Get Out Alive: Syx

Chapter 1: Good Man

Syx stood at attention behind the rails of the mezzanine, gritting his teeth at the concentrated murmuring of 40 or so Shop kids bombarded him. The Shop was loud, even when the infernal machines weren't hammering and roaring. The Shop kids were a gruff, brazen sort, partially from the camaraderie that comes from such an operation, though Syx suspected that many of them were at least partially deaf. The clanging of a wrench on the rail sounded over the din and the chatter died down. A low 'ahem' sounded over the relative silence.

"Alright team! This will be business as usual, with a few little tweaks," announced Diamanti, the Shop foreman, his usual piercing bark now a strange, lilting mutter that still carried across the Shop. Syx could sense the slightly nervous edge to his voice, no doubt due to the very noticeable presence standing to his left. "First thing's first. This is Mr. Red, he's our new negotiator. You out there in the acquisitions are to report to him in the event of interference. As of today we're moving into new territory. If anyone tries to muscle you out, you run like we always do, but not before sending Mr. Red the coordinates of the mark and a rundown of who ran you off. Ma assures me that Mr. Red will be able to reach a satisfying compromise with just about anyone. That said, I'm going to have to ask you guys to keep a head on a swivel and pick the usual fare, at least until we get a feel for the locals. So no fancy cars or tricked-out rigs, understood?"

A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd.

"Next up is our new supervisor, Kabby." Syx heard a slight twinge of distaste from the Sinner. "He'll be overseeing target selection and security bypass. He's mostly serving in the former category, at least until we get more acquainted with the new turf. You all out on the streets use your hellphones to send him pictures of your targets, we'll give you the 'yay' or 'nay'. Anything to say, Kabby?"

A voice came, one Syx didn't recognize. "Yeah. Alla you grabbers, I'll be wanting you to send me front, back, and side pics of the candidates, followed by the odo, make sure I can make out the mileage. Then, I want you to turn on the hextech apps on your phones and check the locks, tires, and engines. Send me the results. We don't want to be hauling back anything belonging to someone who matters. That clear?"

Another murmur of agreement.

Syx had heard that Red had showed up with an imp and had managed to get Boss Lady to hire the ringscraper, somehow, but had never actually heard the guy talk. He sounded old. Not in the sense that he was aged or wizened, but possessed of a familiar, tired sort of resignation to his fate. Still, there was an edge to his voice that Syx couldn't quite place. An edge that suggested… something.

"Okay, then!" Diamanti announced. "Load up and move out!"

The crowd began to disperse as the grabber teams bunched up and talked among themselves. He set his hand on the rail and made his way over to the stairs. He remembered the exact number of strides and number of steps of an almost instinctual nature, descending the metal stairs with an uncanny grace that would have been noticeable even for a sighted person. Syx hopped into the air, only briefly touching the railing as he cleared it, setting down on the floor with feline silence. He turned around to the workstation under the stairs, to the clicking and clacking he could hear emanating from there. The dull 'whuf' of a flame moving about sounded as the Satyr turned to face him.

"Heeey, Syx!" Came a voice, feminine and shrill with manic energy. "What's good?"

Her name was San. At 13, she was one of the older kids in the Shop, and the only Satyr. As natives of Lust, her kind were usually relegated to the Carriage House or street-walking, but San's early-onset penchant for manic episodes and incipient pyromania disqualified her outright. Luckily for her, she had a knack for machinery and gadgetry in all its forms, landing her a spot in the Shop from a young age. That knack had since grown into something approaching genius.

"Klk-klk," he replied.

"Aw? Too bad, what's the problem?"

Syx crossed his arms and puffed out his chest, standing straight as a soldier.

"Yeah, Mr. Red's got a lot of kids a bit on edge."

"Klk?"

"Yeah, I mean, you couldn't tell, but the guy looks like he stepped in something and can smell it." She snickered, adding: "Guess that means no pizza for us."

Syx sighed and shook his head. Big Guy got Dealt with, no doubt. No one who treats the kids well lasted long around here, but Boss Lady must have really wanted to hang on to this one. Still, all that meant was that he wouldn't be nice to them. That was a step up from some of the others.

"Syx!" Emerson called out from one of the truck bays. "We're heading out!"

"Ooh! Hey!" San said, grabbing something from her workstation. "Here! I just finished it!"

He bared his teeth as her hand wrapped around his wrist, turning his palm up. An instant later a cylinder somewhat over a foot long was plopped in his hand. It was heavy and solid, wrapped in supple leather for grip. His new cane.

"That's three pounds of spring-steel forged into cylinders that telescope into the handle. A bit heavier, but you can really whack a fool with this bad boy!" San explained, sounding very proud of herself. "Works a lot like your old cane, you press the button and it pops out, except this one uses a special spring-piston - courtesy of yours truly - so it'll be a lot easier to collapse than the spring-powered one."

He pressed the button and felt the thing jolt with a popping hiss. He tapped the tip against the ground, nodding approvingly at the lack of give or shift to it. He set the rounded metal tip against the hard plastic cap on his wrist and collapsed the can back into its original form; it was much easier, but then anything would have been easy compared to the heavy coil spring he was used to. "Klk."

"Well, you're gonna love this!" San chirruped. "Getting rid of that spring freed up a lot of space, so I put in a little something extra!"

Syx's eyebrow raised up from under his dark teashades.

"Yeah! Feel around near the top, there's this really stiff button, yeah?"

He did and there was. "Klk?"

"If you get into any real bad trouble, you press that button and the CO2 cartridge in the handle goes off and that bad boy pops out like a captive bolt!" She said, a manic edge creeping into her voice. "It'll put a dent the size of your fist in an oil drum! It's a one-shot, though, so only use it when you gotta!"

Syx was internally relieved that it wasn't a zip-gun or flamethrower or some such nonsense. This was a good product, as usual. He shot her a thumbs up. "Klk."

She giggled and clapped. "Thanks!"

"SYX!" Emerson bellowed.

"Better get going!"

Syx nodded and made his way over to trucks as the other kids loaded on. He cocked his head as someone strode by him, his footfalls silent but heavy on the mild steel of the loading ramp, his somewhat briney natural scent underscored with a hint of burning wires. In that moment as they passed, Syx could have sworn he heard something come from Red, a strange sort of thrumming, like distant bass from a tricked out roadster, but also different. Red's stride shifted slightly, his left footfall just a moment's delayed from his right: he was looking over his shoulder. He was looking at him.

Syx fought back a shudder and stepped into the back of the boxtruck. He was greeted by the other kids already there, four of them in total. With that, he shut the door and pounded on the front of the box. The truck lurched and was off.


The drive over to the hunting grounds was silent. Emerson, one of the remaining street managers, sat stiff behind the wheel, hands gripping the wheel at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock, hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The radio played the usual drivel, pop music, war updates, and ads for products and businesses that ran the gamut from inane to insane to outright fraudulent. Red Nightmare sat in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window, looking at nothing as Hell passed by. Emerson's eyes were glued on the road, only glancing over in his peripherals. Part of him lamented being stuck with this maniac again, terrified to say or do the wrong thing and get smeared like chunky jam. He didn't miss Evil Eye or Strokes, mind. They were the kind of bastards who were to bastards what bastards are to assholes. Still, that didn't make their abrupt, messy, and permanent eliminations any less horrifying. Lady Belladonna had somehow dug up some kinda Shiny-packing heavy-hitter to be her enforcer, and now he had to ferry the psycho around!

Emerson was an unremarkable sort of Sinner, tallish and resembling perhaps some manner of cybernetic… thing. His hands appeared to be robotic, but he could feel with them, and they sure as hell bled when cut, and over his eyes was a silvery rectangle with a black screen, his eyes a pair of pixelated spheres with slit pupils. There were a few other random implants here and there in idiotic places, but he tried not to think about them. He hated this place. He'd been in Hell since he got whacked in Jersey for slinging Cartel coke in Mob territory. That had been 1981, meaning he'd been here about 40 years… if time actually meant anything Down Here. Whatever, 40 E-Days survived was as good a metric as any. In all that time he'd never quite managed to determine what his organic parts were supposed to be. Slick but not slimy, kinda rubbery, with odd little fleshy tendrils sticking out in various places. He found he could kinda smell or taste with them. Gowan from the Carriage House joked that he was similar to a lamprey. A moment's research revealed the comparison to be unflattering, though he admitted that his circular, tooth-ringed mouth lent credence to it.

He glanced over at the tall Sinner, with his chiseled features and gorgeous flowing locks of rose-colored tentacles. Man, some guys had all the luck! Specifically, guys who weren't him. Shit, if his luck held out, the Vees would be back, in force this time, and Emerson didn't reckon that Red would stick his neck out to save his clammy hide. Huh. Actually, how bad did he whup the Vees last time? Would they be coming back?

"Well?" Red said, not turning from the window.

Emerson's guts turned to ice. "W-what?"

"Ask." Red turned to him, expression noticeably irritated, the big galoot had been in a rough mood all day, a far cry from his former easy-going candor. "In a few seconds you're going to engage in a tedious preamble to glean information regarding the Vees. The thrust of it all is to ask if I think they'll cause us trouble today."

"Uh–"

"It's possible," Red interjected, looking back out the window. "The terms I sent them are simple and the message was clear. If we see them today or tomorrow, it means the Vees accepted my terms and want to resolve this dispute cleanly. Longer than that, the risk of them marshaling a retaliatory force increases. However, given the current state of the Turf War in PC Central, it's unlikely they'll pull any heavy-hitters from the frontlines."

Emerson turned back to the road, throat dry. "So–"

"If we see them today, they're coming back with terms," said Red, tapping his chin. "They probably won't kill you."

That was hardly comforting. "Ah."


The four trucks pulled to a stop in a new area of the expanded territory, specifically in the large, mostly empty parking lot of a derelict shopping mall. The neighborhood was more well-heeled than their usual hunting grounds. Most cars on the street would qualify as 'nice' in their old territory, but were clearly dingy, second-hand and utterly mundane compared to the more modern vehicles parked outside strip-joints and drug dens. They would stay away from the latter… for now.

Kabby hopped out of the truck and set about unloading the kids from the box. This truck's team was composed of a female hellhound, two imps, and a brutish incubus named Dew. Kabby had only bothered to remember the incubus' name because the kid had the Knack, a combination of a photographic memory and an intuitive understanding of all things mechanical. It made him more or less the leader of every team he found himself on. Dew was also an absolute brute, prone to throwing tools, parts, and smaller kids when het up, which was often. He was a good-looking kid, as all incubi are, but wore an ugly scowl that was less an expression and more a facial feature. Kabby would be surprised if the brat had ever smiled in his entire life. He was big for his age, which was 12, 5'8" and around 160 lbs of lean, greyhound muscle and oppositional defiance. He was dressed in the standard cover-alls that all the Shop Kids wore, the top folded down and wrapped around his narrow waist, revealing the stained, grimy tanktop underneath. Kabby mused ruefully that the kid's looks and build would land him in the 'Donna's less palatable trades before long, were it not for his temper and power-tool personality.

"This the new turf?" Dew grunted, glancing around, red eyes set and hard, glinting. "Nicer. Still a shithole."

It didn't take a genius to figure out what the kid was thinking, Kabby snapped his fingers, drawing his attention. "No funny business, y'hear? Normal fare, no hotrods. No fancy wheels."

Dew sneered, helping one of the younger imps out of the truck box. "Whatever, old man."

"Hey…" Kabby said, forebodingly.

"We'll just keep boosting second-hand slushboxes and bondo'd hoopties, then?" Dew said, crossing his muscular arms across his broad chest. "What the fuck'd we even bother coming out here for?"

Kabby sighed and shook his head. "You send me the deets before you crack a can, got it? Before. I'll give the yay or nay and send over the truck. If it's too nice, the owner will track it back to the Shop."

"I heard you the first time, Krabby," said Dew, rolling his eyes.

Kabby's lip twitched. 'Krabby' was his nickname around the Shop, and one he didn't particularly care for. He'd earned it on his first day when he'd seen just what carnage these little bastards got up to back there. Calling it a 'shop' was generous, possibly even ironic. 'Scrapyard' was probably closer to the truth. 'Abbatoir' wasn't too much of an exaggeration.

"Just don't cause us any trouble, Dew." Kabby said, jabbing a finger in the lad's face. "We've already stepped on some toes out here, we don't need any more eyes on our operation than there already is!"

"Yeah, I heard." Dew scoffed, jabbing a thumb at the large Sinner stepping out of the lead truck as a nervous leech-demon, Emerson, opened the back, allowing Syx and four other kids to hop out. "Will we be getting pizza, too? Or is your Daddy gonna sit around all day like the rest of you dipshits?"

"Is there a problem here, Kabby?" Red said as he approached. "We're all clear on the rules, yes?"

Kabby regarded Dew. "Are we?"

"Crystal," said the young incubus, staring defiantly up at the towering Sinner. "We call you when things get hairy, yeah?"

Red smiled, it was that little smirk he afforded people he found interesting; the kind of smirk one might spare a small animal puffing up in a threat display. "Yeah."

"Hope at least one of you Staffers can do your jobs, then," said Dew, turning to follow the rest of his team to the meeting area.

With that, the kids trod off to the meeting area, Syx at the head of the group of Shop Kids, his text-to-speech device already droning. Kabby sighed and shrugged, turning to Red. "That's the one I told you about."

Red nodded. "Strong."

"And about as agreeable as a kidney stone." Kabby scoffed. "He'll cause us trouble before the day is out, I guaran–"

He stopped, Red was still watching Dew as the boy regarded the blind imp with uncharacteristic respect, nodding as the mechanical voice raised various points. His hand was resting over his left breast pocket, where… it was.

"What? Like that?" Kabby whispered. "Him?"

"Another one for the list." Red nodded, pointing to Syx as he wrapped up his 'speech'. "But I'm focusing on that one today."

Kabby shook his head. Red already told him of his 'chat' with Setty, the pretty alpha-bitch of the orphanage. To him, it was madness, giving these kids that kind of power. But then, he supposed, a ghostly manifestation with weird tricks was barely a concern for something like Red Nightmare. Still, now that the Boss Lady had a leash around his neck, maybe his Boss was of a mind to try something radical. Part of him wanted to ask, but another, larger part of him didn't really want to know.

"Hey…" Emerson said, creeping up next to him. "What are we whispering about?"

Both Kabby and Red glanced at the Sinner, whose naturally clammy skin took on a sheen of nervous sweat. Without a word, both took off for the meeting, the speech was wrapping up.

Emerson nodded, following them after a moment. "Gotcha."


Syx pocketed his phone and popped one of the bluetooth speakers into his ear. Until he had this neighborhood mapped out in his head, he'd need the phone to direct him to anyone who needed help. The Shop Kids clustered together in their teams and took to the streets. The Shop Kids could usually handle themselves, being cannier than the beggars and grifters, and less exposed than the Girls. Not to say they didn't catch a lot of flack, but they could usually iron out any wrinkles on their own. Usually with a creatively applied tire iron.

"Form up, staff!" Red barked at the Staffers. "Now comes your debriefing."

Syx shuffled off after the kids, leaving the adults to go over whatever bullshit it was they talked about.

"That means you, too, Syx." Red called out. "Get over here."

Syx stopped mid-stride. He was staff?

"Oh, sure!" A gruff, feminine voice said, Syx recognized it as belonging to one of the Carriage House staff, but failed to put a name to it. "Your pet ringscraper on staff, why not start hiring the fucking kids?"

Syx made his way over to the source of the voices, cane tapping as he did. He stepped around a concrete island standing proud from the asphalt of the parking lot. His nose picked up notes of earth and woodchips, dry decaying leafs: the thing had a tree on it, a dead one. It also had an imp camped out on it, the smell of body odor and grimey, filthy clothing a sour flick to his sensitive snout. The Sinners apparently didn't notice or, more likely, didn't care that this hobo was about to be privy to their debriefing. They all stood in a close semi-circle around Red, standing on Syx's left was -judging by the smell of sweat and old socks- Emerson, and on his right was one of the female Sinners. She reeked of that particular brand of cheap perfume the Carriage House Staff wore, the kind that neatly masked the odor of old sweat, saliva, and other such things.

"Whatcha doin' here, kid?" The imp grumbled, his voice coarsened by gutrot swill and handrolled cigarettes. "What're them fallers doin' witcha?"

Fallers. A slur the Hellborn tossed at Sinners, usually when their backs were turned. At the 'Donna, saying it or any of the sundry list of ugly names for the Damned within earshot was the fastest way to visit Doc Habbo… or the dumpster if he couldn't patch you up. More than a few of his less reserved peers had sounded off at the wrong time and 'retired' in such a fashion.

"Alright then," Red began. "To those of you presently covering for Eye Watkins and Strokes, let me just say now, thank you for your understanding. As soon as new drivers can be procured, you will be back in your old positions."

"Yeah, yeah, we don't give a shit," said the female voice. "What're the chances the Vees come back? I ain't sticking my neck out for any of these little shits, not for this pay!"

"Of course," said Red, not a hint of animosity or offense in his voice. "As Miss Lauper so succinctly put it, the chief concern right now is the Vees. I am expecting a response from them soon, perhaps today. Not to worry, the odds of them resuming an offensive is very low. If they do show up, I advise you all to remain calm and notify me. I will handle things from there."

"Uh-huh?" Another voice said, also female. "Just like you 'handled things' for Watkins and Strokes, right? You gonna handle things for us, too?"

"Cardi," moaned Emerson, dread clear in his voice. "Shut your mouth, for the love of Lucifer."

"Pssh!" Lauper scoffed. "Grow a dick, Emerson! Boss Lady had a chat with Muscles here! See that look on his face this morning? Fucker's been Dealt with!"

Syx adroitly avoided a hard shove from the Sinner, stepping back and away from the incipient situation. So, Red had been Dealt with. Unfortunate, but no great loss.

"Not that Ma gives shit one about anyone, but I bet she's sore us actual earners are out here driving shit-stinking ringscrapers around! Lemme guess, no more impromptu 'firing', am I right Shamuu?"

Red said nothing.

Syx flinched with surprise as the sound of a hand connecting with a cheek split the air. A dirge-like gasp rose from the assembled staff. Even Syx was stunned. He recalled Setty complaining about a slap-happy Carriage House Staffer who was too big for her britches, if he had been listening he probably would have recalled the name 'Lauper'.

Red said nothing, but the sound of stripped wires and popping cracks sounded immediately. Lauper scoffed and turned to the other Staffers. "See? Ma's got Jaws on a leash! He can't do a fucking thing to us now!"

"Hm." Red grunted, strolling past her, his tone indicating he didn't even register the incident. "Your concerns regarding my managerial style have been noted, Miss Lauper. Any constructive criticism is welcomed, of course. As to the other point you raised, you're mostly correct. Mostly."

"The fuck does that mean?" Lauper said as Red walked over to the island or, more specifically, the hobo camping there. "Huh? Fuck! Where'd that thing come from?"

"My terms with Lady Belladonna include some very… specific stipulations," said Red, now looming over the hobo if the imp's terrified breathing was anything to go by. "I am not to terminate any employment contract without first arranging a suitable replacement, you see."

Lauper stepped back, almost bumping into Syx as she did. Red continued, now speaking to the winebum. "Excuse me, sir. What's your name?"

"Uh…" The hobo grunted, licking his very dry lips with an equally dry tongue. "Macks, uh, sir."

"Pleased to meet you, Macks. My name is Red Nightmare. How well do you know these streets, Macks?" Red said, his tone cordial. "This neighborhood?"

"Lived here all m'life, Mr. Nightmare," said Macks, now sounding more confused than scared. "Real well, I reckon. Used to drive a delivery truck, sir."

"Really?" Red said, his tone convincingly that of pleased surprise, but for some inexplicable reason Syx knew Red wasn't surprised in the least. "That's very good to hear, Mr. Macks. Please, tell me, can you drive stick?"

"It's been a year since I lost that job, sir," Mack replied, a hint of shame creeping into his voice. "Drinkin'. But stick? Yeah, I reckon I can, sir."

"Hey!" Lauper piped up, stepping directly in front of Syx. "What the fuck're you talking to that thing for? You seriously thinking of hired that ring–"

There was a sound.

Wet and gristly, bone and sinew parting ways in a single motion. It reminded Syx of the time, about five years ago now, when the older kids had managed to trap and kill a dozen beelzies, the little fly-like creatures Sinners used as pets. They wasted no time in cleaning and cooking the fat little beasts in impromptu ovens, serving them up to the kids with scrounged veggies and stale bread rolls. They had set upon the hot, cooked meat ravenously. Syx himself ripped a drumstick off before feasting on the steaming, greasy flesh. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted until that point.

The sound reminded him of that.

The sound made his mouth water.

Underscoring the crunchy, wet, meat noises was a long, reedy croak, like a toad with a head cold. Warm, humid breath redolent of old Juicy Fruit and tonsil-stones slapped him in the face next. After a moment passed he realized he understood the words carried by the rattle: "-scraper…"

The cloying metallic stench of blood followed next. It took Syx a moment to figure out the mechanics of what just happened. Somehow, Lauper's head was now upside down and reaching down to about the middle of her back, level with his own face. From the muted, guttural sounds issuing from the mangled Sinner's mouth, her head was somehow still attached, her neck no doubt a horrifying lumpy tube of taut skin and dislocated vertebrae. A round of horrified gasps and stifled cries of disgust confirmed his suspicions.

"What a coincidence, Mr. Macks!" Red said, his tone that of someone who'd just found rediscovered a forgotten 20-$oul bill in his pocket. "I do believe a position just opened up. If you're interested, that is."

Macks croaked something but, no doubt seeing the look on Mr. Nightmare's face, rallied quickly. "Yeah! Yeah, I'll take it. Th-thanks, Mr. Nightmare. I, uh, I won't let you down, sir!"

"Happy to hear it! Mr. Emerson here will walk you through your orientation. Miss Cardi here will keep her mouth shut if she knows what's good for her," said Red, articulated metal clicked and clacked as he released his apparently metal-clad grasp on Lauper's head, causing her to drop to the pavement with an unceremonious 'thud'. "Syx. If you catch wind of anyone important-smelling or sounding, it'll probably be the Vees. If you do, I want you to–Syx?"

Syx prodded the still-warm body with his workboot-clad foot. She wasn't spitting at him or cussing Red out. Sinners could survive and recover from literally anything except angel stuff. She was just… laying there. He noted that, even through his boot, he could feel her body getting colder.

He killed her.

Those others, Eye Watkins and Strokes. They were dead too? Not just messed up? Dead-dead?

"Syx!" Red called out. "You alright?"

Syx turned to the source of the voice, somewhere high over his head. "Klk."

"Good." Red set a huge, heavy, metal hand on his shoulder; Syx could smell Lauper's wad of Juicy Fruit stuck between the joints of the index finger. "You catch wind of the Vees, you text me three Vs and I'll come running. Be sure to have your locator on, okay bud?"

"Klk."

"Good man," said Red, patting his shoulder. "Run along, now. Keep the others out of trouble, will you?"

Syx set off for where he sensed the other children had gone, heart thundering in his chest. Why did he kill her? Because she slapped him, disrespected him, obviously. High-falutin' Sinners tended to do things like that, didn't they? But… something about it made his skin crawl. Red didn't sound angry or affronted, annoyed maybe, but not angry. Killing someone because they annoyed you? Again, that was hardly out of the norm Down Here. No. Something else was bothering him.

'Okay bud,' he had said. 'Good man.'

The firm, friendly hand on his shoulder. The gentle pat. The total lack of sneering contempt and condescension in his voice. Adults never talked to him like that, much less Sinners. All his life, every adult's words were laced with pity from passersby, or low contempt one might spare a useful animal that could still bite from the Staffers. It dawned on Syx that Red expected him to do his job and, weirder still, had confidence that he would do so without supervision or cajoling. Red actually… respected him? Respected his skills at the very least. Syx heard what happened to people Red didn't respect. Gross, wet crunches happened.

A friendly pat on the shoulder. 'Good man.'

Something warm blossomed in the boy's chest. Something he couldn't name just yet.

Syx crossed the road, deftly avoiding cars as they swerved to run him down. He set off down the sidewalk, following his phone's directions to the nearest team, Dew's team, as they sniffed out their prey.

He'd keep them out of trouble.


Kabby sighed as he waited around the empty parking lot.

Emerson was showing Macks the ropes, obviously resenting the fact he'd been saddled with the orientation of their smelly, Hellborn new hire. Not that he'd refuse or protest. Seven, no! The coward was obviously too terrified of Red to do anything other than he was ordered to. Probably the only reason the idiot was still alive, really. He shut up and did his job, such as it was. Good tactic, that. The other driver, whats-her-name, Cardi? Yeah, Cardi. Cardi had changed her tune after that little demonstration of loophole abuse and was now sitting ram-rod stiff behind the wheel of her boxtruck, eagerly awaiting when one of the kids would call and give her an excuse to get the fuck away from their esteemed 'negotiator'. Luckily for her, his phone buzzed and one of the teams had found an acceptable target. He forwarded the location to the petrified Sinner, smirking as she peeled out of the parking lot.

Kabby by no means enjoyed Red's unconventional method of employee management, but as an imp he was undeniably tickled to see these bigoted fallers get a taste of their own medicine. Satan knew they sure liked lording over these poor kids.

His phone buzzed again.

Speaking of the kids… Dew.

'Dodge Viper R/T odie 66.78k fresh af no fancy stuff'

Kabby sighed, rolling his eyes. 'no dew. too crisp. might have something we cant find until we part it out'

'its just sitting there no hextech not even locked owner looked like soundcloud rapper'

'NO'

'fine'

Kabby shook his head and sucked his teeth: that obstinate little brat would probably do it anyway. He sent another text: 'syx get to dew double-time before he gets in trouble'

'K'

The little scrappers had been at it for an hour or so now. Occasionally his phone would buzz, pictures would come in with HexTech readings, and he'd give the yay or nay. More nay than yay so far. The kids were evidently starstruck by the apparent wealth on display. He could practically see the little gearheads' eyes sparkling hungrily as they eyed up their prey. He'd be lying if he said some of the wheels they sent his way wouldn't have turned his head. But that's the point. Too nice a whip could have someone of means holding the keys, and any security spell or enchantment could have said rich, powerful shithead knocking on their door. Not that anyone who showed up couldn't be sent packing. The 'Donna had pretty much cornered the muscle market for a thousand kliks around.

That reminded him…

He turned around to see his Boss, his covert captor, his… friend? At times he seemed friendly enough. Hardly the strutting, pompous dipshit kind of Sinner most Hellborn find themselves toiling under. Though, at times that almost made it worse? At least those assholes would thunder about and rave when displeased. Red just killed people. Suddenly, brutally, often without warning. He didn't even seem to enjoy doing it most of the time, rather it was something he did reflexively, like swatting an irritating bug. Still, Kabby was reasonably sure the madman wouldn't squash him. Kabby was reliable, loyal, and sensible, and if Red's current streak was anything to go by, he only rid himself of fools. Red sat on a folding chair, ankle perched on his knee as he thumbed through a small, leather-bound book. The title read 'Pride and Prejudice: A Hellborn's Guide to Navigating Sinners'.

Kabby approached, hands in his pockets. "Ahem."

"Yes?" Red said, not looking up from his book. "You'd like to talk about something."

Part of Kabby was nervous about broaching the subject, but the more time he spent with Red the more confident he was in speaking his mind. Red had bothered to prompt him to talk this time, which indicated he was open to the subject. It had been Kabby's experience that when Red didn't want to hear what he had to say, he would preempt him from doing so, having already 'heard' the conversation with his selective prescience. Red had evidently skimmed the immediate future of this conversation and found nothing offensive.

Satan's balls, the guy could be infuriating to talk to when he was feeling tetchy.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Hm?"

"Doing that." Kabby jabbed a thumb at the dumpster where they had stuffed the body. "The way you did it."

"Too quick?" Red hooked a talon between paper and turned the page. "I've been told I'm too quick when firing people."

"Who told you…?" Kabby sighed, deciding he didn't care. "You shouldn't have done it like that, is all."

"Why not? She was impudent and could barely drive stick." Red snorted, nodding to the boxtruck doing laps around the parking lot. "Mr. Macks will be a much better replacement. Unless you, what, feel sorry for her?"

"Fuck no!" Kabby sneered. "Bitch was a bigot and a cat-herder at the Carriage House. She got what was fucking coming to her!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I meant, did you have to kill her like that in front of Syx?"

"Syx?" Red actually looked up from the book, a bemused expression on his face. "I don't follow."

"You turned her neck into a fucking meat slinky in front of that kid, Red!" Kabby exclaimed, crudely mimicking the way Red had folded the Sinner's head backwards. "You practically rubbed his face in it!"

"Oh." Red tapped his chin in contemplation before smiling. "He didn't see anything."

"That sound of meat and bone!" Kabby shuddered at the recollection. "Like stomping on bubble-tape wrapped in raw bacon! And that croak! Ugh!"

"It wasn't that loud."

"You don't have his ears!" Kabby put his hands together, touching his fingers to his lips as he centered himself. "Look. I don't know how things were done where you're from, but you just can't do stuff like that around children, Red!"

Red cocked his head to the side like a perplexed dog. "Why?"

"It'll mess 'em up!"

"Syx'll be fine, Kabby," said Red, turning back to his book. "He's strong. Resilient. Besides, after the tender mercies of Her Ladyship and her repulsive staff, I doubt I have any surprises for them."

Kabby conceded that Red was probably right on that front. That place… even one as seasoned in Hell's inequities as himself found the place reprehensible. "Still, I feel like, I dunno, we shouldn't be adding to that? Like, we don't enjoy doing stuff like that to kids like she does, right? So why not, like… I dunno."

"I'll try not to murder in front of the children from now on," Red said, dryly. "Happy?"

Kabby smiled wanly and nodded; he'd take it. "Sure. Low bar, but it's something."

A pause followed. Red turned the page, eye darting up to Kabby. "Anything else?"

Kabby paused, eyeing Red up. Dare he ask?

"I'm farming Stand-Users from the children at the 'Donna," Red said, airily. "There's plenty of potential among them, I may yet find a cure for my affliction."

Kabby opened his mouth to pose the next question, only for Red to turn to him and sweep that charming little cowlick aside, revealing the slumbering rendition of a face, his face. A few times now Kabby had walked in on his Boss in the midst of a heated argument with his own forehead, arguments he never seemed to win. Due to the inherent insanity of that situation, Kabby had always thought it wise not to broach the topic.

"A wise decision," said Red, getting to his feet. "I'll be off now."

Kabby looked up at the towering Sinner, noting the glean in his eyes. "Where to?"

"I'm off to observe the children in their natural habitat. Witness their habits and foibles. Learn their quirks. Access their potential." Red replied, weaving his fingers behind his back and stretching out his shoulders with a series of pops. "I will be Dian Fossey, and they my gorillas in the mist."

"What?" Kabby said, looking him up and down. "Like that?"

Red turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"You kinda stand out in a crowd, Red. What with that suit and all your…" Kabby puffed up his chest and struck a muscle pose before gesturing at Red. "Y'know, that. The kids'll spot you a mile away!"

Red tapped his chin in contemplation, his eyes lighting up. "Ah! Yes. Hold on."

The Sinner's form receded, muscles deflated and slithered under his skin as they compacted. The sound of bones and sinew creaking emanated from under his skin as his athletic form collapsed in on itself, revealing a delicate, gracile figure a far cry from his normally burly build. The suit, like any good uppercrust ensemble, shifted in size and shape with its owner, fitting his new svelte build as though hemmed by a tailor. Before Kabby was Red, now standing barely 5'7" and built like a lean swimmer. His usually chiseled, masculine features had softened, rounded, now boyish-bordering-on-feminine.

'Oh Satan no…' Kabby thought to himself, filled with dread. 'He's… cute.'

"There!" Red announced, his deep, sonorous voice now higher-pitched, youthful, accentuated by his gentle Italian schwa. "How's that?"

Kabby's inclinations had always tended towards the feminine, the delicate, seeing his murderous Boss like this was… deeply troubling. "Buh."

The veneer didn't last, vanishing as soon as he locked gazes with the Sinner. Despite his eyes being wider now, rounded and neotenous, they were still that hard, cold shade of jade. "Different. You still, uh, stand out."

Red sighed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as his face pulled into an admittedly adorable pout. His big, merciless puppy-dog eyes darted about, fixing on something over Kabby's shoulder and lighting up with a shining smile. Kabby turned around to see Macks chatting with a surprisingly engaged Emerson, pointing to various parts of the surrounding neighborhood. Kabby surmised the recently hired driver was excitedly sharing all the choice locales of the area with his coworker, proving his value to the Sinners.

"There!" Red's new, teenaged voice chirped. "How do I look?"

He turned around to see Macks standing before him, albeit in Red's suit. "What the–?!"

The scruffy imp's eyes were green.

"...Red?"

'Macks' nodded, grinning like a madman. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Since when could you do that?!" Kabby exclaimed, stepping back.

"Always, I think?" Red said, adjusting the suit on the new form. "Long story. See, the Earth animals that look like that thing on my head can change color and shape to an amazing degree! I just… focused on Mr. Macks, I guess. Not sure how long I can hold it, though. It's uncomfortable, like wearing too-small clothes. Anyway! I'll blend in more now, yes?"

Kabby tried to recall the last time his life made sense; it felt like ages. "Yeah. Nothing easier to ignore than a hobo. Might want to lose the suit, though."

"I'll consider it," said Red as he set off across the parking lot. "See you around!"

Kabby nodded and followed after. 'Will this day just end already?'


"...So these four gangs kinda run the rackets around here. They're pretty small-time, but sometimes they'd stop delivery trucks at my old job and skim the merch." Macks reached into the pocket of his grimey coat, producing a ratty packet of Baldrick's brand cigarettes. He offered one to Emerson, who declined, producing his own. They shared a light. "Thanks. Only one'a them owns a chop shop, the Greebles, so maybe Mr. Nightmare'll wanna look into them. Can't be steppin' on their toes and expect nothin' from it."

"Excellent advice, Mr. Macks!" Chirruped a youthful male voice. "I'll look into it straight away, thank you."

Macks and Emerson turned to see… Macks approaching them. "Whuh?"

'Macks' strode up to Macks, grinning like a shark. "May I have your coat?"

Macks glanced at Emerson, who was just as befuddled. "Huh?"

"Your coat," 'Macks' repeated, pointing to the filthy garment. "I need it for my disguise."

"What the fuck're you on about, ringscraper?!" Emerson snapped. "Fuck off before I feed you yer teeth!"

"Waitaminute…" Macks said, squinting at his doppelganger, noticing his green eyes. "Mr. Nightmare?"

"Very astute of you, Mr. Macks," said Red, turning to Emerson. "Also, I'm sorry. What was that?"

Emerson paled, his clammy skin going slick with sweat as his circular mouth worked wordlessly, shrill squeaky noises that weren't quite words bubbling out. The visor that was his eyes flickered and went dark with an electric 'blip'. The Sinner slumped on his feet and tumbled forward, thudding on the ground, having fainted dead away.

"Hm." Red grunted, turning back to Macks. "Anyway, the coat?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!"

Red donned the coat, now looking to all of Hell like a scruffy, malodorous imp. He took off at a sprint towards the general direction of where the acquisitions teams had gone, hopping over traffic as cars swerved to hit him. Macks turned around to see Kabby approach, a flat expression on his face.

"What–"

"Don't ask," grumbled Kabby. "Best just to keep your head down and do your job. Can you do that?"

Macks nodded slowly, a guilty look on his face. "Yeah…"

"Hey." Kabby crossed his arms and leaned against the boxtruck. "Look. You said drinking lost you your last job? What? Didja crash or lose cargo or something?"

"Naw, nothin' like that. I'm a crackerjack behind the wheel, even when hosed. I just kinda…" the scruffy imp said, shaking his head, shrugging. "Messed up the addresses. Stuff got to the wrong person, like."

Kabbie smiled good-naturedly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Well then, so long as you can keep one address in mind, you'll do fine in this outfit. All you gotta do is go where the phone tells you to, pick up the goods, and then get it back to the 'Donna."

"The 'Donna?" Macks said, lip curling; as a street-dwelling Hellborn, their reputation no doubt preceded them. "That who we's runnin' for? Hey, look, maybe this ain't fer me, man."

"Hey now. You done took Mr. Nightmare up on his offer." Kabby turned to Macks, eyes glinting. "He goes back minus a driver, he'll catch some flack, yeah? A long, annoying lecture from the Boss Lady. And you've seen how Mr. Nightmare gets when he's annoyed." Macks' red face paled at this thinly veiled threat, prompting Kabby to smile and clap him on the shoulder again. "Good thing you're a smart guy, right? Anyway, you won't have to worry about the 'Donna much longer. We'll see to that, bud."

Macks eyed him up, smirking. "Mr. Nightmare's annoyed with the place, yeah?"

"Downright miffed." Kabby smiled toothily, drawing a claw across his neck.

Macks glanced over at the dumpster where his predecessor currently rest eternal, no doubt already a hearty meal for rats, roaches, and anything else that could stomach that faller filth. "Awright then. What's my pay?"

"Uh…" Kabby's smile ran from his face, eyes darting down to his phone as it serendipitously buzzed; without looking he approved the acquisition. "Later, that. You gotta job to do while Emerson enjoys his beauty sleep."

Macks looked down at his phone as Kabby forwarded him the address. "Gotcha! I won't let ya down, Boss Kabby!"

Kabby smiled and puffed out his chest as the smelly imp clambered into the cabin; 'Boss Kabby'? Boss Kabby. He could definitely get used to 'Boss Kabby'. The diesel rumbled and the boxtruck trundled off, rolling out of the parking lot, reinforced bumpers making short work of the dogshit-brown Firenza that failed to give way. The bleats of horns and growls of Sinners neatly masking the approach of a full-sized SUV as it rolled up behind the spellbound imp.

"'Boss Kabby, can I get you a drink?' she'll say," Kabby muttered to himself in a falsetto, smiling. "'A cigar? You work so hard, Boss Kabby. Please let me give you a hoof massage!'"

"You know, that don't sound too bad," said a voice behind him.

Kabby spun around, a shimmering ax-blade, sharper than a fleck of obsidian, tucked under his narrow chin, drawing his gaze up to the trio of Sinners towering over him. A huge, massively muscled green-skinned beast with an anvil-like underbite chortled as a thin, sharply-dressed smilodon-demon regarded him with naked disdain. More pertinent to Kabby's predicament was the apparent leader of the group, the one holding the angelic battleax presently notched under his chin, pressing against his throat. The Sinner was built like a linebacker and dressed like a bouncer at a rough bar. He smiled at him. The smile was toothy in a way only a blend of a crocodile and a wolf could be, and every bit as predatory. The daylight caught on the shiny surfaces of each of their signature golden fangs.

He knew who these guys were. "Vees…"

"That's right, ringscraper," said Steppenwulf. "Call your Boss."