Author Note: My thanks to the people who put this on their alerts! And my biggest thanks are with Chels, because that review put the biggest smile on my face (I'm really hoping the story will kick arse, I guess we'll find out! MAJOR thanks!). I hope you like this chapter, when we're getting into the actual characters. Oh yeah, the little quotes at the start tend to be from songs or books. Just what I was thinking when I wrote them. I've discovered some really cool songs from things like this, so I thought I'd add to the karma. Oh, and usually updates won't be so fast, but I wanted to get the chapters involving the characters out there.
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It's dark, and it's cold, you're alone – but you're free. Isn't that what you wanted?
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Most of the people Asmodeus saw were adults, driving in their cars to work, a few other cars crammed with teenagers. It left them alone. Possession could cause several seconds in which neither soul had full control of the body and if it crashed and died in that moment, there was no way for it to easily find a new host before being dragged along with the mortals soul. There were children, either walking with parents or alone, heading to school. They were of no use to it either, the parent seeming harried and worn, the children far too young to be capable of what it required and less able to blend in. What it needed was someone in their late teens or early twenties, strong, fit, the perfect host for it to flee the place it had arrived in and be able to have some fun. Gender, appearance, background, all irrelevant, although as far as personality was concerned, it preferred passivity for his initial host. It could subdue anyone who tried to fight him, but it would be so much easier if there were no resistance.
A teenage boy slouched into view, hood raised against the cold so that only his eyes were visible, over sized jeans trailing in the snow. It considered him briefly, then noted the boy raising a hand in greeting. A moment later, he walked up beside a car pulling out of a driveway, the boy driving dark-haired and well built, possibly some kind of athlete. Of the two of them, it would have preferred the driver, but had already decided to play it safe and let the pair escape it.
A girl opened the front door of the drivers house and shouted something at the leaving car. It took interest, this seemed like a good proposition – but then she slammed the door closed and it let her escape too. The house was no barrier to it, but it didn't think her display of temper showed much passivity.
Waiting, it saw another child pass and let her go – maybe eleven, far too young – and then its interest was caught by another figure, heading in the direction the car had vanished in.
A boy, it decided after a moment, five-ten perhaps. Blonde hair spilled past his shoulders, tied back neatly but loosely, several stray tendrils already escaping the bond. His skin was clear, face androgynous, nose aquiline. He walked with his head up and back straight in marked contrast to the slumped gait of previous boys, but there was something, a slight stoop to the shoulders, that suggested the posture was held by willpower rather than a genuine carefree attitude. Cheap but smart jeans showed from beneath a jacket designed for someone several inches shorter, who lived somewhere several degrees warmer. One hand hung on to the bag on his shoulder, the sleeve of the jacket riding up to display a fading bruise on the wrist that resembled smudged fingerprints.
He was young, seemed healthy enough, alone and on foot. He fit the criteria it had been looking for.
It flew unseen toward the boy, finally giving voice to its command.
LOOK AT ME!
The boy turned, startled, not hearing exactly but receiving the message on some subliminal level – and obeying it unquestioningly.
As it went for him, it saw the boys eyes were open wide, sky blue, expressive and questioning and somehow lost.
And then it was within his subconscious and seeing through those eyes, giving names to its surroundings with the boys knowledge, using his memories as keys of power and control.
~:~:~:~
Philip, his name is Philip, but everyone calls him Pip, he used to hate it but he's got used to it and he's stopped noticing how much he dislikes the nickname, he's from England and his peers mock him for how he sounds, he's always tried to fit in but every attempt makes him stand out, he has no family, no friends, no one cares about him...
A natural born victim. How convenient.
The boys voice is bewildered. "What... what was that?"
"You have a demon, child," it says dismissively. "So nothing you do while I'm here is on your conscience. Doesn't that make you feel better?"
"I – I don't understand..."
"There is nothing to understand. You are my host now. You'll be released, once I deem it in my best interests."
It's amusing to watch the boy fight its control, it reflects as it senses the struggle for movement and the rising panic at finding his body is no longer at his disposal, that he is merely a passenger in his own flesh. The attempts are futile, but give it some brief amusement.
"This – this can't be happening!"
"It is happening child, it is. Accept it, and things will be easier for you."
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Asmodeus."
"Well Asmodeus, I'd prefer not to be possessed. If you could be so good as to release me?" The boy is striving for a reasonable tone, but the tremor is obvious.
It laughs. "Why?"
"Um, because it's my body and I'd like it back before my maths test?"
"Child." Its voice is grieved. "You would relinquish what I can give you for dry learning?"
"I really don't think you have anything I want."
"Freedom, child. True freedom."
"I don't understand..."
"It's simple really. You've spent your life under a burden, pressure to be nice, to be good, to accept rejection with a smile and return scorn with good humour. To laugh along with the joke, even when the joke is you, when your pain is their pleasure. And where has your lack of resistance got you?"
"..."
"You are, as you have always been, an outcast. From the moment you were uprooted from your home to this country, taken from everything you knew, everything that was familiar. Even the language was a false comfort, a landscape that should have been known but was filled with traps. And the people who brought you here, should have taken care of you and guided you, instead abandoned you to whatever fate awaited you."
"They couldn't help it! They – they died!"
"Oh yes, the accident that would never have happened if they hadn't come to this country. They gambled and lost and it was you who was left to pay for it. Sent to an orphanage in a redneck county in Colorado. You should have been just another faceless, anonymous boy, but they couldn't even let you have that, could they? They wanted to make your Englishness a selling point, like a second-hand car that's just a bit different, in a showroom full of other models. So they dressed you like a sheep and sent you out among the wolves –"
"You're mistaken! That's not how it was!"
"Isn't it? Don't you remember how you objected, how the directors of the orphanage turned those sad smiles on you and claimed they just wanted what was best? Not that it actually helped. They should have known that people in this country want some All-American kid, one that thinks that football involves neither foot nor ball and doesn't have strange clothes and a foreign accent. Whenever a prospective parent came along, they always passed you over, didn't they?"
"I – it was just that..."
"You weren't what they were looking for. You weren't what they wanted. Always passed over in favour of some other boy, one of the ones who pushed you around or stole your clothes while you slept. And even when you wished them well and tried to tell yourself you were happy for them, wasn't there something else? Jealousy? Resentment?"
"No!"
"Oh child. Of course there was. They were being chosen, not you. They were wanted. You were not."
It suppresses a chuckle as it senses Pip's struggle for a rebuttal to this comment. All of his memories were open to it, every event and every emotion tied with them. All those things were easy to bring to surface of the mind, pushing deeper to confront him with things he hadn't even wanted to admit to himself. It could sense his despair, the way his resistance was fading when presented with a truth that had been twisted to suit its purpose, but no less real.
"And that was just at the orphanage, child. At school though, you weren't overlooked as often as you wished you could be. You were ignored often, true, but when it came time to play – well, the other children played with you, didn't they? Not that you liked the games. Spitting games. Punching games. Target practice. And then they ignored you again, until they felt the need to scream some insult."
"I had friends."
"You had one fr..."
It trails off, suddenly surprised. Pip's memories recall a child, one who had spent time briefly at the school and been around Pip because they were as unpopular as each other. Pip had been willing to let the other boy push him around, mostly pleased that finally, he had someone to talk to, sit with. Pip's memories are slightly hazy with time, but it knows exactly how to bring the past to sharp and painful clarity and for the first time since possessing the boy, it begins to feel afraid.
Damien. The Antichrist. A child still in the boys mind, not as he had been in Hell before it had escaped, but the same person.
Why would this boy know of the Antichrist? Is there any way it can be traced by Hells minions?
It examines the memory and relaxes. The two had been briefly acquainted during one of Satan's visits to the mortal world, but once Damien had been taken back to Hell, Pip had never heard from him, hardly even thought of him. It's a coincidence and a nasty surprise, but it is nothing to prevent him from using this host.
Hoping the boy has not noticed the hesitation, it continues. "You had one friend in elementary school, a circle of people around you who either bullied you or only remembered you when it suited some plan of theirs. You asked for help, do you recall? It got so bad that you broke silence for the first time ever and asked a teacher to do something. He advised you to be overly nice so that the other children would accept you. That was what you'd been doing all along of course, you tried to explain it but he didn't seem to listen and nothing changed. Or rather, they changed for the worse."
It can feel Pip trying to argue, but relentlessly continues. "Those were the good years, the easy years. You started getting noticed later on much more, didn't you? You became everyone's stress relief. Had a bad day, a fight with your girlfriend or your parents, failed a test? Go beat up Pip Pirrup. He bleeds better than hitting a punchbag or a pillow. And people only notice to laugh, or else they turn their heads and look away. And it's not long until you're eighteen. Now, all you have is the roof over your head provided by the state and a basic education. In a few months, you won't even have that. You'll be turned out, told to leave. All you've known of life is misery and ridicule and maybe, just maybe, that's all there is for you, no matter where you go."
There is silence. It takes malicious pleasure in a job well done, manipulating the boys fears and shame and hang-ups into an unpleasant tapestry. There is only one more thing to do.
"Child..." It's voice is a caress, the aural equivalent of a gentle touch. There is still silence, the boy lost in his sorrow, but maybe, maybe yearning for the promise in that voice.
"All those people who rejected you, abused you. Your parents, your carers, the would-be families, teachers, friends. But now, I have chosen you – and I can give you what you want. We can show all those people the error of their ways, teach them to respect you. You can throw off their authority, obeying the rules that make you the victim, always the victim. Finally, you can be the person you always should have been."
The boys voice is small, but sure. "Asmodeus... I don't think I want that."
It is surprised. It did not expect to be denied, having shown the boy the tragedy of his existence and the chance of escaping it. And it is angry too; it had hoped for passivity but surely there was some spark of rebellion in the boys soul? Is his compliance to the mortals pathetic moral code so great that he would reject an offer to be without it?
No, it realises, examining the boys intent. He did wish for change and he did feel frustration and anger and longing, but he is unwilling to go to any length to express those things, even if the perfect opportunity came along, as it has done. He is the rare soul that genuinely wishes no harm on those who harm him. And he does not trust the demon.
It doesn't matter. It is in charge here and although it would have suited him to have the boys agreement, no matter how tentative, it does not need it. Burrowing through the boys knowledge, it discovers the analogy it needs.
"Then call this a free trial," it says, letting some of the pleasantness leave its voice. "Since you don't have a choice in what happens now, it doesn't have to be on your conscience. Although I'm not sure you'll be able to ignore the consequences."
It laughs at the flurry of protests, deciding the situation is not all bad. It might be nice to have a wholly unwilling passenger in its first outing. He had hoped that the host would strike a deal, thinking he was allowing it to take his body when in reality there was no way he could stop it. And when it stood in the destruction of the hosts life, it could have uttered protest. "This is freedom, pure freedom – no rules, no limits, no mercy. Isn't that what you wanted?"
But there will be other hosts and those things can wait.
~:~:~:~
Anyone who was observing Pip Pirrup might have noticed a subtle change in him just after crossing the train tracks. Strolling to school, he turned sharply as if hearing a call, then stopped walking, staring vacantly. After maybe five seconds, his eyes refocused and his previously mild expression underwent a minor change, his lips curling and eyes narrowing until his face was almost sly. Glancing from side to side, he pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket and examined the contents with a weary frown that would tell the casual observer that there was not enough cash within for whatever the boy might need it for.
Had anyone been watching, they would have seen him put the wallet back, glancing up at the road ahead of him, the one that eventually led to the school. Straightening up, he began striding in that direction, the confident walk of someone who has never had to worry about being singled out.
If anyone had cared enough to watch Pip, they might have thought it strange. But no one ever noticed Pip. No one at all.