vapid or cruel she found them. Because if she didn't, if she hung out with people she actually liked, her mother and father both would get on her case. She could count one hand the number of people she felt she could confide in without fear judgement. One such creature awaited on the other side of the door

"Hey, Moonie," she said, barging into the office. "How're you–"

Blitzo sat on the secretary's deck, the look on his face that of a cat in a goldfish bowl. Fittingly, under his arm, in a headlock with the imp's knuckles grinding into his scalp, was Moonchild, her father's secretary, his eyes wide and pleading.

"Oh! Li'l Owlet!" The gurning imp crooned. "Can I just say you're looking–"

"Let him go, Blitzo," she commanded, her voice flat but strong.

"Right, right…" Blitzo said, releasing Moonchild. "It's no fun, anyway. Like fucking a dead fish."

"Out."

Blitzo jabbed his thumb over his should, at her father's office. "Hey, c'mon, I'm here to–"

"I said, 'out'!"

Blitzo grinned and hopped off the desk, dusting his claws on his lapel. "Look, tits, if your father wants me here, you're just gonna have to–"

"Either you leave now, or I remove why you're here! Manually." Octavia flexed her talons, eyes glowing. "It'd take, what, few weeks to grow back? Just in time for the next full moon!"

Blitzo flinched back before regaining his composure. "Well, shucks, kid. Ya done convinced me. Later!"

He strutted out, turning around to grin and wave goodbye to Moonchild, who was rubbing his neck, his expression annoyed. "'Till next time, Moonie!"

Moonchild muttered something under his breath as the door swung shut, looking up at her, a sad smile on his pretty face. "Thank you, Highness."

She smiled, just something about this dork could always make her smile. "Why do you let him pick on you like that?"

"Oh, he wasn't picking on me!" He waved her off, his furrowed brow betraying his true feelings. "I just made a passing comment about his business and he, uh, took exception. Really, I shouldn't have been so flippant!"

"What did you say?"

"I asked if I.M.P. stood for 'Idiots, Morons, and Pinheads'."

Octavia smirked and chuckled. "It may as well. I have no idea what dad sees in him."

Moonchild smiled back, waving his hand in front of his face. "It's not his hygiene, I can tell you that much!"

She rested her chin on her palm and looked at him: how did this poor little thing wind up down here? He'd been in her father's service coming up on 20 years now, forever his pretty, decorative secretary. Just as well, he wouldn't have lasted ten seconds out there before getting snapped up by some pimp or sadist.

She'd only taken interest in him recently, a few years ago, when she'd gotten into her thankfully brief 'boyband' phase, she took notice of the effete demon lad that handled her father's mail and schedule. Her infatuation evaporated when she learned what a helpless creature he was, but she still found him a pleasant, friendly, and genuine person to talk to. She'd even call him her 'friend', inasmuch that she trusted him not to talk behind her back or repeat what she told him to her friends and mother.

Is that what a friend was?

"What are you even doing here, Moonie?" She thought, aloud.

"Uh, my job?" He reached over and picked up a large box, something passed behind his eyes for an instant and he tossed the box over his shoulder, into the chute labeled 'feces'.

Oh, well. In for a penny.

"No, I mean, why are you here?"

He looked at her, his big fuchsia eyes uncomprehending. "Here? Did I never tell you? Oh! Well, it's a funny story. I was fresh in Hell and was, well, hiding most of the time. One day I found a wallet. It was bursting with cash but I used my ability to track down your father and return it to him."

Octavia blinked, baffled: her father would have skinned someone alive for such obvious toadying. "…And?"

"And he picked me up and took me home," Moonchild said, matter-of-factly. "I've been working for your father ever since."

Octavia pictured her father, a Prince of Hell itself, standing agog at this tiny newborn demon holding out his unmolested wallet, bursting with bills, an utterly stupefied look on his face. Then, when everyone around expected him to petrify the presumed asslicker on the spot, he plucks the offending critter up like a lost kitten and takes him home!

She couldn't help herself, she clapped her hand to her face and laughed. Moonchild cocked his head to the side as her laughter tapered off, was it something he said?

"Ahh… thanks, Moonie, I needed that," said Octavia, flicking away a tear as she hopped up onto his desk, fiddling with the pile of mail there. "So, what's on the schedule today?"

"After I sort through the mail, I'll be making calls and composing emails to schedule meetings and collaborations. Then I'll be revising the schedule and–Octavia, don't touch that!"

Octavia looked at the long, rectangular box in her hands, a wry smile on her face. "Why? Is it a bomb?"

She shook the box side to side, up and down, grinning. A low, steady buzz emanated from the box as it began to jitter and jump about in her hands. Octavia squawked in surprise and dropped it like it was red hot, leaving the box to vibrate across the desktop, buzzing like a hive of hornets.

"Holy shit!" She exclaimed, hiding behind Moonchild. "Is it actually a bomb?!"

"No…" Moonchild said, somewhat distressed. "That would be your father's new 'action figure'."

Octavia opened her mouth to inquire when the revelation his, her red eyes snapping open as a rictus of disgust spread across her face. "Oh, my God."

"Sorry."

She shuddered and shook her head. "Well! I'm off to go drink away that mental image. See you around, Moonie."

"See you around, Octavia," Moonchild said, tossing the buzzing box down a chute labeled 'goodies'. "Have a good day."

Moonchild hummed to himself as he managed Stolas' schedule. He was presently taking a call from a corrupt holy man, an imam or a preacher or rabbi or something. Denomination honestly didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, the man was surely damned. It was to discuss the potential placement of a natural disaster later in the month, the shister wanted to drop a nice, relevant passage from his holy book just before the disaster, and to have some eloquent words at the ready to console the bereaved and impress his congregation. The exchange for this favor was the souls of a handful of his followers. Directly after was a conference call with a few overlords and Earl Raum to oversee the signing of peace treaties between the feuding demons. And after that–

"Good afternoon," said a deep, steady voice. "I'm here for an appointment."

Moonchild jumped and looked up to see a demon towering over him. When had he come in? Had Moonchild been so caught up in his work he hadn't heard him enter? He was tall, perhaps eight feet at the eyes, and nine at the many points of the black crown resting atop his head, his silver, triangular pupils locking with his. He was clad head to toe in a blasphemous mockery of a priest's robes, his white clerical collar studded with spikes and bearing dog tags reading 'Trouble'.

"Oh? I don't see you on the schedule, sir," said Moonchild, checking screen. "Maybe there's been a mix-up?"

"I should think this meeting will not appear on any paperwork, little one." He smiled, something in it made Moonchild's hackle rise. "I assure you, your lord is expecting me. You will ring me in?"

"Sir, I can't just–"

He reached out with a bare, pale hand, his striated flesh corpse-white and peppered with countless brands reading G∆CT. The tips of his fingers streaked by Moonchild's cheek, sending a jolt through his body. The fish-demon's eyes went wide and distant, his body fell back limply in his chair. Four lines formed on Moonchild's face with a low, hissing snap, forming narrow slots. A whirring sound announced the extrusion of four shiny, silver discs from the slots. Two of which slipped free between the demon's fingers

"Hm?" Trouble cocked his head to the side, running his fingers over the jammed discs. "Four? There's more to you than meets the eye, little secretary…"

He angled Moonchild's limp head up and examined the discs. "Jammed beyond even my ability to extract, but not gone. Fascinating. Not even I knew such a thing was possible. The strings of fate hold you together, and its gravity draws on you more strongly than others, just barely held at bay by tremendous power. Perhaps it is to everyone's benefit you never play the full album, little secretary."

Trouble slipped the extracted pair back into their slots and left the catatonic demon in his chair, discs glinting in the hard fluorescent light of the office. The hellish priest walked through the wall as though it weren't there, phasing through the carved wood and plaster, and stepped into the adjoining room.

Stolas sat behind his desk, his back to the room, in the air a small glowing portal, a human face peering out from the mortal world.

The bearded face paled, his mouth working before he said. "My Lord, w-who is this?"

Stolas' head swiveled about, a look of exasperation spreading across his white face, all four red eyes flashing and narrowing. "Oh, for… knock, like a normal person!"

"We need to talk."

"Yes, yes, in a minute!" He turned back to the human, making a shooing gesture over his shoulder. "Never mind him, he's–"

Trouble grabbed one of the ball bearings from the Newton's Cradle on the Prince's desk. With a flick of the thumb, the half-inch steel ball shattered the sound barrier as it streaked over the Prince's shoulder. The projectile cratered the human's face and punched clean through, smashing a hole the size of a fist in the wall behind him. The shockwave tore through his frail body, his head exploding in a squall of pulverized gore, splattering the surroundings.

Stolas sighed and pinched between his eyes with one hand, closing the portal with another. He spun his chair around and knit his fingers together, scowling. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes."

Stolas leaned back and shook his head, offering a curt beckoning gesture. "Well? What is it? What could possibly be so important you'd risk being seen coming to my office, to my estate, and interrupt my business?"

"Duke Sallos is investigating me."

Stolas' eyes snapped open wide. "Ah."

"I presently have several duplicates conducting my business elsewhere at this very moment. If anyone did see me arrive here, they may well presume it's a red herring."

Stolas leaned forward, slowly getting to his feet. "Unless."

Trouble clasped his hands behind his back, walking over to the window, its blinds closed. "Unless he has reason to investigate you, too. Or, perhaps, he was already doing so when this happened."

"I see. Because I lent the book to the imp, you think Sallos would have me under investigation?" Stolas crept up behind the demon, talons flexing. "And now that you've pulled off your heist, that would implicate me, in his eyes, in your asinine little scheme."

"An unreasonable conjecture?"

"Not at all," sighed Stolas, relaxing his claws. "What do you need?"

"From you? Nothing. For now. They will suspect you, but you are one of them, and decorum will be observed." Trouble made his way to the exit. "I merely wanted to warn you, as a courtesy. All that transpires from here on out is only possible thanks to you. This will not be forgotten."

"Get out."

Trouble nodded and headed for the wall to make good his exit, arms crossed behind his back.

"Oh, and Trouble?" Stolas said, smiling.

He turned around to face the Prince. "Yes?"

"Die."

The Prince's four eyes snapped open with a piercing wail, waves of medusa-energy surging out in a single blast. The priest didn't so much as flinch, petrified in an instant. Prince Stolas strolled over and casually snapped the head off the statue, crushing it to dust in his grasp. He opened his fist, among the pulverized stone was a pair of discs, the word 'COPY' embossed on their silvery surfaces.

"Filth."

With a gesture he summoned a portal underneath the headless statue, dropping it into the abyssal maw of a supermassive black hole. He disposed of the discs in a similar manner and closed the portal, dusting off his hands. Stolas exited the office and saw Moonchild slumped in his chair, eyes staring off into the distance as the discs in his face slowly retracted with a mechanical whir. Stolas cocked his head, a small smile on his face; he was familiar with Trouble's ludicrous powers, and one slot typically signified a soul while a second one would be that person's supernatural ability.

"Four? My dear Moonie, you continue to impress me."

Moonchild's eyes focused as the discs retracted and the slots closed up, he saw Stolas and nearly leapt out of his chair. "M-My Lord! I'm sorry, I must have dozed off! There is, er, was a demon here asking to see you. I suppose he left, but I–"

Stolas silenced him with a talon on his lips, smiling gently. "Very good, Moonie. Could you please go tell my chauffeur to prep the limo. Some pressing business just came up and I simply must get underway as soon as possible."

"Yes, My Lord!" Moonchild said, shooting to his feet. "Right away!"

The eager little demon picked up the phone and began to get the ball rolling, Stolas made his way out the door, his leisurely pace betraying nothing of the building anxiety within him. Decorum would be observed, of course, but it's not every day the Saint's Corpse falls into demon hands. Even Lucifer must have noticed that! There would be consequences, dire consequences, he would need to take measures and soon if his family was going to survive.

"This is bullshit!" Angel Dust exclaimed, arms flailing. "How come fuckin' Seafood gets ta work and I don't?"

"Because he works as a secretary," Vaggie said, her voice flat. "And you work as a prostitute. One is more conducive to rehab than the other."

"Oh, please! Like the Owl actually needs a secretary! Didja see those dick suckin' lips? I betcha Rainbow can slurp a horse through a sippy straw!" Angel turned to Charlie, his voice pleading. "Please, Chuck? I'm goin' stir-crazy in here!"

"Angel, we've discussed this, you can't go out without a sponsor," said Charlie, hoisting a quartet of boxes onto the table. "Here, if you're bored, I got some new Legos to play with."

Angel picked up one of the boxes, his lips fleering from his fangs in disgust. "Chuck, these are Mega Bloks."

"What's the difference?"

"I-I'm just gonna…" Angel, said, his voice brittle as he massaged his temples, his eye twitching. "I'm just gonna go."

Angel Dust stormed out of the room. Charlie chuckled and shook her head heads turned as the door opened, in walked Moonchild, a tired look on his face and a banana peel on his shoulder. He looked up and saw them, forcing a smile and waving.

"Oh, hello!" He said, making his way into the lobby. "Boy, long day at work today."

"Key-ripes! That smell!" Husk growled, flapping his wing to ward away the offending odor. "You jump in a dumpster or something, kid?"

"Huh?"

Charlie pointed at her shoulder and then to him, an apologetic look on her face. "You got a, uh, on your shoulder?"

Moonchild looked over at his shoulder, jolting when he saw the slimy banana peel, an embarrassed flush forming in his cheeks. "Oh! Oh my. There were some gangsters and I, uh, I had to hide."

"In a fuckin' dumpster?" Husk shook his head.

"Under some garbage bags, actually." He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. "Happens every day! Guess I'm used to it."

"Everyday?" Vaggie inquired, eyebrow raised. "Ever thought of, I dunno, taking a different route to work?"

"Well, I'm glad you're okay, Moonchild," Charlie said, flicking the peel off his shoulder, her nose curling. "Ugh… so, once you've had a shower, I'd like you to meet us in the rec room for our first support group session. Y'know, get to know one another."

Moonchild perked up at this. "Oh, okay! Anything I need to bring?"

"Just yourself and a can-do attitude!" Charlie said, clapping him on the back. "We're just happy to have you here! Right, everyone?"

"Woo," said Vaggie, not looking up from the administration charts she was studying.

"Over the fuckin' moon," Husk said, his tone flat.

Ah, well, thank you all so much," Moonchild said, bowing slightly. "I've never been anyplace where I've felt so welc–"

Fast encroaching, machinegun-rapid footfalls announced the arrival of a feral, snarling Niffty. "I SMELL FILTH! WHERE IS IT? WHERE?!"

The tiny, frothing cyclops locked a glowing monocular glare on Moonchild, two additional sets of arms sprouting from her back, talons flexing. "Suffer not the unclean to live."

She launched herself through the air, her maw a gnashing horror of fangs and froth beneath a glowing, fiery eye. Moonchild squeaked and flinched, arms raised over his head.

"Whoop!" Charlie stepped in and plucked the little bundle of talons and fury out of the air, tucking her under her arm like luggage. "Oh, Niffty, you character! Ha ha! But yeah, you'll probably want to get in that shower sooner than later!"

"Y-yeah, I'll get right on that!" Moonchild said, beating a hasty retreat to his room. "Sorry, Mrs. Niffty!"

Charlie stood and watched until he turned a corner, sighing deeply and shaking her head.

"Pfff!" Husk spat, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Fishboy needs to untuck it. Act like a man!"

"Husk!" Charlie exclaimed, absentmindedly ducking a talon from the hissing, spitting demoness in her arms.

"He's got a point, Charlie," said Vaggie, handing Charlie a binder clip from her desk. "Hiding in garbage every day? The guy has fucking future vision! No one down here is that soft."

Charlie took the binder clip. "He's not soft!"

"I could spread him on a cracker and serve him with caviar," Husk growled. "The kid's ten-ply! And if he ain't, then he's workin' real hard to seem like he is! Either way, he's hidin' somethin', and that's never a good start."

"That's just it," said Charlie, fastening the binder clip to the back of Niffty's neck, the little demon went limp, her pupil dilating to the size of a small plate. "I don't think he is, at least not consciously. I'll just have to pick his brain some in the support group meeting."

"Get him to let out some of that venom he's holdin' on to," said Husk, pointing to his eye. "It's all in the eyes, Chuck. You get a man on the ropes in a twelve hour game with a deep pot, you see it start to bubble up; that kid's been holdin' it in so long it's drippin' out his pores! There's such a thing as bein' too nice, especially when it's all you let yourself be."

"Yeah…"

Charlie sat Niffty down on the couch and turned on the TV to the housework channel. She sat down next to her and removed the binder clip, Niffty blinked, her eye darting around before locking onto the screen, her extra arms receding back into her body as she watched an elderly demoness knit a quilt.

"Oooh… what exquisite stitching!" Niffty sighed, weaving her fingers together. "And the patterns! Oh! Charlie! We absolutely have to have a knitting session sometime, as part of the therapy or whatever!"

Charlie said something that might have been an agreement, her soft voice lost lost to the ears just down the hall, around the corner. Moonchild sighed, his eyes distant and deeply set in his pale face, his shoulders sloped forward as though under tremendous weight. He set off down the hall to his room.

The water was warm, a blessing in Hell, and the fact it didn't alternate between scalding and liquid ice at random intervals was nothing short of a miracle. Moonchild leaned forward as the water ran in rivulets off his taut, lean body. He sighed as he watched the suds circle the drain, eyes locked on the grate, peering deep into the black void as it bottomlessly swallowed the filthy water. His brow furrowed and he squeezed his eyes shut, his fist slamming into the porcelain tile with a dull 'thud'. He turned the handle on the faucet far into the red, steam began to fill the shower.

'You really must learn to stand up for yourself, Moonie.'

He grit his teeth, letting the hot water spill over him, smarting on his many partially healed stitches.

'Why do you let him pick on you like that?'

"Why?" He pounded his fist against the tiles again, painfully, hot tears mixing with the water. "Why?!"

'I should like to see it on the floor of my boudoir once your shift is done, understood?'

"Please, no…" He sobbed. "No more…"

'Wouldja lookit that? The one that got away!'

He bit his lip, blood dribbling down his chin. "Leave me alone…"

'Till next time, Moonie!'

"Don't touch me… ever again," he growled, grasping the solid steel handrail. "Never again!"

'Get him to let out some of that venom he's holdin' on to.'

"Why not?" He bared his teeth, opening his eyes, glaring at his reflection in the chrome faucet handle. "Why not!"

'There's such a thing as bein' too nice…' He looked inward, to that place, that void, to the place in his soul that had been empty all these long, hard years. That black, inky shadow in the corner, almost solid in its darkness. 'Especially when it's all you let yourself be.'

He reached in, into that darkness, that place he'd been afraid to look. Memories flashed. The cruel, predatory look on Her Highness' face, her bloody talons, her crushing grip. The toothy maws of the cannibals, the hungry, hateful gleam in their eyes. That imp, mocking, crude, his wretched paws grasping at him, his foul musk filling the air as he restrained him. Touching him.

Something inside him lurched like a rising gorge, rushing to the top, threatening to bubble over and spill out. With it came feral panic, rage, terror, fury, a desperate, clamoring need that not so much spoke as it demanded, commanded.

'Outoutoutout got to get out! Out! Out! Got to–'

Then, it shifted. He could feel it notice, notice him, look through him, look out of him.

'Got to… got to get in…'

It flooded into him, filling him, clawing and scrabbling as it subsumed him, pushing him out of the way, dragging him under the surface, under that blackness it so desperately sought to escape. Its thoughts were now more cogent, more purposeful, and suffused with a hideously familiar strength and will.

'–In! Let me in! Let me in!' It commanded. 'Let me in!'

He opened his mouth and another, familiar voice came out, deep and roaring: "Let me in, Doppio!"

Moonchild's eyes snapped open, the thing was sucked back down from whence it came like a piece of flotsam in a whirlpool, vanishing into the inky waters. He loosed a shrill, explosive gasp, his breath coming in ragged sobbing breaths. For a brief, terrible instant he saw his reflection in the chrome of the shower faucet, obscured by condensation and the uneven surface, but what he saw made his blood run cold in the hot shower.

That wasn't his face.

Those weren't his eyes.

It only lasted an instant, his features reset, became familiar, his eyes returning to their normal hue and not that cruel, hard green they had been. He gasped and panted, feeling as though he'd run a marathon, like he'd climbed a mountain, like–

He looked down at his hands and saw the metal handrail in his grasp, torn clean from the wall, warped and bent like a mangled twist-tie. Moonchild cried out and dropped the heavy rail like it was hot, whimpering as he noticed the obvious grooves his fingers had gouged into the solid stainless steel.

"Wh-what?"

Something flickered out the corner of his eye. He turned to look at the stark white bar of soap at it sat in the alcove, the suds on its surface slowly running off its slick surface. The soap blinked out of existence, in its place was a blocky, older-model cellphone. He jumped back when it loosed a shrill, bleating ring. He clapped his hands over his ears.

That sound, that horrible, insistent sound; grating, pleading, demanding. He couldn't stand it!

His hand snapped out and swatted the phone away, a bar of soap bouncing off the far corner of the stall. He tried to back away, but his feet slid out from under him, his rear bouncing painfully off the hard, wet tiles. Moonchild pulled his knees up to his chest and rolled onto his side, the scalding water peppering his body. He wept as the shower cascaded down on him, his tears washed away as his sobs were drowned out by the pattering water.