Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints;
As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer
'Cause I'm in need of some restraint.
So if you meet me, have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste.
Use all your well-learned politics,
Or I'll lay your soul to waste.
- The Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"
Out of darkness, into darkness.
Archer wakes and takes several embarrassing moments to realize that he has not gone blind, that he has merely been blindfolded. Again. Whoever has him now has him kneeling on a hard floor with his hands tied securely behind his back. They have taken his jacket and his shoes. It smells of dust and old books in here, wherever here is. Someone else is in the room; Archer can hear them moving around. He thinks of the large, scarred man with the whip and the top hat and is filled with dread. Is it him? What about the kissing booth girl? Was she in on it the whole time?
Thinking of her triggers a flood of abstract images. A glittering ivory tower standing impossibly high into the sky. Beautiful beings dressed in fineries from different periods. The flutter of wings. Dinners, dances, laughter—
He sees her. Whole. Happy. He sees her singing for others, hears her laughter.
And then?
Chaos. Broken glass. Torn curtains. Furniture knocked over. Fighting, blood, fire. Archer sees her again, only she is fearful and her clothes are torn. There is blood on her lips, fresh wounds to her face; she glances between the blood on her hands and her attacker with and expression straddling the line between confusion and anger. Her efforts to get to her feet fail. A large shadow overtakes her. A hand grabs her hard by the hair. The glint of a knife is visible for a fraction of a second before—
Pain flares up his back as the picture fades and, despite his efforts, an agonized moan escapes from Archer's throat. He falls over sideways and curls up as best he can. The pain ripples and washes over him in waves, intensifying. Archer whimpers. He scrunches his eyes up tight, clenches his hands into fists. Where is this coming from? Memories can't cause this kind of pain can they? How can he even have memories of something he didn't experience?
Hands descend upon him and set Archer back onto his knees. One of them runs through his hair and caresses his face. Somewhere above, someone is shushing him gently.
"The more you resist, the worse the pain gets. Relax. Let it go. Let the thoughts settle in your mind."
That voice. Archer knows that voice. The one that spoke to him underwater and then again here in the carnival after seeing that man with the horns. He hears the voice now, clear as day, and it scares him. If this voice, this person—this man, really—is real…
His captor chuckles, deep and low, as he resumes stroking the young man's hair. "You have nothing to fear, Archer Greene. Your sanity is very much intact. This is no dream, no nightmare. You and I and this entire carnival are very much real."
"Th-then—" Archer hesitates.
"Yes? Go ahead."
But he doesn't want to; if all of this is real, then it means he really is dead and that this…this is Hell. Hell! For what? What did he do that was so horrible? Ditch school. Smart off to authority. Fuck around town, figuratively and literally. Maybe he stole a few dollars when he was desperate, got into a few fights here and there. Sure he drank and swore, but who doesn't these days? Why has he been singled out? Why not the people who beat him, scalped him, cut him to pieces? What about them? Why him instead of them?
Archer drops his head. A small sob escapes him, and with it, the pain he suffered at their hands comes rushing back. Worse still—he can feel the injuries themselves returning, too! His swollen eye, his possibly-broken fingers and ribs; his hair is falling out in tufts and small bundles; there are cuts opening on his face, along his cheeks and lips. And then comes the worst of it, the one that causes him to writhe in his bonds—
"Make it stop—! M-m-make it stop! STOP!" Every sob hurts in a hundred different ways. "Oh God—o-o-oh, God, please, please—!"
"You're in the wrong place if you're looking for God—and even if you found him, I'm afraid he wouldn't help you."
"Then—th-then—a-angh—who are you?" All this pain and still, he finds the strength to speak! How? Where? Is this his captor's doing? Does he get some sort of sick fascination out of it? "Wh-who are—who're you, then? The Devil?"
"I have many names." The blindfold comes away. Light from a lamp comes rushing into Archer's good eye, enough that he can see that he is in a dressing room of sorts and that the figure sitting down across from him is the red, horned man. "That one seems to be popular nowadays. I prefer my given name. You know which one it is."
Archer struggles to get it out. "L—L-Lu—Lucifer."
The horned man smiles. "That's the one. I already know who you are, Archer Greene, and I know that you've managed to lead an impressively colorful life in your twenty-three years of life. Asmodeus would be proud. (He chuckles.) Pardon me."
"S-so you're gonna—nngh—y-you're gonna punish me for eternity."
"I could, yes." Lucifer leans back in his throne of a chair, linking his hands together. "I could torture you a thousand different ways. Fire, instruments, whips, weights, poorly-sung renditions of songs from musicals…but torture grows so boring. It gets old after a while, Archer, so I decided a couple of decades ago that we would do things a little bit differently around here. We were going to have fun.
"Of course, we still have a job to do. This is still a carnival of sinners, after all, and we cannot admit just anyone. I will only have the best here. Fortunately for you, for reasons I can't begin to imagine—" He frowns, rolls his eyes. "—my little darling has taken quite a shine to you."
His little darling? The kissing booth girl?
"That…that was your—nngh!—your daughter?"
The shift of expression would be funny if Archer wasn't in so much fucking agony. At first, Lucifer looks bewildered. Then the expression shifts briefly into disgust, then into amusement. He laughs and it sounds like the rumble of thunder.
"The Painted Doll, my daughter? No! Please, no! Do I honestly look like I could produce something that lovely from my loins?" Lucifer asks.
No. No, he does not.
"But we are family, of a kind, and I am inclined to spoiling her when she wants something. She's had it so hard for such a long time…but you know all about that, don't you?" When Archer risks the agony to look confused, Lucifer taps at his own temple with one long nail. "She showed you, didn't she? She doesn't show just anyone. You should consider yourself special, especially since she wants to keep you."
"Like a…pet?" Archer asks.
"I don't understand it at all." He shakes his head. "What do you possibly have to offer me? You're not exactly a looker lately. Have you seen yourself? (He gestures to a mirror.) Shall I show you—?"
"No. P-please don't—I-I—" Archer squirms. "I-I don't want—p-please—"
"You don't want to see what they've done to you."
Archer bows his head. "N-no. Not if—n-not if I have t—to look this way for eternity. I'd ra—ather be blind than see—"
"And you would rather be dead than continue living like a mutilated corpse." Archer nods, keeping his head bowed no matter how much it hurts. Lucifer claps his hands once. "Mortals and their vanity. It's precious. Never gets old."
With a chuckle, he rises. The steps he takes as he begins to pace sound heavy and full of purpose.
"I suppose…that I could help you. You must bear the marks of your sin—for we are, after all, in the business of punishing wayward sinners like yourself—but you can spend your eternal years with the looks and skills that made you such a favorite back home. But nothing here is gotten for free, my boy, so you must tell me now…" Lucifer leans down and tilts Archer's face up to his, eliciting whimpers. "How could you possibly be of any use to me?"
The answer comes automatically, without thinking. "I can defend her."
"Defend her?" He tightens his grip. "And what makes you thinks she needs defending? Hm?"
"Not from people. From… I could keep her warm. Keep her company. She's so cold…so lonely…" The words feel as though they are coming from somewhere else, somewhere outside of himself. He is just the mouthpiece. "Do you ever…get lonely?"
Archer feels a hundred miles away, like maybe the only reason he is still upright has to do with Lucifer's hold on his chin. Sure enough, when the horned man releases him with a sneer, he falls over again with a painful thud.
The last thing he hears before succumbing to unconsciousness is the Devil asking, "Let's find out how you are knives."