Chapter 24: Wholeness
Need-to-know information!
St. Anger = Risotto Nero
Blackbird = Ghiaccio
Aoxomoxoa = Prosciutto
Good Vibrations = Pesci
Thriller = Illuso
Playlist = Melone
Willin' = Formaggio
Truly = Gelato
Deeply = Sorbet
Octavia squeezed her eyes shut, tears pouring from them, staining the white silk encasing her head. She waited for the the brief pain of holy metal burning her flesh, the weight of the axe as it parsed bone and flesh, cleaving her head from her shoulders.
And waited.
And waited.
What was going on? Uncle Sally wouldn't draw this out any longer than he had to. She pulled herself out of her mind, taking in her surroundings. The room wasn't quiet, there were people there with her, breathing, moving, but not the clatter of guards armor, not the murmur of the crowd that had shown up, not even the low thrum of Uncle Sally's aura.
Wait.
No.
While not on her uncle's level, she could definitely sense that there were several powerful demons present.
"Get her up," said a voice to her left. "And take that bag off her head."
She gasped as hands fastened around her wrists and shoulders, hauling her away from the block and to her feet.
"There you go, Starlight," said a soothing, masculine voice. "Everything's okay, you're okay."
The sack was pulled from her head and she squinted at the light, looking around, utterly confused. Standing about her was a group of demons, six in total. Closest to her was a dryad demon and a tengu of some stripe, on their faces were looks of cautious relief.
"Hey, kid," the tengu said, smiling winsomely. "We cut it pretty fine, but we got you out of there. You're safe now, no one can get you while you're in the mirror world."
"What?" Octavia got to her feet, looking around the room: it was the same execution room she had walked into, only now it was empty save for her and, apparently, her saviors(?). "What happened? Mirror world? Who the fuck are you?!"
A tall, stoic-faced demon stepped forward, despite him being dressed like a jester, she could tell from the deference of the other eight that this one must have been the leader. "Princess, my name is St. Anger, leader of Il Nove. We have been hired by your father to keep you safe until the Decree expires. He anticipated Lucifer altering the Decree, so we've been sticking close to Sallos, waiting for the right time."
Octavia glanced around at them, trying to remember. "Il Nove…"
"Allow me to introduce the team. As stated before, I am St. Anger, leader of Il Nove. Here…" He gestured to a somewhat shorter demon to his left, he was cat-like in overall shape, but his body was covered head to toe in a glossy white armor or some manner of sealed exosuit, his face a pair of glowing eyes and a mouth floating in a swirling mass of silvery white gas behind a transparent faceplate. "Is my second-in-command, Blackbird."
Blackbird clicked his heels together and bowed, crossing his right arm across his chest and his left behind his back, as was considered the proper way to greet someone of nigh-peer rank. 'Presumptuous, arrogant, but versed in court etiquette?'
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, My Lady," said Blackbird, taking her hand in his and lightly touching her knuckles to his icy forehead.
"And here," St. Anger continued, pointing to the tengu and the dryad demon. "Are Thriller and Truly, my intelligence agency. Thriller is the one who pulled you out of there."
"Thanks for staying put, Starfire," Thriller said, winking. "It'd have been a real monkey wrench in our plan if you ran."
"Hello, sweetie," said Truly, extending his thorny, vine-like hand. "So pleased to finally–"
"That's right! I remember now! You used to be La Squadra!" Octavia's eyes flared as she brushed past Truly, jabbing a talon in St. Anger's face. "You used my father's grimoire to steal the Corpse! This whole mess is your fault! The investigation, the Decree, all of it!"
"Uh, technically…" A short rodent demon in a studded red jacket strolled over to them, a copy of the Legibus Ab Inferno appearing in his taloned hand, opening it. "Lessee lessee… ah! Here, page 1452, paragraph two, re: retribution and proxies. The hired party, upon completion of their contract to the satisfaction of the contractor, shall henceforth be freed from any and all accountability and reprisals in concordance with the Goods and Services Act of–"
"One more word out of you, rat," Octavia snarled, her eyes glowing. "And I'll swallow you whole."
The Rat Demon blinked, the book shrinking back down to infinitesimal size, a roguish smile spreading across his features. "Don't threaten me with a good time, babe!"
"Teenager, Willin'," St. Anger said, out the corner of his mouth. "Also, a princess."
Willin' blanched and shrank a few inches, slinking away. "I respect your boundaries, My Lady, excuse me…"
"Whatever! I don't care!" Octavia said, pointing to Thriller. "You! You were in my reflections, right? So this mirror world thing is your doing! Well, put me back where I was!"
"What?!" Truly exclaimed.
"Princess…" St. Anger said, his tone low and serious.
"Don't you see?! Sallos won't stop until the Decree is fulfilled and I'm dead, and I won't spend my life in hiding." She gestured at all of them, the room around them. "All of you, you're all as good as dead if you don't send me back right now!"
"Well, see kid, that's just the thing." Thriller waved his arm, creating a shimmering surface in the air. "We already did."
Octavia looked through the mirror-like portal and gasped; through it she could see Uncle Sallos, axe in hand, standing over the block. On it was a body, her body, her head in the hands of one of his soldiers. Octavia groaned in horror as she stepped back, her hand clasped over her beak as she shook her head.
"It's a body-double," said St. Anger, setting a hand on her shoulder. "A perfect replica of you, hand-crafted by our manufacturer, Playlist."
Tall, thin demon in a purple suit and a screen for a head stepped forward, his square red eyes locked onto her in an unmistakable leer. "My finest work! Usually, my skills skew towards nonliving materials, but I was more than willing to accept the challenge. Along with a team of my finest Juniors, I replicated your… exquisite body... millimeter by millimeter, cell-by-cell, right down to your DNA. And because it was achieved with my natural abilities and not some crass magic, no one will be able to tell the difference, or that the decoy was never alive to begin with! My genius knows no bounds!"
"Time will tell if it's good enough to fool even Lucifer," said St. Anger, crossing his arms.
"It will! It's perfect, I tell you, perfect!" Playlist slithered up next to recoiling Octavia, licking his lips. "It even has that cute little heart-shaped birthmark. You know the one, right above your–"
Playlist was immediately wrapped in vines and pulled away from the disgusted girl, the vines pooling together and forming the dryad-demon, Truly.
"Don't mind him, honey. He's just, uh, very proud of his work." He smiled apologetically, before taking the dress into his hand, feeling the fabric. "I have to say, I love this dress! It fits you so well, and the make-up, gorgeous!"
"This is a ceremonial execution gown," Octavia deadpanned, scowling at Truly. "It was meant to be the last dress I'd ever wear."
Truly paled and fidgeted, trying manfully to formulate a response, failing utterly.
"Whoa, check it!" Willin' called out. "Uncle Sally's up to something!"
Octavia turned back to the portal just in time to see her Uncle vaporize the assembled crowd in a flash of hideous power.
"Holy shit!" Thriller exclaimed. "Sallos just iced, like, every Overlord in PC Central!"
"It's free real estate," Blackbird chuckled, coldly, wringing his hands together.
"Silence!" St. Anger hissed, his voice low. "Everyone, dampen your auras… Lucifer's here."
A silence fell over the mirrored execution room, all eyes glued to the portal. Lucifer approached Sallos, looking to all the world like a sharply dressed toddler next to the hulking Duke, but not even the mirrored surface could contain the sheer malice of the figure, a black and red aura outlined the fallen angel. Even in the mirror world there was a precipitous drop in temperature. Lucifer regarded the Duke and his minions, the head in the soldier's hands, and handed over a little white card before bidding the terrified demon away.
"There, he's taken the bait," said St. Anger, a smile on his face. "Close the viewport. We're done here."
Thriller did and the others got up off their rears and made for the door, St. Anger beckoning her to follow. "Come on. We just have some loose ends to tie up and then we'll get you back to your father."
"What?" Octavia said, shaking her head. "No! Weren't you listening? If I duck this, I'll be on the run for the rest of my life! How long do you think that dummy is going to fool them?"
"Long enough to send the head to your father and satisfy the Decree," St. Anger said, cooly. "Once that happens, you can go back to living with your parents."
"Oh, right!" Octavia scoffed, rolling her eyes. "So, when I just show up again, alive, Lucifer will just–"
"Smile and laugh it off as an elaborate prank on his part, as though this was all part of the plan," interrupted Blackbird. "To do anything else would be tacit admission to being duped."
"A tall order for Pride Incarnate," Truly said, smirking. "I've researched his psychological profile extensively. If he re-issues the Decree on Stolas, demanding the same punishment for the same transgression, it would be him admitting to not only being fooled by our decoy, but to overseeing and approving said bungle. No, it's far more likely he'll pass it off publicly as a bit of theater, which would then behoove him to further distance himself from the whole business. Trust me, honey, Lucifer's pride is your best defense against Lucifer."
Octavia opened her mouth to reply when a silvery fishhook on a pink, fleshy line descended from the ceiling, bobbing and jerking between her and St. Anger. St. Anger reached out and took the line between his fingers, silently concentrating on it for a moment. "Excellent. I.M.P. is being escorted from their cell, likely heading to Soul Lathe #3. Good Vibrations, Aoxomoxoa, and Deeply are staying with them. Come on, let's head out."
"Was that a fucking fish hook?! What the fuck is going–" Octavia's eyes snapped open in realization, a look of tired resignation spreading across her features. "You guys are Stand users, aren't you?"
Willin' gestured to Playlist, more specifically his outfit, which consisted of a dark suit covered in circular patterns, much of the right side of which was missing, including the right sleeve and shoulder. "What was your first clue?"
"Hey!" Playlist exclaimed, affronted.
Octavia grumbled and followed after them as they left.
He stared at his hands, memories filling his mind, memories of hands that had killed, mauled, sculpted clay, performed magic tricks, held the hand of loved ones.
But the hands he remembered were not the ones he was looking at now, the hands he remembered were not his. Names came to him next. Doppio, Moonchild, Diavolo. Names that he remembered, names that were his, but no longer, their meaning now faded, lesser, someone else's meaning, someone else's name.
He flexed what were now his hands. These were his hands, not the ones he remembered.
Did he have a name?
He recalled, rolling back through the long lives of other people. Back and back until the thing wearing his body brought the pick-axe in its hands down on his father's skull.
No.
His hands.
His father.
'Solido! No, please! I–'
The last time anyone uttered his name aloud ever again.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, a terrible, gnawing guilt welling up within him.
His hands fastening around his mother's throat, squeezing, throttling.
His hands, setting the fires that would cleanse his identity.
His hands, digging up those blasted arrows!
His… his love. Donatella. A beautiful woman who loved beautiful things, who loved him, for some reason. Donatella, cara mia…
He couldn't allow it to hurt her, to kill her, he'd have stopped their (his) heart had it so much as tried. She died alone of illness, her love for him still strong in her heart.
'Donatella…' He thought, as hot tears poured down his cheeks. 'Oh, Donatella… the things I have done… Wherever you are, I can only pray you've moved on from this unworthy sinner.'
He looked down at those hands, his hands, that had wrought so much terror and pain. If only he'd been better, if only he'd been stronger, he could have stopped it all. If he'd kept himself, he could have lived a long, happy life with
(her)
What?
(Via)
Who? Who's Via?
Octavia.
Her.
Her sneering, snarky sense of humor. Her big, caring eyes. That sweet, lilting accent. Chewing on a talon without realizing it, a habit her mother and father both loathed–
Solido buckled, grasping his head as more and more memories flooded in. Safety, trust, she would never hurt him. Understanding, sympathy. Love. He loved her? Moonchild did, certainly, and she loved him back, enough to give herself over to her monstrous uncle. Sacrificing herself to save him, to save his friends. And now she was dead, because he had been too weak to save her…
No.
Moonchild had been too weak, too passive and repressed from decades of abuse. Diavolo, for all its bluster, had been too limited, too rigid in its worldview to use their shared power as anything but a blunt instrument. Only recently had both begun to scratch the surface of their potential.
But now, they were gone, subsumed within him, the full spectrum of their diametrically opposed perspectives and thought processes fused into one within him. Moonchild's love and compassion, his empathy and understanding. Diavolo's drive and aggression, its need for control and power. Both melded together in the crucible of his soul, the full potential of their abilities finally able to fully complement one another as they had always been destined. They might not have been able to save the woman he loved, but he could.
Solido's head snapped around to the box, white with crimson bands, the colors of Lucifer. That hideous little letter on it, its mocking, hateful words committed to paper in jaunty, playful cursive. His fuchsia eyes opened wide as his aura flared, the box was shredded to flaming confetti, revealing its contents: a white silk bag with a drawstring. He gingerly picked it up, shuddering as he felt the weight, her soft feathers, her beautiful face, within the bag. She was still warm. He felt his stomach lurch as tears welled up in his eyes.
No!
He could still save her!
He was everything those bickering fools were and, most importantly, weren't.
"Just focus on her…"
The flat, placid rendition of a face on his forehead opened its green, glowing eyes, his main eyes flaring to life as he drew on his powers. He adroitly undid the drawstring and held her out in front of him, a single red drop of blood dripped out, almost hitting the floor before it vanished. The world winked for an imperceptibly short span of time, standing before him was Octavia, her exquisitely made-up face placid and unmoving, her big red eyes half-lidded and distant. Solido smiled and sighed in relief. He did it!
"Via!" He cried, almost sobbing with relief. "Via, you're okay. I've got you."
Her feet set down on the tile and… buckled immediately. Solido swept in and caught her, his eyes wide. "Via?"
Octavia fell limp in his arms, he caught her head before it could loll back and hit the table. Solido supported her, desperately searching her face for anything, any sign of…
"But… but I saved you," he whispered, hoarsely. "You're here! I saved you! I-I-I–"
Her head nodded forward, her limber strigiform neck horrifyingly limp. Solido whimpered as he knelt down, easing her to the floor, stabilizing her, cradling her limp body in his arms. She was still warm but was getting unmistakably colder. He set her down on the floor, setting a delicate hand over her face, closing her eyes. Silently, he set her hands on her chest and kissed her tenderly, savoring her taste for the last time.
He stood up, not taking his eyes off her. 'She's so… beautiful.'
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
"No…" He whispered, shaking his head. "No. No, God, no... no, no, no, a̧̮͚̘̫̾hh͕̞̱̭̉ͅ…̵̤͎͈̼̰̝̈́ͦ
A̡͚̩͚̪̻͕̹͇̓̍̋̿͋ͦ͋ͬ͠Ȁ̵͓̞̭͓͚̮̮̲ͭ̎̈́̎̑́̚͜A̶̡̙̦̲ͧ́H̶̭̮̟̗̤̲̫̱͆̉ͭ͂̍̊H̷͙̜̲̹̦̥̎͜ͅH̸̡̻͚͚̱̬͓̓ͅH̆̇ͬ̍҉̺̲͉̩̖̘̼H̩̹̟̯̥͇̲̦ͩ̄ͮ̆͝͞H̩̹́̔̎ͥ̀ͯ͂͞H̥̮ͣͪ̐ͥ͋̂̉̈̿͘̕͞H̗͈̼̯͉̘̙̜̣̉̂͘!̢̗̳͙̗̭̤̮̤ͯ̐̔ͦͭ́̀
All his eyes flared to life as his scream of pain and rage ripped out from within him, exploding outwards in a primal roar of fury and anguish. Time crumbled away, shattered, erased, as the terrible sound filled the air. The Palace shook within the erased time, lurching as smoke and fire burst from the vents, the overpressure knocking the door off its hinges as water mains ruptured and cracks spidered up the wall. Solido took no heed of the disaster, safe from it within his erased time.
He cast his eyes up, his aura blazing like wrathful, agonized flame. "S̲̈̇͆ͦ̃̋͑͞à̧̻̙̳̫̺̠̂̒ͥ͛ͭͣl͆̒ͅl͙̻̤͗ͨͫͅṑ̖̦̥͙̈́͐̍̏s͇ͤ̈̇̏̃ͩ.͎̓"
Blitzo savored the look of confusion and fury on Gallia's face as he was subsumed into the mirror world, he would be remembering that perfect face twisted with rage later that night. He popped out of the manacles and hopped down into the perfect replica of the Soul Lathe's room, grinning like a madman. Standing before him was Il Nove, formerly La Squadra. Not that he was surprised.
"Angie!" Blitzo crooned, throwing his arms open. "Good of you to drop by, bro–"
A blinding flash filled the room with white light, the floor, walls, and ceiling peeling was scorched, shattered, pulverized, and vaporized all around them, the entire structure lifting clear away and scattering into the sky. The room where they had stood not one second before was now a gaping crater hundreds of meters in diameter.
Blitzo was curled into a ball, waiting to stop existing. 'Is this it? Is this what death is? Just me with myself in eternal darkness? Hello? Echo… echo… echo… Pinch-hitting for Pedro Borbón, Manny Mota… Mota… Mota… (crack!) (cheering)'
Blitzo opened his eyes and looked down, screaming upon seeing he was several hundred meters above what appeared to be a crater of glowing magma. He flailed about, scrambling for some imagined purchase.
"Blitzo, stop that," came a somewhat strained voice behind him. "This is difficult enough without you wriggling about like a hooked fish."
Blitzo 'swam' in the air, turning himself around to see St. Anger hovering there, his arms crossed, an unimpressed look on his ruggedly handsome face. Around him was the rest of his team, Octavia, for some reason, and Moxxie and Millie, presently in what looked to be a bone-crushing hug from Good Vibrations. "Oh, hey Angie! Neat trick, when'd ya pick this one up?"
"Being an Overlord has its perks," St. Anger said, levitating the group over to a nearby ledge that used to be a rec-room. "No new abilities, but a notable power-up to those that already exist."
"That's hot," Blitzo cooed, a dreamy look in his eyes. "So! Lemme guess, the ol' down-bag paid you guys to keep an eye on me, eh? Keep his favorite imp out of trouble?"
"A full-time job if ever I heard one, but no." St. Anger gestured over to the glum owl-demoness in a beautiful dress who was fending off a fawning Truly. "We're here for her. I'm afraid Stolas was forced to choose between the two of you, and she took priority."
"Oh…" Blitzo said, deflating somewhat. "So why…?"
St. Anger smiled, setting a hand on his shoulder. "We had a debt to pay, brother."
Blitzo blushed furiously and shuddered, squeezing his trembling legs together as he embraced himself. "Could you… could you please say that one more time?"
"Don't make this weird, Blitzo."
"Uhh… Vibes?" Millie croaked. "Y'all can put us down now, I think we're safe."
The pudgy anglerfish demon blinked and looked down at the bluing imps in his grasp, gasping in horror. "Oh! Sorry! Sorry about that! I'm just glad you two are safe!"
He set them down and wrung out his hands. "You two are okay, right?"
"What the fuck is going on?" Moxxie grumbled as Millie pulled him into a tight hug.
"We're in a mirror world, you three are safe," said Aoxomoxoa as he set a hand on Good Vibrations' shoulder. "Bro here was adamant that you all not die, he felt it from the bottom of his heart. By the time he so much as said it to the rest of us, the deed was already done."
"Aww!" Good Vibrations said, rubbing the back of his nonexistent neck. "Thanks, Bro!"
"Mission accomplished," Moxxie said, turning to Good Vibrations. "Mirror world? You can do that, too?"
"What'd I tell you about asking questions, gun-imp?" Deeply scoffed, tracing a long, scythe-like talon down the back of Moxxie's neck. "Also, good to see you two. I heard all about how you guys stepped up in the Vault. We need to hang out some more, do a couples night!"
"We don't swing," Moxxie said, flatly.
Deeply snapped his talons. "Damn."
"Thriller, status," St. Anger said, slapping Blitzo's hand away from his muscular rump. "What's it look like out there?"
Thriller squinted and hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Man! Whatever that thing was, it sure popped off harder than we thought it would!"
"Status!"
Thriller shrugged. "Shit's fucked?"
"I mean, what's the response look like?" St. Anger pointed down the hall. "This whole stunt was meant to cover our escape! Where are the guards?"
"Uhh…" Thriller said, looking around at nothing in particular. "Dead? They all look pretty dead. At least, a lot of them are… wait! Yeah, pretty much everyone else is converging on this area! Coast is clear!"
"Good." St. Anger smiled and nodded, as expected. "And Captain Gallia?"
"Man, if she's not dead, she's in a world of hurt!" Thriller said, cackling.
Suddenly, the source of the blinding light vanished, leaving a molten caldera glowing at the center of a field of rubble. Thriller's head snapped back to the scene, his purple eyes wide, disbelieving. "Oh, you gotta be fuckin' kidding…"
The light consumed all.
Destroyed all.
Ribbons of pure holy energy lashed out from the palace at the Hellscape, carving vast molten channels into Pentagram City, leveling whole neighborhoods and districts.
Nothing could stand before it, for it was a power unheimlich to Hell, an angelic artifact both possessed of boundless holy energies, but utterly corrupted in its nature.
But, a figure stood, striving ever-forward, clad in Seraphim Steel armor crafted to fit them, armor slaved to their will. The figure waded through the razing light, hip-deep in magma, towards the pulsing, shivering shard of an archangel's, the archangel's, halo. The armored figure, clearly struggling against the holy energies, reached out for the shard with an object shaped like a half of an apple. Upon touching the sewing needle-sized shard of glassy, metallic substance, the container enveloped it, forming a perfect metal apple. The Shard was contained.
The armored figure stood for a moment, hands on their knees, as they stood in the liquified remains of the most durable substance in Hell. With no small effort, the figure rose above the glowing magma and set back down on a large chunk of glowing Hell granite, their shoulders heaving with exertion. Once the defiled air had rushed back in, explosively quenching the purified magma in a gush of steam and gasses did the figure doff their helm.
"Visus Vassago…" Captain Gallia whispered, her eyes glowing tyrian with Prince Vassago's borrowed power, her gaze drawing unerringly up to a presently empty ledge that used to be a rec-room. "You."
"We should go," said Thriller, turning to St. Anger, his eyes wide. "Like, right now."
"Take us back to our hide-out," St. Anger said. "Double-time!"
"One doorway, coming…" Thriller said, swinging open the door to the rec-room, revealing a hallway. "Up?"
"Thriller?"
"One sec." Thriller stepped out into the hallway, opening another door, revealing the room on the other side. "What the-?!"
"Thriller, what's going on?" St. Anger strode up alongside him. "You can make any door in this world open to any other door, can't you?"
"I'm trying!" Thriller cried, opening and closing the door. "It must be interference from that glowing thing!"
"Halo-shard," Blitzo said, blithely. "It was a shard of Lucifer's archangel halo."
The group blanched, glancing at one another.
Blitzo shrugged. "What?"
"I'm itchy, is anyone else itchy?" Good Vibrations said, scratching his arm frantically.
"Do you taste metal?" Willin' said, running a hand through his hair. "Aw man, my hair better not fall out!"
"Enough! You're imagining things!" St. Anger barked. "We knew that shortcutting out of here may get interfered with, that's why we mapped the whole place out! Come on, let's get to the courtyard!"
"Wait," Octavia said. "You mapped this whole place out? I thought you guys were supposed to be protecting me this whole time!"
"Well, we could have wasted time babysitting you from inside your bedroom mirrors," Blackbird hissed, crossing his arms. "Or we could have done the smart thing and made our preparations where you were inevitably going to be taken!"
Octavia jabbed an accusatory finger at him before relenting. "Yeah, that makes sense, I guess…"
The group took off down the hallway, following after Thriller, who led them through the veritable maze of the palace interior. Octavia kept pace with them, glaring silently into the middle distance, barely even glancing aside as Blitzo ran up next to her, grinning.
"Hey, kid!" He said, looking her up and down. "Nice dress. Come here often?"
Octavia said nothing, not looking at him.
"Meet my friends? Pretty cool, huh?" Blitzo continued, heedless of the hostility radiating off her in waves. " Talk about a kickass rescue! These guys, I swear, they're the best! Not only can they pull off any job, but they do it in style! Ha!"
Octavia said nothing.
"Hey, look," said Blitzo, gesturing to himself and the others. "I mean, even though we're rescuing you (you're welcome) I guess, in some obscure way, we might also be kinda responsible for this whole fiasco, so a little hostility is to be expected…"
Octavia said nothing.
"Right, so, what say we bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones, and let this rescue be what it is: a bunch of awesome guys saving a princess, okay? Okay! Hey! Just think, once we get you out of here, you'll get to see Moonie again! I'm sure he wanted to rescue you too, but we done beat him to the punch! Ha! Can't wait to rub that in his gorgeous face… or rub my face on his gorgeous abs…" Blitzo contemplated for a moment, a ruddy blush forming in his cheeks, before snapping his fingers and pointing to her. "Hey! I went and scratched a few names off my bucket list the other night, and while I don't want to step on your toes or anything, do you think you could put in a good word for me with him? I mean, he'd already be so grateful–HURK!"
Octavia's talons wrapped around the imps reedy little neck as she hauled him off the ground, her eyes glowing as her frame grew, her features becoming sharp, monstrous. "Listen you foul, disgusting creature. You will not look at me, you will not speak to me, you will not so much as make a sound within earshot, and if I so much as catch you thinking about Moonchild again, I will reach down your throat and (BEEP) your (BEEP) deep inside your (BEEP) and dig my talons into your (BEEP) with (BEEP) and twist off your (BEEP) shove it down your (BEEP) up your (BEEP) sideways (BEEP(BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP) out of your nose and (BEEP) until you can't so much as scream! Do you understand!?"
Blitzo dangled in the air, his eyes wide and face pale, and nodded fervently.
Octavia hissed in disgust and tossed the imp to the floor, pushing her way through the group of stunned demons.
"Whoa." Willin' muttered as she stormed by. "Guys, I think I'm in love."
"Teenager, dude," said Deeply.
"I'll fuckin' wait."
"Are you okay, sir?" Moxxie said, helping Blitzo to his feet.
"Yeah, guess I deserved that…" Blitzo said, dusting himself before sniffing the air. "Hey… do you guys smell that?"
"Smell what?" Millie said, looking to Moxxie, who shrugged.
"Smells like…" Blitzo's eyes snapped open, a huge smile on his face. "Holy shit! Angie! Thriller! This way, brothers!"
"What?" St. Anger turned around in time to see Blitzo and his imps turn the corner. "Blitzo! Wait! Dammit…"
Il Nove chased after I.M.P. as they ran down the adjoining hall, Blitzo dug his heel boots in as he skidded to a stop outside a large, vault-like door.
"What is it?" Moxxie huffed. "What's in there?"
"What's mine," Blitzo growled, turning to the approaching demons. "Thriller! Is the hallway empty?"
Thriller paused, looking around at the real world. "Yeah. Why?"
"Willin'!" Blitzo pointed to the rat-demon and then at the vault. "Can you shrink us all down enough to get in there?"
"Yeah, but–"
"Thriller, pop us out of this little dimension, Willin', the second we do get us all into that vault!"
"You don't give the orders here, ring-scraper!" Blackbird snarled, turning to the tall jester-demon. "St. Anger?"
"What's this about, Blitzo?" St. Anger said, intrigued.
Blitzo smiled maliciously. "Trust me."
St. Anger sighed, shaking his head with a musical ringing, gesturing acquiescence. "Very well. Do it."
On the other side of two feet of solid enchanted steel, the lights flickered. A speck popped into existence on the surface of the door before rapidly expanding into a baker's dozen of demons. A string of gasps and astonished mutters issued forth from the group as they stepped forward. Before them was a vast chamber some one-hundred meters by fifty, lit by countless flickering fluorescent lights, stretching as far as the eye could see were angelic weapons. Thousands of them, alongside a small army's worth of blessed rifles and veritable mountains of Seraphic ammunition crates. And not only weaponry, but customized armored vehicles, countless arcane artifacts, priceless works of art, and all manner of other treasures both technological and magical.
"Grand Duke Sallos' contraband locker," St. Anger said, his normally strong voice an awed whisper. "Everything he's ever confiscated from everybody important enough to warrant his attention. This is… this is incredible, Blitzo…"
"Huh?" Blitzo said, stooped over an impressive gun-rack bearing dozens of blessed weapons, his hand down his pants. "Oh, yeah, all that stuff's pretty cool, too, I guess."
"How…" Blackbird husked, even his chilly demeanours giving way to an almost schoolboy-like giddiness. "How did you find this?"
"Well," Blitzo pulled his clammy hand out of his pants and fondled one of the weapons. "I just went and marked all my killy stuff with my own brand of 'cologne', ya'meen? Don't want to lose any!"
Blackbird froze solid, his face a rictus of disgust.
"And it's ours!" Good Vibrations cheered, ecstatic. "All of it! All ours!"
"With this load-out, we'll be able to take all of the West Side, the Center, maybe even the Northwest, too!" Aoxomoxoa said, tentacles flapping with delight. "Blitzo! You're a true gangster!"
"But how are we gonna get all of this out of here?" Willin' said, scratching his chin with a talon.
The group stopped its revelry, slowly turning around to lock the rodent with flat, confounded glares.
"Heh heh… right…" Willin' mumbled, pointing to himself, his expression one of utter embarrassment. "That thing I do. Shrinking stuff."
"Alright, everyone!" St. Anger called out. "Here's what we do. Good Vibrations, set up a sensor net, I want to know if anyone so much as looks in the direction of this hallway."
Good Vibrations snapped into a salute, manifesting a dozen hooks on as many lines. "Yes sir!"
"Truly, access the security system and erase any and all evidence of our being here."
"Did that the second we re-sized, boss."
"Willin', I'm making some space, you lay down a semi-trailer, and spawn a few carts for the others. Playlist, Blackbird, you whip up some robots and doubles and start loading what we bring you. Okay?"
"Yes, sir!" Willin' reached into his pocket and threw a tiny rectangle the size of a tic-tac, which immediately resized into a 53-foot semi-trailer. "Done!"
"Wait," Moxie said, gesturing for a 'time-out'. "You just carry semi-trailers around with you at all times?"
Willin' jabbed a thumb at the trailer. "Obviously. Don't you?"
"Why?!"
Willin' grinned, gesturing at the treasures around them. "Just In case we need to steal a lot of shit, Moxx!"
St. Anger crossed his arms and levitated off the ground. "Blitzo, if you would do the honors, brother?"
Blitzo smirked and struck a pose. "LET'S CLEAN THIS BITCH OUUUUUT! AH HA HA HAAA!"
St. Anger smiled broadly and streaked forward through the air. "You heard the man!"
Blitzo lunged forward when Thriller reached out and grabbed him, the imp turned around to see Willin' and Thriller standing there, sunglasses on and a pair in his other hand.
"Whaddaya say, Blitzo-kreig?" Thiller said, handing him the shades. "Disco-ball 2?"
Blitzo cackled and snatched the glasses. "Electric Boogaloo!"
The trio vanished, leaping between the literally countless glimmering, mirror-polished surfaces, boxes and gun racks and statues vanishing along the way, reappearing at the mouth of the semi-trailer.
Blackbird extended his hands, issuing tendrils of his icy essence from cracks in the suit's fingers, ten identical cryosuits appeared before him, dutifully collecting the freshly teleported freight into the semi-trailer. Playlist snorted and smirked, stomping his foot on the floor, spawning a dozen identical automata, who also set about collecting and storing the booty.
Truly sat in the middle of a large cart, innumerable vines reaching out and snatching all manner of weapon and artifact and placing them in the cart. Moxxie and Millie darted about, eyes wide and shimmering with avarice, smiles wide and ecstatic as they stacked weapons both melee and firearm, statues, busts, articles of angel armor, even a few Exorcist body parts preserved in jars. Deeply hummed happily to himself as he hauled the cart, his immense strength making for easy work. He waved to Aoxomoxoa as he and Good Vibrations piled their own cart high, St. Anger soared overhead, surrounded by a veritable swarm of his own loot.
"Hey hey hey!" Thriller cackled atop a demonic APC. "Let's hit the clubs after this! Pick up some chicks in my sweet new ride!"
The roar of a turbine engine drew his attention as Willin' pulled up alongside him in a massive main battle tank. "Mine's bigger."
Blitzo hummed to himself as he set an arm on a shelf full of figurines and ornate clocks, unworriedly sweeping the contents into a large cardboard box he was holding, heedless of the clatter and pings of shattering porcelain and rupturing springs. He strode past a glass showcase, doing a small double take at the contents of display: a pair of showy, ornate arrows and their corresponding bows.
"Eh?" He examined the strange weapons. "Arrows? They don't look angelic. Pass!"
Blitzo began to move on when he felt it, a curious pulling sensation at the center of his soul. He turned back to the arrows, his mouth going dry as he felt more than heard a heady, bass thrum emanate from the innocuous, oversized arrows.
"Eh, fuck it," he said, shrugging. "We're cleaning this bitch out, after all!"
'Alright, Blitzo,' he throught to himself. 'This is a delicate procedure. Who knows how old and fragile these weird-ass arrows are. This will require all your skill and dexterity honed over a lifetime in the circus!'
Blitzo pressed his gurning face against the glass display, pushing and pressing until the glass cracked and shattered to pieces. The wall-eyed imp grinned despite the glass shards in his face and plundered the display with all the care and grace of a randy bull moose, shoveling the contents into the back with reckless abandon.
"Hey, Blitzo-Kreig!" Thriller called from his APC. "I see a jetpack with your name on it!"
"Jetpack?!" Blitzo exclaimed, spinning around so fast he knocked the display over in a shower of broken glass. "Gimme gimme gimme!"
The imp skipped jauntily away, failing to notice the one arrow left, partially buried underneath broken glass and display carpeting.
The plunder continued.