Epilogue
Octavia stirred her bowl of Greed Seed, dimly registering the sound of the spoon clacking against the porcelain bowl, the seed grumbling as it was swished hither and thither, it all sort of bled together. The cereal, a mix of various kinds of seeds and nuts, some frosted, some not, large chunks of disparate pieces clumping together to form…
'I'm so sorry, Octavia…'
Charlie had looked like she'd been up all night, her bright eyes dim and bagged. The rest of the hotel seemed… well, tired. There was a twinge of sadness in the air, certainly, but overall the mood was that of exhaustion, of a dull, tired resignation. Even the volatile Angel Dust was simply slumped on the couch, his pig on his lap, as he watched the news with dim eyes.
Moonchild had escaped her spell. Octavia knew that should have been impossible for a Sinner, Stand or no, but that was small comfort before what came next. He had set off to rescue her, because of course he would, the bloody-minded romantic fool. They didn't know what happened to him between then and his return, only that when he returned… no, they only said he returned. Probably out of some sort of hopeless sentiment that Moonchild could one day come back, but she could see in their faces, hear in the sheer exhaustion in their voices, that Moonchild never came back. Whoever or whatever came back was… evil. Vicious, violent, and wholly different from either Moonchild or his hateful other half, and far more powerful. Whatever had happened to them at Sallos' palace had given them everything they'd wanted: wholeness.
'What was it he said? "What if I'm not strong enough to maintain my identity when we merge?" Heh…' she thought, wanly. 'I guess he wasn't strong enough.'
He was whole now, wholly evil, despite Charlie's desperate, pathetic assertions to the contrary. No part of Moonchild would allow even an initial attack. Or, that's what she wanted to think, anyway. Some bitter, angry part of her wanted to hate him, to despise him for giving in, for handing control over to that loathsome creature in his head, and revile him for his weakness. She wanted to hate him, to discard those soft, tender feelings that hurt so terribly, to be more like her parents and peers. Cold, hard, vicious. Then, her better nature would take over and she would want to scream, to cry like a useless hatchling. She just wanted it to stop. Please God, please make it stop.
So she made it stop.
Now there was nothing. A queer sort of numbness had taken ahold in her, a comforting void that was neither cold nor hot nor warm. It wasn't better than nothing, but it was better than the pain, the ache, the loss. Some days she could even tell herself she didn't sense the maelstrom behind it, waiting to break through.
She just… had to keep a cap on it, and she would be fine.
A voice filtered in from the outside world. "…offee, Highness?"
Octavia looked up to see the fastidious little imp, Francois, in his clawed hands an ornate platinum coffee urn. Octavia said nothing, merely brandishing her mug at the imp, prompting him to fill it. She drank, registering her favorite dark roast, the kind they sold at Umbric Brewhaus, but the flavor was distant, muted, numbed. She also registered that her parents despised the brew and in the past she'd had to make herself a pot to have any. But there they were, sipping it with apparent relish as they engaged in easy, chipper conversation.
Had they brewed it for her?
Since when did they engage in smalltalk?
She listened in.
"…Are up by 2 points, as are other stocks all across Greed, which will free up funds for the old estate's renovations." said Stella, wagging a crust of toast and Stolas before mopping up a streak of marmalade with it. "All the Overlords are buying Inner Circle stocks. Seems everyone's in a rush to suck up since, well, you know."
"Yes, well, even Lucifer seemed out of sorts from tha…" Stolas noticed Octavia's attention, his eyes lighting up. "Oh, Via! I see you've had your coffee. How are you feeling this
morning, Owlet?"
"Yes, darling," said Stella. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like the dead," droned Octavia. "What were you talking about?"
Stolas and Stella exchanged looks that, on the surface, were cheerful, but sang at the edges with anxiety.
"What?"
"Octavia…" Stella said, turning towards her daughter, trying her best to be warm and comforting. "In light of… what's happened, your father and I have decided that we're going to separate. It's not healthy for either of us to stay together like this. Of course, we will still be lawfully married, but we've decided that your father will stay in this estate and conduct his… business here, while I will be living at the ancestral estate. We feel that it's better for us, and you, if we do it this way."
Oh.
Oh, so it was that easy then? This whole time, they could have just done that? Lived apart, bound only in marriage, legally, but free to satisfy their emotional needs with whomever they please? Reasonable. Logical. And unanimously agreed upon. Even in her current state, Octavia supported the idea. In fact, a few weeks ago she might have rejoiced at the prospect. A few weeks ago she might have felt hope, hope for her father and mother, hope for herself.
A few weeks ago.
"That's nice," she said, her tone unchanged. "Where do I live, then?"
Stella sighed in relief at her daughter's apparent support, looking over at Stolas. "That's just it, lovey, you can live wherever you like!"
Stolas leaned in, positively beaming, his voice singsong. "We have a gift for you~"
With a flourish and a gesture he summoned a portal in the air, out of it, glowing tyrian, was a dark purple grimoire with rose-gold inlays forming the trimmings and her family's elaborate seal.
"Your very own grimoire!" Stella cheered. "Top of the line, all the newest spells and compendiums. You can live wherever you like. None of that ghastly 'shared time' nonsense."
"Live wherever I like?" Octavia said, a lilt almost forming in her flat voice. "Cool."
"Oh!" Stolas cheered, clapping. "Oh, you don't know what this means to us, my little Starfire! I promise you, we're going to get through this whole mess, together. From here on out, things will be better, we promise."
"Oh, yes, darling," Stella said, reaching out and placing her hand over hers. "I'll try to be a better mother to you, and spend more time with you. I'll even start treating the hel–er, our employees better. In fact, I would like to properly apologize to your friend Moonchild for my disgusting behavior. It was wrong of me, and I see that now."
"Oh, indeed!" Stolas said, nodding fervently. "And I shall grant him a raise, for all his hard work and loyalty. Actually… Via, since you're his friend, would you be able to get ahold of him? He hasn't been at work all week and I thought you might–"
Octavia shot to her feet, her talons digging long gouges into the ebony table, dark ribbons sprouting from the hardwood. She wanted to scream, to puke, to burst open and let all the black awful venom inside her out. It burned in her gullet like cold acid, flailing, thrashing like a wild beast in a snare. Letting it out was tempting, so tempting, to lance it like a boil and loose all the fire and brimstone she could muster. But part of her feared, no, knew that behind it was the other feelings, the painful ones, the hurt and loss and shattered love. Once the dark, wrathful thing inside her was wrestled back into submission and shoved behind the great wall of numbness, only then did she relent, her tense shoulders relaxing.
"Octavia?" Stolas said, cocking his head to the side. "Is something wrong, Starfire?"
Octavia gathered up her grimoire and stepped away from her uneaten cereal, pushing in her chair before heading for the door.
"Via?" Stella asked after her. "Via, what is it?"
Octavia stopped, not looking over her shoulder, not even tilting her head towards them. "Moonchild's gone."
With that she left.
The princess pulled into herself, walking on autopilot to her room. She took a few minutes to thumb through her books, neatly filing away her favorite tomes into her bag. Next was her clothes, a few nice outfits and one really nice one. Her enchanted purse allowed her to travel with essentially her entire wardrobe with space left over for all her books, but that would have taken time. Time in this horrible place. Time with these horrible memories.
She pulled out her new grimoire and moved to summon a portal when a thought crossed her mind. 'Where am I going?'
A friend's? What friends?
Charlotte's? No. That would hurt too much, far too much. Besides, she very much doubted Moonchild's friends, the whore and the drunk, wanted a living, breathing reminder of their loss, perhaps more so than her.
She couldn't stay here, with them, she'd explode!
Where could she go?
She was suddenly very tired, bone-tired, and turned to collapse into her bed. Her eyes snapped open wide: there, on her bed, was her old grimoire. On it was a note, done up in Charlie's bright, childish scrawl. It read:
Hey Octavia. I found this while cleaning out Moonchi the Hotel. I know it's important to you, so I didn't wait for you to drop by and get it. If you ever want to visit, come on in! We have plenty of room and we'd love to have you. We all care about you, Via, and hope to hear from you soon. Remember, if you ever need someone to talk to, my door is always open.
XOXOXOXO (seriously, there were, like, dozens of XO's) Charlie Magne
Octavia sighed and hugged the grimoire to her chest, wanting to smile but finding herself quite unable. She craned her neck over and inhaled, taking in the comforting scent of the old pages, the parchment, the leather, the… ocean? She sniffed deeper, almost gasping when her keen demon nose detected the smell of the ocean, a cool sea breeze on a hot day, the low but unmistakable smell of tide and life among the fresh salt air. It was Moonchild's scent, his natural scent. It was also the smell of…
Octavia's eyes snapped open in realization. "I can live wherever I like."
The princess waited for a few hours, her parents tromping around the home as they got their affairs in order, the sound of their happy chatting only slightly infuriating through the lens of new possibilities.
A knock sounded at her door, a voice soon after. "Octavia?"
It was her mother.
"Yes, Mum?" She replied, surprised at how happy she sounded. "Come in."
"Oh, well," Stella replied, leaning into the room, obviously stymied at her daughter's abrupt shift in mood. "Oh! Yes, I'll be heading out now, honey. Will you be spending the night here or over at my place? E-either is good! Just, um, just do whatever you like, Owlet."
"I will, Mum, thank you," said Octavia. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stick around here a bit and sort out what I want to take, okay?"
"Of course!" Stella said, forcing a smile. "I love you, Octavia."
Octavia felt her smile begin to falter. "O-okay."
With that Stella closed the door and set off down the hall. A flash of light flared from under the door. She was gone.
Octavia waited in silence, staring into the distance with dull, lifeless eyes.
Waiting.
Waiting.
A knock.
"Octavia~" He father sang from the other side of the door. "Are you awake, my Owlet?"
"Yes, Dad!" She replied, convincingly chipper. "What is it?"
"Oh, well, you're sounding more, er, up?" He said, a questioning lilt in his voice. "I wanted to see if you were feeling alright, you didn't eat your breakfast."
"Oh, I wasn't hungry." She could tell from her father's voice he suspected something, she loosed a sigh and wave a hand at the door, unlatching it. "Come in, Dad."
Stolas stood in the doorway, nonplussed. "Oh, well, I won't be here long, I have quite the backlog to go over. I just wanted to check on you, see if your were feeling alright."
Octavia forced a smile and nodded, rubbing her belly. "I'm fine, Dad. The coffee just did its work a little faster than I was expecting, you know?"
"No, I'm afraid I–" Stolas blinked and started as he understood, suddenly looking as though he'd smelled something vile. "Oh! Oh, that. Don't be so crude, Starfire! Honestly! Ho-ho-ho!" He laughed for a moment, before clearing his throat and drumming his fingers on the doorframe. "I trust your mother dropped by?"
"She did," said Octavia. "I think I'll be spending time at her place for the next little bit, if that's alright."
"Oh, of course, Via! Of course!" Stolas said, waving her off. "You can live anywhere you want, for as long as you want. We don't want you to feel like you have to choose."
"Okay. Thanks, Dad."
Stolas waited about for a moment, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"What is it, Dad?"
"I just wanted to ask…" He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. "I just wanted to ask if you know where Moonie is. After all this craziness, him being missing has me very worried."
Octavia felt her mask begin to crack and fray. Oh, what, now her father cares?!
"Dad, when Uncle Sally came to get me, he… Moonie… Moonie, uh, tried to protect me and…" She looked up to see her father's face fall, his eyes going wide. "…I portaled him out of there! I'm sorry, but I don't know where, I was using the old book. Maybe he'll turn up?"
"Oh! Oh, thank goodness…" Stolas loosed a heaving sigh of relief. "Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for that, Starfire, he's a… well, I consider him a friend of sorts. Good listener, that one. Very discrete. I, uh, I hope he turns up, too."
"I'm sure he will, Dad," she lied.
"Yes! Well!" Stolas said, putting on a painful smile. "I'm off to work! I hope you have a good time at your mother's, feel free to drop by any time!"
"Thanks, Dad."
With that Stolas left, closing the door behind him. After a few more minutes waiting to see if he'd return, Octavia grabbed her bag and stuffed the new grimoire into it, cracking open the ancient tome, recalling the location spell perfectly.
At the remains of Duke Sallos' palace, a transition was underway. With Duke Sallos dead, his staff and resources were being allocated to his fellow Peacekeepers, Duke Allocer and Duke Astaroth.
Sallos' death had been announced with a strange sort of aloofness. The peasants were left baffled and unsure. Was this for real or just some manner of obtuse joke? A test of loyalty? If any cheered, they could be executed for disrespect to the Inner Circle. If any mourned, they could be tortured and executed for perceived loyalty to one other than Lucifer. As such, no one talked about it, even Channel 666 henceforth referred to it as 'the incident'.
The Inner Circle, on the other hand, were terrified. Sallos was dead and Lucifer wasn't gloating, which meant Lucifer didn't order it or do it himself, a realization with terrifying implications: if Lucifer didn't do it… who did?
Who among them had done it? Who among them could have done it? To slay a Grand Duke of Hell was no mean feat, even for a member of The Seven. Sallos was among the finest warriors in all of Hell, his sheer skill offsetting just about any power gap short of those few. It was safe to say that no one could have quickly and quietly dispatched the Duke outside of Lucifer himself, and Lucy wasn't bragging.
The Inner Circle instead sat back, watching and waiting.
"Well?" Snarled Lieutenant Horis.
The techie blinked, glancing between the two high-ranking ducal guards. "Well, what?"
"Well?!" Captain Gallia growled, getting in the techie's face, causing him to wince and cringe away. "What did you find on the security feed?!"
"N-nothing!" The Techie whimpered, cowering. "The system was deactivated at the time!"
"Don't give me that bullshit!" Gallia roared, uprooting the bolted-down console and hurling it across the room. "We all heard the party line! Lucifer doesn't want the plebs knowing who did it, that's fine, but us? We deserve to know!"
"I know, and I agree!" The Techie said, his four eyes wide and pleading. "I want to know, too! But the line wasn't bullshit, the security cameras were all shut off at the time!"
"That's impossible!" Gallia snapped. "The security systems were turned back on at 0400 that morning, I saw it!"
"Yes, we registered a log-in for standard data-management around that time," the Techie said, pushing another techie away from his console, tapping in commands before turning his screen to them. "Log-in for Private Corvis. It also says here that he failed to reactivate it."
"But…" Gallia said, putting a shaking hand to her sweaty forehead. "I… I-I saw him turn it back on…"
"Where is Private Corvis?" Lieutenant Horis said. "I think a little punitive measure is called for."
"Oh, he'll be out of action for a good while," Gallia said, off-handedly. "I disintegrated him."
"Oh."
"Are we…" the Techie said, his eyes darting back and forth. "We done here?"
Gallia said nothing and set off out the room. Horis cleared his throat and half-apologized for the mess before leaving as well.
Out in the hallway Gallia was storming her way through crowds of guards and construction workers, those who knew better did their best to keep out of her way. Those who didn't were educated.
"Captain!" Horis called after her, ducking a tossed mason. "Captain! Wait!"
Lieutenant Horis pulled up next to her, grinning. "Where to, boss?"
"His Excellency's arming chamber," she said, tersely.
"What? Why?"
The chamber was empty, dimly lit, and still slightly redolent of the the priests, or rather their vile, liquified remains. Captain Gallia curled her lip at the memories as much as the smell. The smoke, the fire, the smell of blood. Sallos' heavy, warm head in her arms. The taste of his lips and the blood on them–Gallia shook her head as tears threatened to flow. She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, centering her frayed thoughts as she sat down in the middle of the chamber, levitating off the floor.
"Captain!" Horis said as he blundered into the chamber. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to call upon a blessing from Prince Orobas," she said, eyes closed as she concentrated. "To gaze into the past and see what happened for myself."
"You don't think we already tried that?!" Horis said as her aura thrummed. "We had a dozen mages call on every royal with postcog to try and they all started screaming and bleeding from their mouths, eyes, noses, ears… actually, it'd be easier to list what they didn't bleed from!"
"I am no feeble mage!" Gallia snarled, her eyes snapping open, glowing harlequin green. "Visus Orobas!"
The past stretched out before her in a line, the frames of time flittering by like pages in a book. She entered the frame she sought, where Sallos was recovering from the shard detonation. Already she could tell something was terribly wrong. The Duke, his chest and hands were… blurry, nondescript. He stood before… someone. This figure, whoever it was, was blurry, too.
No.
Not blurry.
The closer she looked the more she could see they were less a blur and more a mosaic, a superimposition of thousands, millions, countless frames of the same person, all coexisting at once within the same instant. Whatever this entity was, it was obviously having other effects as well, for as anything anyone said within these poisoned moments of time was a hopeless garble of equally countless voices saying infinite permutations of the same statement. She went forward and–
–Sallos in the face, staggering him slightly. Obviously this demon was very strong… wait, what was that?
Sallos said something, wound up to–
–Catching a knee across the face, again staggering the mighty demon.
What was that?!
Gallia rewound. Incredibly, just before this creature attacked, as much as 10 seconds of time had simply ceased to exist, like tearing pages out of a book. The ability to erase time…
She flitted ahead. Despite the troubling ability and the entity's great strength, her Duke soon hit his stride and made short work of the interloper, wounding them grievously with his angelic armor. After a brief exchange, the fool charged Sallos and was promptly impaled. Sallos, her Sallos, looked upon the creature with pity and–
–Gallia hissed in pain as the blessing soured and attempted to retract. She snapped with her iron will out and tried to hold on to it, but the power of the Grand Prince was too slippery and ripped away from her, sending a fresh bolt of agony shooting through her head. Gallia cried out as she collapsed to the chamber floor, blood gushing from her nose as bloody tears streamed from her eyes.
"Captain!" Horis exclaimed, rushing to her side. "Are you alright?"
"Nawt…" she slurred, the left side of her face slack. "Nnnaaawt ssstrong nnnuff…"
"Hey, you're doing better than the mages, at least," Horis said, pulling her arm over his shoulder and helping her to her feet. "They shared the load and still turned their brains into soup!"
"Tchry… gen…" She gurgled, limping along with him. "Musht tchry gen!"
"Captain, are you crazy?! Look at you, you barely made it this time!"
"Nawt ssstrong. Get. Strong." She locked him with a one-eyed glare, a furious half-snarl on her beautiful face. "Rrrapture. Nao."
Horis glanced out the side of his eye and saw her good hand curled into a claw bare inches from his face, electricity arcing between her fingers. "Whatever you say, Bosh Lady."
Gallia groaned and slumped, allowing herself to be dragged. She didn't see the low smirk crawl across his hard, insectoid face, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.
Elsewhere in Pentagram City, far, far away from the remains of Sallos' palace, was a mansion. It was a fairly subdued affair compared to its neighbors, with little in the way of spotlights and garish gold statues, but nonetheless held an unmistakable grandeur, a dignity, that was equally appealing. The walled estate was patrolled by scores of hooded demons, doing their rounds with mechanical precision.
Deep inside, within the inner sanctum of the mansion, was a room filled with screens, the center of which was a console with all manner of keyboard, joystick, and VR interface. Standing before the screens and console was a robotic demon, his silver body resplendent with pink hearts, a retractable antenna sprouting from his left shoulder. In his hands was a video game controller, and on the screen was the slumped form of the illustrious Captain Gallia, hanging off the shoulders of what he affectionately called his 'Player Character'.
"Sphinx," came a deep, smooth voice from elsewhere in the room. "Progress report."
"Mission accomplished," Sphinx said, not looking away from his screen. "The pawns are in position."
"Excellent," said the demon as he strode out of the shadows, revealing himself to be Trouble. "Set this one on automatic and resume your dealing with Paimon's agents. We must maintain our assets with a delicate hand."
"Speaking of assets, here comes Big Bro," said Sphinx, a smirk clear in his voice. "He has the souls… and is creeped out by the basement, as usual."
With a hard chuckle, Poker Face announced his presence, the pale poker chips dancing across his fingers.
"What am I thinking now, brat?" Poker Face said, smirking, knowing that Sphinx could only read the 'surface' of his thoughts, and brought to mind the foulest thing he could conjure.
Sphinx chuckled. "Whatever would mother think?"
"You tell me."
"Hmm… one moment," he said, another antenna extending from his shoulder. "She says 'not surprised, he always did like feet'."
"Enough," said Trouble, turning to Poker Face. "The chips."
He held out the bundle and tossed it to him. Trouble examined the chips, they elongated and chromed in his hand, becoming discs. He unbuttoned his priest's vestments, revealing his bare, corpse-white flesh. Between his collar and sternum, surrounded by his trademark brands of G∆CT, was two large slits some 12 centimeters wide. Below, down his chest and abdomen, were two columns of ten identical ports. He inserted the discs into the right-top port, a low mechanical whirring ensued as he etched his will upon them.
"I don't know why you don't just let me control them," Sphinx said, crossing his arms. "We'd be able to monitor their progress a lot more easily, at the very least."
"These demons are ranking lieutenants in their respective organizations, Sphinx," said Trouble. "While you would be able to perform their tasks well, perhaps better than they could, your presence would be detected the instant you had to interact with any of their peers. No, they must perfectly infiltrate their organizations, unaware of their mission until it has come to pass. I understand to a man such as yourself the apparent lack of control is galling, but I must ask that you show a little… faith."
The discs popped out of a separate port. He withdrew them and handed them back to Poker Face, who reverted them back into chips. Upon the bone-white surface of the soul chips were barely perceptible lines, words and code, etched into the very fabric of their beings with Trouble's laser-precision. "I'll get 'em back to their gangs. Anything else?"
"No, that will be all, Poker Face," Trouble said as a hooded demon servant shambled in, holding another small bundle of chips. "You may go now."
Poker Face made for the door as the chips were cast down, each expanding into a confused and disoriented demon, their bodies reformed from their prior states.
"Hey, what–" said one of them.
Trouble's hand was a blur as he swiped across the line, five discs containing their souls now in his hand. The freshly-vacant bodies stared ahead, their eyes glazed, as Trouble handed their souls off to the hooded servant. "Process them."
The servant said nothing, marching off with the souls in hand.
Trouble inhaled and held his hands to his chest, sweat beading and running down his body as he concentrated his vast demonic power. With a long, trembling exhale he produced ten discs from his body, five from one column, five from the other. With a practiced quickness, inserted two into each of the five bodies before him. An instant later, a row of five Trouble copies stood before him. They were direct copies, functionally identical to the original, though no less spooky in Poker Face's eyes. The closeness of the replicas somehow highlighted the wrongness of their existence.
All six Troubles turned and looked at him at once, and in unison said: "Yes?"
"…Just leaving."
He walked out the room, glancing at the hooded, shambling servant heading downstairs with the harvested souls. Downstairs to the basement, where it was.
Even Poker Face had to shudder. What they were doing here wasn't just unnatural or immoral.
It was unholy.
The hooded demon tromped down the stairs, the dim remnants of its soul long past any sort of emotion or actual conscious thought. At one point it was a disc-copy of a shark-demon named Atom Tan, but the copy had been copied so many times it was whittled down to little more than an unthinking husk. But even this unnatural thing cowed and recoiled at the aura emanating from deep within the guts of the estate. The air soured, electrified, and something deep within the recopy forced it to stop. Something primal, atavistic, even its debased excuse for a soul could recognize something it had never experienced before, but was nevertheless familiar and unmistakable: the presence of God Almighty.
"Oh, these stupid things!" A small, pudgy pufferfish demon in a lab-coat said, waddling over. "Give me that!"
He snatched away the discs and made his way back over to the work-area. Massive cables lay strewn hither-thither on the floor like sleeping pythons, computer consoles and all manner of instruments were set about a massive machine, a huge demonic engine of glittering Seraphim steel and cold iron. At the center of the main complex was a capsule, an armored cylinder that arced and glowed as the defiled air of Hell reacted with the sheer holy might radiating from within. On it was the label 'JC-1'.
"It is curious, though, isn't it?" One of the other scientists, a lanky, centipede-demon said as the pufferfish loaded the discs into the main mechanism. "That even with their consciousness stripped down to such an extent, they will not approach. Only demons with their souls intact can will themselves to do so, if just barely."
The flabby little demon looked up at the capsule at the center of the machine, not flinching from its light in the slightest. "Or us."
"Yes, well…" the Centipede muttered. "I suppose this was the predictable outcome. We spent years desecrating God's earthly remains for personal gain. I suppose damnation was the mildest punishment for our crimes."
"Speak for yourself," grumbled the Pufferfish. "You got capped. Me? I got much, much worse."
"Yes, yes," another scientist, some manner of ungulate, sighed, rolling his eyes. "Your skin removed, dropped in the Dead Sea, yadda yadda yadda. And you're telling me any of you profited from that Vault bullshit? All I got was a dental plan!"
"You got a dental plan?"
"Our work in The Vault was payment enough!" The Pufferfish hissed, his piggy little eyes narrowing. "We plumbed the depths of time and space! Technology, magic, the power of God Almighty! What scientist wouldn't do as we did if given the opportunity? No! If seeking the truth of the multiverse is a damnable offense, then Lord Trouble is right…and Heaven is in need of new management."
"What flavor will this batch be?" Called a voice from the far side of the laboratory.
"Huh?" The Pufferfish was snapped out of his dark ruminations. "Oh, uh, orange. It's the most popular."
The huge machine rumbled and roared to life, hundreds of discs and chips were loaded into the reaction chamber. Refined demonic energy was channeled into the chamber containing the Artifact, reacting with an unnatural wail, filling the laboratory with light, a pure archetypal force not seen since the Age of The Word, of Logos, of Creation. A chamber composed of perfectly polished Seraphim Steel collated and focused the resulting raw, elemental energy into a tight beam, which then bombarded the collected souls, causing the chips and discs to melt, curling in on themselves under the intense, orange light. When all of the thousands of souls had been scoured, remolded, and purified, they resembled tiny, glowing lozenges, falling through the grate on which they sat and into a collector at the bottom. From there, they went to the packaging plant to be packed, labeled, and sold to an exponentially growing market.
Souls-2-Go took yet another step in its meteoric rise to power in Hell.
Deep within the Vault, in one of its recently filled storage units, just one of many. Il Nove milled about the unit, picking out their shares and marking them with their auras. Stacks of holy ammo, rows of blessing-tipped guns, and Seraphim steel as far as the eye could see. And not just weaponry, but vehicles, works of art, and enchanted artifacts. Enough to supply a small army, with weapons of a caliber far exceeding anything that might oppose them outside the Inner Circle.
"Amazing," said Danger, admiring the abundance of weaponry now filling the armory. "Simply amazing."
"Duke Sallos doesn't take pocket change," said Thriller, arms full of exquisitely crafted, enchanted jewelry.
"If they're worth Sally's time, it's worth its weight in Exorcist shit!" Willin' laughed, brandishing a blessing-tipped machine gun, winking. "Does it go with my eyes?"
St. Anger turned to face Danger, arms folded across his chest. "It will be sufficient?"
"More than sufficient," said Danger. "Selling just a tenth of the artifacts you've gathered would generate a prodigious sum both in Hell and on Earth. Once you've the necessary capital, these weapons will help maintain your expanded territory. I will handle things here on Earth, but the time will come when I will need to draw on our Hellish assets."
"Damn skippy!" Blitzo jeered, digging through a pile of boxes, searching for something. "Where is it… where is it… gotcha bitch!"
Blitzo emerged from the pile with a cardboard box, grinning manically. "My loot! Alright, I.M.P.! We're done here!"
"What happened to 'ten percent'?" Moxxie grumbled.
"Worry not, Moxxie," said Blackbird. "Our honor as Il Nove dictates that we allot your organization its due payment. Your boss' idiocy notwithstanding."
"Finally," said Moxxie, eyes wide and sparkling. "Someone who understands."
"Forget all that bullshit!" Blitzo crooned, reaching into the box. "I have the crown jewel of Sally's hoard right here! His most valuable possession! Behold!" Blitzo pulled his hand out of the box, clutched in his hand was a large, ornate arrow. "A Goebel Gray Spotted Horse figur–whuh? Hey, that's not it…"
"Oh, sweet Christ," Blackbird croaked, his eyes wide.
Willin' dropped his machine gun, mouth agape. "Is that–?!"
"Amazing," Danger said, a small smile on his face. "Blitzo, my friend, you continue to impress."
"Blitzo…" St. Anger said, slowly approaching the imp, his hand extended. "I'm going to need you to give that to me."
"Huh?" Blitzo said, eyes darting between the arrow and the stunned gangsters, tucking it behind his back. "Fuck you, it's my loot!"
"Uh, Blitzo?" Millie said, unnerved at the abrupt shift in demeanor from the hardened mafiosos. "Maybe y'should–"
"Rule one of being a big-shot, Mils!" Blitzo said, brandishing the arrow. "You don't take shit from nobody! Not even your friends!"
Il Nove cried out in alarm as Blitzo tossed the arrow into the air with all the aplomb of a former circus performer. The arrow tumbled languidly through the air, all eyes in the room locked onto it's descent. Blitzo opened his mouth wide, straightened his neck, and swallowed the arrow whole. Blitzo did a pirouette and a jump, landing with a flourish, patting his belly.
"Taa-daa!"
Thriller's hands shot to his face, dismayed. "Holy shit…"
"Sir…" Moxxie said, putting his hands together and touching his fingers to his lips before throwing his hands in the air. "THE FUCK?!"
"Urp!" Blitzo belched, thumping his chest with his fist. "Ooh, she's fightin' in there–simple strategy, Moxx! A few hours and a trip around the block and no one but me will want to touch it! Mind games, Moxxie, when you're a genius like me they're second nat–URK!"
Blitzo doubled over, clutching his belly, his face screwed up in pain.
"He's choking on it!" Blackbird cried, turning to St. Anger. "Get it out of him!"
St. Anger extended his hand, his brow furrowing. "I can't! The arrow's taken hold in him. It's up to him, now."
"Oh, crumbs!" Moxxie said, scampering forward. "Hold on, sir!"
Moxxie raced up and feebly swatted at his choking boss' back, only to have Millie leap over, wrapping her arms around Blitzo's abdomen. "One side, Moxx-Moxx! C'mon, Blitzo! Heave!"
Her strong, wiry arms tensed and forced the ball of her hand into his solar plexus, lifting Blitzo off his feet. "Heave!"
Blitzo's face darkened as he choked and sputtered, wheezing every time Millie yanked him into a crushing bearhug. Moxxie stepped out in front of his boss, eyes darting about nervously.
"Come on, sir!" Moxxie cried, wringing out his hands. "Come on! Come on! Not like this! Spit it out!"
Blitzo's brow furrowed as he seemed to call upon one last burst of effort, heaving and retching just as Millie gave a particularly powerful squeeze. With a sound somewhere between a cough and a belch, the slimy, bloody arrowhead erupted from Blitzo's mouth, hurtling across the room towards Moxxie. The imp barely had time to flinch before the glistening arrowhead streaked into his open mouth.
"Phew!" Millie said, setting her limp boss down on the floor. "We got it out! C'mon Moxx! You do compressions, I'll do mouth-to-mouth–Moxxie?"
The other imp stumbled about, hands clutching his throat as he stumbled about, his breath coming in reedy, croaking gasps. Millie sighed and rolled her eyes before sprinting over to her husband. "I told ya that losin' yer gag-reflex was a bad idea!"
With a smooth, practiced motion, she swept up behind the distressed imp and assumed the position, locking her fists about his solar plexus and squeezing.
"I feel like we should be helping?" Willin' said, turning to thriller. "Like, maybe we should–hey, where'd you get that popcorn?"
Thriller chewed, glancing down at the popcorn before shrugging and offering it to the bemused rat-demon.
"Ooh, white cheddar! Nice!"
With a final grunt of exertion, Millie squeezed Moxxie's belly, causing the arrowhead to launch out of his mouth at speed. The arrowhead reflected off a polished Seraphim steel helmet and launched high into the air where it ricocheted off an overhead lamp, streaking back down. All eyes followed the glittering projectile as it caromed off a shield and finally embedded itself in Millie's forehead with a muted 'thunk'.
"Uh…" Millie said, going crosseyed as she looked up at the enchanted metal escutcheon jutting from her skull. "Ow."
Her eyes rolled up in their sockets and, after a moment's tottering, both Moxxie and Millie collapsed to the floor. A pause hung in the air as the assorted demons attempted to compute what just happened.
"What the fuck was that?!" Blackbird spat.
"That was like something out of a Three Stooges routine!" Thriller snickered, his smile fading for an instant. "Aw, shit. Are they dead?"
Blitzo loosed a heavy gasp, his back arching off the floor as he coughed and sputtered. The imp blinked and sat up, shakily rubbing his throat, his voice ragged. "Hack! Ack! Ptooie! Oof! Man, that's a rush! Brrr! I'm suddenly reminded why I was so into choke'n'stroke back in college!" Blitzo looked over at Il Nove and Danger, their faces pale masks of shock. "What? Don't look at me like that! Like any of you guys have never skinned a banana while misapplying a belt! If you haven't, I pity you, you're really missing out."
"Blitzo…" St. Anger muttered, pointing over the imp's shoulder.
"I've seen you make a guy piss barbwire, Angie, don't tell me a bit of autoerotic autofellatio gets you all squeamish! Some people, I swear!" Blitzo said, glancing over his shoulder at the tall, robotic figure in a cowboy hat looming over him, its form flickery and ephemeral. "Heh! Yeah, see, this guy knows what I'm talking about!"
With a start and a squawk, Blitzo shot to his feet and scuttled over to St. Anger, hiding behind his legs, his eyes darting back and forth to where the specter had been. "What the monkey-tits was that?! Danger, lawks-a-mercy, this place is h-h-hainted!"
"Was that what I thought it was?" St. Anger said to Danger. "Could it be…?"
Blitzo stepped out from behind St. Anger, looking around. "Where'd it go–"
He spun around to see the figure stooped over alongside him, evidently looking around with him. An instant later, Blitzo was wrapped around Danger's head, trembling. Danger reached up and peeled the imp off his face, holding him still and he held him out in front of him, forcing him to look at the bizarre spirit. "You're quite safe, Blitzo. The arrow you ate is a powerful artifact that bestows blessings upon the worthy. Meet your Stand."
Blitzo opened his eyes and examined the entity. It was tall, thin, with an unmistakable robotic look, but wearing what appeared to be chaps, a leather vest, and a wide-brimmed hat, at the center of its armored chest was an enormous stop-watch.
"The fuck's a 'Stand'?"
"A Stand is a manifestation of your fighting spirit, sir," Moxxie groaned, sitting up. "Do try to keep up." Moxxie's eyes snapped open wide as he turned about. "Millie?!"
"I'm okay," she said, reaching up and pulling the arrow out of her forehead. "Just a little penetratin' head injury. No biggie. No like last time when Sallie May… stabbed…"
"What?" Moxxie said, evidently too worried for her to notice the pair of glowing Sock and Buskin masks levitating over his shoulders. "What is it?"
"Maybe it's worse than I thought…" Millie put her hand to the wound, surprised to feel not so much as a break in the skin.
St. Anger made his way over as the imps collected themselves off the floor. "Seeing as you have both survived the arrow, it seems that it has successfully generated Stands from your souls. Millie, why don't you try to summon yours?"
Millie glanced over at Moxxie, who was busy watching the two masks bob and weave in the air around him. She looked down at her hands and furrowed her brow, feeling something pulse and surge from within. The air glowed as sparks flashed, her aura flaring to life. A long, serpentine shape took form and, with a final hissing shriek, the form a long, thorny whip appeared in Millie's hands. The whip was covered in cruel-looking thorns and ended in a dagger-like blade, the handle in her hand was black, chorded, with a silver skull on the pommel. The stand writhed and lashed like an angry snake, Millie's eyes lighting up as she felt the manifestation bend to her will.
"Fascinating…" said Danger, watching as Blitzo sat crosslegged on the floor, playing pat-a-cake with his Stand. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given your people's exemplary temerity and resolve. Tell me, Blitzo, do you have any inkling as your Stand's abilities?"
"Give me a second to catch my breath, Danger!" Blitzo said, getting to his feet, his Stand mirroring his movements perfectly. "This is all an awful lot awful fast! I mean, I don't even know his name yet and you're asking me take a peek under his skirt!"
"Well… what is its name?"
Blitzo rubbed his chin, turning around, looking his ghost-like counterpart over, the Stand copying his posture and body language. Blitzo snapped his fingers and smiled toothily. "Steve!"
Danger looked over to St. Anger, clapped his hand to his face, turning back to Blitzo. "You can't call your Stand 'Steve', Blitzo."
"Why not?"
"Just empty your mind and–"
"Done!" Blitzo exclaimed, his eyes facing in different directions.
"–and the name will come to you," said Danger, examining the imp's Stand. "I have to say, I like the aesthetic."
The door to the storage unit opened with a hiss and in walked Loona, eyes on her Hellphone as she strode past Moxxie and Millie. "Hey, anyone know the wifi password to this place? I want to get online and–OW FUCK!"
The hellhound hopped up and down on one foot, growling and spitting as she reached down to her bleeding foot.
"Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better…" St. Anger groaned, rubbing his temples.
"Who's leaving their tacky sharp shit lying around, fuck!" Loona snarled, brandishing the bloody arrowhead in her hand. "Do I have to get this shit purified or whatever?"
"Alright!" St. Anger exclaimed, flexing his magnetic field. "Enough from the arrow for today!"
The arrowhead leapt out of Loona's hand and over to the demonic jester, levitating out in front of him. Danger made his way over and, doffing his cap, obscured the arrowhead from view for a brief instant, pulling it away to reveal empty space.
"It's now safe away in a locked vault, deep within the facility," said Danger, smirking. "Though I rather think the damage has been done."
Loona glanced back down at her foot, cocking her head at the rapidly closing wound. She turned around and saw Moxxie and Millie, the former wearing one of the two glowing masks floating about him, the latter brandishing a rather brutal-looking whip. "Ah shit, is this a sex thing? Gross."
"Scissors!" Blitzo cried, his Stand also choosing scissors. "Tie. Damn. Alright, again! Rock! Paper! Scissors! …Damn! Again!"
Loona sighed and shook her head. "Oh for… what, you dipshits have punchghosts now?!"
"Like you can talk, hot stuff," Willin' said, smirking and pointing.
Loona blinked at turned around, a look of exasperation and dismay spreading across her wolfish face as a glowing, ornately carved door appeared before her. "God damnit."
"Okay I.M.P. listen up!" Blitzo cried, clapping his hands together. "So, we just entered a new phase of our business, and may or may not be ensnared in some kind of insane multiversal plot! But none of that matters right now! What matters is that we've got brand new fancy superpowers! Immediate Murder Professionals, sound off and strike a pose!"
Blitzo snapped his fingers and pointed skyward, his stand appearing behind him in a flash, pointing to the ground. "[Mustang Sally]!"
Moxxie smirked and struck the 'Alas Poor Yorick' pose, the Sock Mask held over his heart and the Buskin Mask in his outstretched hand. "[Masquerade]!"
Millie extended her hands, an identical whip appearing in each one, a third whip appearing in her tail, she let off a machine-gun rapid series of cracks before wrapping the whips around her waist and forearms. "[The Hurt]!"
"This is so stupid…" Loona groaned in disgust and embarrassment, leaning against the ghostly door, arms crossed. "[Bauhaus] or whatever."
St. Anger and Blackbird sighed and shook their heads while Thriller and Willin' applauded. Danger hung back with a low, knowing smile, watching as the team discussed their newfound abilities. So, imps could gain Stands? Hellhounds, too. What of the other Hellions? Or Sinners in Hell? The future held many possibilities, many possibilities indeed.
Lady Belladonna's Orphanage stood out when set against the surrounding cityscape. Baroque styles mixed with lurid noir urban sprawl and slums, but not the orphanage. The building itself was built like a bunker, with small, barred windows, high chainlink fences crowned with razorwire, and high towers marking the perimeter. The courtyard held little in the way of comforts or diversion save for what the children made from the carcasses of cars and various bits of scrap metal salvaged from the shop. The children were, by a vast margin, mostly imps, although succubi and incubi were not uncommon among the throng.
A small caravan of box trucks approached the main gate, their distinctive diesel engines growling like dragons. The gate squealed as it swung open, allowing the half dozen trucks to enter the courtyard and make their way over to the unloading areas. The lead truck pulled to a stop, as did the others. The drivers of each truck, three Hellions to a cab, filed out, weapons in hand. The made their way to the back of the trucks, unlatching the doors and tossing them up. Within the boxes were scores of kids, imps mostly, who immediately set to work unloading the trucks. One truck was full of tires, radio sets, bicycles, even the occasional scooter, while others were full of boxes labeled 'phones', 'wallets', 'watches', and 'misc'. Yet another truck was filled to the brim with small, especially adorable imp and succubi children, in their little hands were sacks filled with bills and coins.
Out of this truck in particular hopped out an older imp. He was tall for his age, which was fifteen, and had long, backswept caprine horns that were well on their way to curling forward, the hair between them stark white and short. On his face we wore a thin frown, stern and set, below a pair of tar-black tea-shades. A flick of his wrist produced a long, metal cylinder, which extended into a long, thin cane, tapping the ground ahead of him as he strode onward. He was blind.
Out of another truck filed a score or so of succubi and incubi. This group was older than the thieves and beggars, but not by much, not by nearly enough. At the head of the group was a tall, shapely young succubus who would have been flawless but for the cold, flinty glint in her rose-colored eyes. She stood off to the side and snapped her fingers, holding out her hand. The other workers filed by, pulling out their stacks of hellnotes, thumbing off a pre-set number off the stack and handing it to her.
"Good… good… okay… lean, Ixie, lean, try the fishnet top next time…" The leader said, snapping her fingers at a vicious-looking girl. "I saw you with that icepick, Sash. Good hustle. Keep your corner like that, you'll have a room in no time."
The blind imp strode past as the succubus leader counted her stack, she saw him and offered a whistle. "Hey Syx! How was the take?"
"Fine Setty," he signed. "Back on the street?"
"You wish! Just showing the new kids the ropes," She laughed, pointing him out to her troupe. "Any of you sluts that can make that imp boy smile gets to keep your share for a week!"
Syx sneered at them, touching his fingers to his lips before grasping his thumb and pulling it out, tersely. "Setty.
"Not even if you paid me!"
The tiny panhandlers walked in single file towards the processing area, where the contents of their bags would be accessed. One, an exceptionally small and doe-eyed imp boy, tottered along behind the rest on a small, twisted clubfoot, unaware of the trio of cruel eyes and sharp smiles following his every move. A pair of hands reached out from behind the tangled clump of rusty metal that served as their jungle gym, yanking the little one into its dark, jagged innards.
"Oof!" The little one grunted as he was tossed to the cracked, disintegrating asphalt. "Hey! What gives?"
"Heya Tobi," one of the older imps said. "Work hard today?"
"Hey, Tucker. And yeah…" Tobi said, grasping his rather full little bag. "Some real nice ladies bought me a sandwich and gave me a twenty."
"A good sandwich?" Another one crooned.
"Yes, it was ham and cheese."
"Well, if you already got a sandwich today," said the third imp. "Then you won't need that twenty, will you?"
"B-but my quota!"
The other two grabbed the little imp and snatched away his bag.
"Hey!"
"Your quota?" Growled Tucker, grabbing Tobi by the collar, hauling him off his feet. "My quota! If we don't scrape up a hundred bucks by tomorrow, Syx will–"
A tail flashed out of the darkness, wrapping around the third imp's neck. The imp croaked as he was hurled across the jungle gym, his skull cracking against a jagged piece of rusty metal. The second imp tried to stammer something out when a cane was stabbed into their eyesocket, pinning their head against a support beam as they screamed and whimpered. Syx stepped out of the shadows, his frown deepening into a snarl as black and pitiless as the lenses of his shades. The larger, teenage imp towered over the two younger ones, Tucker's eyes wide as yellow dinner plates.
"S-Syx, uh, we was just talkin' and, uh…" Tucker's began to say before Syx gestured for him to 'shut up' and snapping his mouth shut like a steel trap.
Syx pulled Tobi out of his hands, handing him his dropped sack of profit and hurrying him along his way. With that done, he turned his full attention to Tucker, who broke down into tears.
"P-please! Y'gotta understand," Tucker sniveled. "I'm g-gettin' too old for beggin'! People don't throw money my way so much, I ain't cute enough no more!"
Syx adjusted his shades and arced an eyebrow, twisting his cane in the other imp's eye, causing them to scream anew. Tucker understood all too well what he was getting at: if you can't be cute, be pathetic.
"No no no no…"
Syx yanked out the cane and reached up, grabbing the boy's horns as he began to pull them apart with all his terrible sinewy strength. Tucker shrieked in pain and squirmed, feet kicking uselessly a few inches off the ground. A low, terrible groaning sounded within his head as his skull was torn between a tug of war of horn and bone, and which would give out first.
Just then, a dull buzz was heard. Syx paused for a moment and fished his phone out of his pocket with his tail, holding it up to his ear as a toneless TTS voice droned: "Lady Belladonna's office, as soon as possible."
With that, he dropped Tucker like a sack of potatoes, his rear bouncing painfully on the hard ground. Syx stopped for a moment tapping his phone for a minute, which then droned: "Patch them up and meet your quota, I don't care how. Never steal from one of us again."
Before Tucker could manage a response, Syx was gone.
Syx made his way down the hallway, the other orphans parting around him like the red sea. At fifteen, he was one of the oldest kids at the 'Donna. Generally, she started selling the kids off around fourteen or so to Overlords or particularly undiscerning royals. The few she kept, she kept for a reason. Syx had been in the 'Donna since he was scratching diaper rash, and took to the work like a hot damn. First begging and panhandling, being a cute enough kid and a blind mute to boot, but quickly graduated to pickpocketing, bike snatching, and car boosting. His body was a nerve, his senses exquisite, there was no sneaking up on him, no lock that could resist his touch, and his nimble hands could slide the rings off an Overlord's fingers while they were fastened around his throat. What's more, he could quickly train up a corps of kids to near his level in a matter of months. Weeks, if he was given leave to be more 'encouraging'.
Oh, yes, Her Ladyship held onto him for dear life.
The 'Donna was run like a prison, and for the most part it was. It had a sweatshop that was euphemistically referred to as 'Home Ec', a chop-shop where the kids worked at auto-repair, detailing, metal-work, etc, and a 'computer lab' where the savants laundered the Orphanage's money as to avoid paying tribute to the local lords. Then, there was the 'carriage house', a large, rather nice building on the other side of the estate, where Setty worked. It had its own entrance.
The less said or thought about that place, the better.
His sharp nose picked something up among the throng, the stench of unwashed kids and teens: cigarette smoke, old cigarette smoke, and perfume.
Speak of the devil.
"Hey, Syx," Setty said as she strode up alongside him. "Boss Lady?"
"Yes," he signed. "You know?"
"What's up? No, she just sent me a text telling me to get up there," she said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening, as if any of these sheep had the sand to spy on the Lady's Lieutenants. "Heard from the usual suspects that a new face showed up. Grown-up."
"New staff?"
"They came in through the front door, so they sure as shit ain't customers."
He wanted to grumble at this, unable, opting instead to click his tongue against his teeth. This was how he communicated with just about everyone, one for 'yes', two for 'no'. Only Setty had bothered to learn sign-language from him, presumably to bicker with him more efficiently.
They entered the room, the office of Lady Belladonna. She was a Sinner, and a real rotten one just from the smell alone, one who'd earned her spot in the Bad End. Not that one needed a nose like his to access Her Ladyship's character, as she was hardly shy about proving it. She was strong, both physically and in terms of will, cowing almost all who came before her, be they her 'wards' or her equally horrid staff. The sound of her footsteps suggested a full, heavy frame, one that had expanded in recent times, ever since she got in bed with a few local gangs to free up funds. Syx sensed that she was presently behind her desk from the creaking of her chair and… the floorboards.
Someone had just stood up, someone big, heavy.
He heard Setty gasp, and not from shock, not quite.
"Ah, Syx! Setty! Please come in!" Lady Belladonna said, her usually hard bark now somewhere between a purr and honk; she was softening her voice, pitching it upwards, presumably for her guest.
"Might I introduce Syx, he's our top field agent. He manages our charity branch and our location and acquisition interests."
The Big Guy moved forward, the wooden floor offering silent protests. Big, but not huge, light on his feet, nimble. The air moved in front of him, a hand was there, extended. It took Syx a moment to comprehend that this guy was extending his hand to him, an imp.
Ah.
Royalty.
That explained everything.
Syx reached out for the hand to kiss the royal's rings and bow, only to have the huge hand twist about and grab onto his and shake it, squeezing with a firm, friendly pressure. When he spoke, his voice was deep and pleasant, like a rumbling engine, but strangely cold. "A pleasure to meet you, Syx."
Syx almost gawped before he remembered himself and returned the handshake. "Klk."
"That means 'yes', Syx here is a blind-mute," said Lady Belladonna in her weird, lilting voice, sounding more like an amorous cow than anything. "And over here is Setty, she manages the, ahem, 'recruitment and service' branch of our organization."
He could hear the Big Guy turn to his counterpart, only to have her fold her hands across her chest. "I don't shake hands."
"Setty!" Belladonna snarled, sounding much more like her usual self. "Manners, you little… hrmph! Just as well, this young lady just got back from work, and hasn't had time to shower! Anyway, you two, allow me to introduce Mr. Red. He will be our newest addition to the family."
"What's he gonna do, corner work?" Setty said, her snark nigh-compulsive. "Do I gotta show him the ropes, too?"
Belladonna sounded as though she were about to bust a gasket when Mr. Red chuckled warmly, prompting her to issue a series of staccato barks that might have passed for laughter in the rougher parts of Hell. "Oh, ha ha ha! Yes! We have fun here, Mr. Red. A lot of fun. Kids, Mr. Red is going to be our new… 'negotiator'. We're planning a few phase for the orphanage, and he will oversee our diplomatic concerns during our expansion. Going forward, he will accompany you and your people out on the streets, Syx. Should any of your people have a disagreement with the local gangs and the like, you let him know and he'll talk it out with them. That goes for your boys and girls too, Setty. Understood? Good. Now, resume your duties."
Syx and Setty nodded in agreement and showed themselves out. When the door swung shut, Setty doubled back on Syx, her unpleasant breath hot and musky on his face as she whispered. "What the fuck what that all about? Expansion? Negotiator?! What–"
Syx pushed her off of him and extended his cane, jamming the tip into the space under the door and put the other end in his ear, able to feel and hear the words said on the other side.
"Formalities out of the way, might I ask what your long-term goals here will be?" He heard her ask. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
"I hope you don't think it impudent of me to say 'doing your job'?"
Belladonna guffawed at this. "If that's your goal, I must suggest that you brush up on how to deal with mouthy little tarts like Setty. She's one of my best girls, but still a simple succubus."
"Quite alright, my lady," said Red, from the sound of it he was facing away, looking out the window at the courtyard. "One must offer allowances to children and their… exuberance."
"We'll agree to disagree on that one, Mr. Red," she said, condescendingly. "I've been doing this for decades, you see. Decades of feeding and clothing and teaching these vermin valuable life skills, all while managing to turn a profit, somehow. And have I received a single letter of thanks? A single expression of gratitude from the men and women I essentially created with my own two hands?"
Red's voice dropped an octave, imperceptible to a billowing lump like Her Ladyship, but clear as crystal to Syx. "I should think not."
"And you would think right!" Belladonna grumbled. "I spent my whole life on earth dealing with the end-results of coddling! Of entitlement! So I spent my whole afterlife seeing that even down here some of the little rats are raised properly, with a deeply instilled work ethic and sense of discipline! I do not spoil my children, Mr. Red, and expect the same from you, if you wish for us to work together."
"Of course," he said, the rage at the edges of his voice like acid in Syx's ears. "I defer to your… vast experience regarding the handling of children."
"Pleased to hear it!" She chirruped, or as near as she was able. "Oh, Mr. Red, I get the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship! A man of your skills and–mmph–robust talents will be most graciously appreciated around here! If there was one crucial element our business has been lacking, it's muscle."
"Pleased to be of service."
"Now, if you don't mind me asking…?"
"Yes?"
"Why here?" To her credit, as much of a self-aggrandizing sow as she was, Belladonna sounded honestly confused. "A man of your talents could find work as an enforcer with any gang. Why here? Why with the children?"
Syx's hackles rose as he sensed the smile spread across Red's face, the tone in his voice suggested nothing low or degenerate, but joyous and honest but undeniably chilling. "Ah, Lady Belladonna… you may think me a fool, and a sentimental one at that, but when I look out there, I don't see vermin or beasts to be trained. I see clay to be sculpted, wood to be crafted. I see…" Syx felt his heart drop into his stomach, his blood turn to ice: Mr. Red was staring at the door, at him. "…Unlimited potential."
"Careful with that, idiota!" Cried the foreman. "Crack just one of those and it's your ass, you understand?"
The worker who was operating the skid steer nodded bashfully, the granite tombstone hanging from the slings attached to the machine's arms swung languidly. "Yessir! Sorry sir!"
The foreman, a hale older man by the name of Luca Colaprete, scoffed and shook his head at the greenhorn as he gingerly made his way out of the graveyard. Under any other circumstances, it would have been nigh impossible to do any sort of construction near a graveyard. Not impossible, mind you, but enough of a paperwork-headache to prompt any sane person to pack it in. But then again, this whole project had a stink about it that just screamed 'special interest', so every conceivable wheel had been greased to push it through. Not that he minded, the pay was good and there was plenty of work. I mean, restoring an old, burnt-out church was one thing, but building a swanky rehab clinic around it? That was a zoning nightmare by itself, to say nothing of the graveyard.
But again, 'special interest'.
There were a lot of rumors around this man, this Giorno Giovanna. Smooth and pretty as a fresh-washed peach, they said, but with a stare so cold you'd swear he called up your Nonna's ghost to breathe down your neck when he looked at you. The new boss of a powerful organization, was the next rumor, and one with a rep and no mistake. Indeed, what the terrifying babyface of Passione wanted, he got, and what he wanted was a rehab clinic built around this church in particular. That meant rebuilding a church, that meant cataloging every gravestone on the grounds, meticulously noting their locations before moving them to avoid damaging the memorials. Lots of work.
But the pay was good.
"Excuse me, signore," said a gently accented, feminine voice from behind him. "What's going on here?"
"The fuck does it look li–" Luca said, words drying up as he turned around.
For the briefest instant he saw something, something terrifying, something huge and inhuman. A dark shape some eight feet tall, a pair of large, glowing red eyes with burning white pupils.
But only for the briefest instant.
Before him stood a tall, pretty–no–a gorgeous young woman, with pale, nigh-alabaster skin and long raven black hair. Her eyes stood out on her perfectly proportioned face, a curious shade of brown, almost maroon, that shone dark red when they caught the sunlight.
Luca found himself uncharacteristically flustered, moving to doff his hardhat when he remembered himself, clearing his throat and straightening his back. "Ah, pardon me, signora! Please, I must ask you to leave, this is an active construction site, and–"
"What are you doing here?" She asked again, more pointedly.
Luca felt a chill race up his spine. Who was this girl? She carried herself like royalty, with an air of untouchability. The only such people in Sardinia who did so, in his experience, were those associated with…
...And this operation was being funded by…
…Was she…?
"Uh…" Luca said, now noticing how all his men had stopped to gawp at the young woman, a scowl from him got them moving again. "We are renovating this church. The site around it will be dedicated to a, er, drug rehabilitation clinic. Right now, we're moving all the gravestones and memorials so we can work without risking them. In fact, the company will replace any lost or damaged headstones at our own expense! Afterwards, we'll put them all back right where they were and have the grounds reconsecrated. I hear they're bringing in a bishop from the Vatican to do it himself!"
The girl seemed not to hear, or wasn't particularly interested if she did, pointing to one grave in particular. "That grave, it's Priest Naso's."
Luca could tell this was a statement, not a question, and checked the graveyard map for himself. "Yes. Yes it is. Are you a relative?"
"Sort of."
Luca cleared his throat, this was a potentially sticky situation. "Well, signora, you needn't worry, my men and I will take personal care to see the headstone back to where–"
"What about that one?" She pointed at the plot of disturbed earth next to it. "That grave."
He turned to see the grave, a patch of disturbed earth, set right next to the late priest's. "Oh, uh, that's… uh… that one doesn't seem to be on the church manifest."
"It belongs to his son, Solido Naso," she said, icily. "He… passed away recently."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Luca said, wincing at the coldness of her voice, the sorrow in her eyes. "I'm sure we must have moved it someplace, but we'll find it and put it right back. If you don't mind me asking, besides the name, what else was on the headstone?"
She looked over at the grave, her eyes going distant and wistful, prompting Luca to pull out his notepad and pen. "He was born in 1967, and he… died in 2021."
The men worked through the spring and into summer, making excellent time as bricks seemed to lay themselves and rotted timbers and cracked foundations were miraculously restored overnight. Throughout the construction effort, though, the beautiful young woman would continue to be seen, sometimes atop the nearby hill, other times across the street, sometimes idly strolling about the site, but never too far from the church, and always watching the graveyard. Before long, a rumor started, a rumor that she wasn't a girl at all, but some manner of spirit. Her habit of appearing and disappearing at random certainly didn't discredit the rumor, nor did the nigh-perpetual look of morose yearning on her perfect face, to say nothing of the odd, greasy texture the air took whenever she came or went. Indeed, the men could tell when she visited from the feeling of pins and needles in their eyes, the raising of hair on their arms and necks. She never caused harm, though, and a laborer swore up and down he felt a hard shove on his back before tumbling out of the way of a dropped skid of bricks. Henceforth she was known as la Signora del Sagrato, the Lady of the Churchyard. The men would cross themselves and pray, not for protection, but that she would find peace when the church was restored.
The church would go on to be restored without incident. In fact, the company set the Sardinian record for the number of lost time accident sheets submitted over a 200+ day period: zero. The rehabilitation clinic was likewise built without so much as a stubbed toe. It was a beautiful structure with ample space and amenities. While not luxurious, it was comfortable and welcoming, staffed by well-paid, passionate professionals from all over the world. Within its walls, adjacent to the main building, was the church, restored, reconsecrated, and staffed. The priest, a jolly, portly gentleman approaching middle age, gladly provided spiritual guidance to his wayward flock. The construction crew noted, wryly, that la Signora del Sagrato had conspicuously vanished upon the reconsecration, leading some to speculate she was some manner of malign entity ejected by the sanctity of Christ. The site foreman, one Luca Colaprete silenced these murmurs and told of the day she first appeared, finishing the tale by pointing to the graveyard.
In the church graveyard there were rows upon rows of their final resting places, each of the headstones polished and restored. At the very end of the site was a headstone that read:
Here lies Priest Alfonso Naso 1925-1986: faithful shepherd, devoted son of God, and loving father
And next to it was another, much newer stone that read:
Here lies Solido Naso 1967-2021: Loving son and beloved friend. My dear, sweet Moonchild
Author's note:
Well, that was big one! So many twists and turns, I think I've deserved a break!
Several breaks.
And a drink.
Several drinks.
Hope you all enjoyed Only the Results! Stay tuned for more!