Syx: Catch

Day fifteen of the Fifth Great Turf War

Metztli Prefecture, Pentagram City Central Southeast.

Metzli Prefecture had been the economic center of the entire southeastern quadrant of PC Central. Money and treasure flowed to and from its vast banks and vaults like rivers of gold, each one a mountain-sized fortress of reinforced concrete, magic, and weaponry. Stock markets and financial firms occupied hundreds of immense structures tens of kilometers high, veritable pillars holding up the immense chaotic mass that was Hell's rapine economy. All defended by the unified armies and self interest of the 72 Central Lords that controlled the crown jewel of Lucifer's throne. Not even the annual Exterminations could wreak their usual havoc here, so profound were the layers of defense of reinforcement. Metzli Prefecture had been unassailable.

Key words: had been.

Where were once prosperous neighborhoods home to rich and powerful demons, now only wastelands remained. Despite appearances, much of the initial devastation had not been the result of chaos and wanton destruction, but planned, strategic. A skyscraper, if toppled correctly, became a small mountain range of concrete and steel, impassible for vehicles and armies. A dozen skyscrapers collapsed at strategic locations forced any invading force to approach along very specific routes, making the establishment of chokepoints and killzones as easy as pressing a detonator. The defending armies had hoped to slow the advance of the vulture armies long enough for their commanding officers to select a new Overlord and rally their forces.

Their hopes had been misplaced.

Infighting began on the second day, splinter factions formed on the third, and by the beginning of the fourth there were no defending armies, only more vultures.

A string of massive explosions thudded across the shattered remains of a neighborhood, leveling buildings and houses with the explosive shockwaves, forming a rough corridor. Scores of vehicles, mostly crudely armed flatbed trucks, surged into the opening before the last of the debris had even returned to the ground. The trucks swerved and bobbed around flaming debris and ruined structures, rushing onwards as fast as they could over the rough, rubble-strewn ground. They rolled onto the highway at the end of one of the collapsed skyscrapers, drifting around the corner en masse and at speed. Waiting for them were a quartet of battered pillboxes, heavy machine-guns lighting up in the narrow apertures. The ramshackle fighting vehicles opened fire; the vanguard of the formation were armed with 30mm autocannons and 70mm rocket pods. Shells peppered the reinforced concrete bunkers as unguided rockets screamed through the air. The rockets fouled the air with overlapping trails of exhaust and choking smoke from their Hell-phosphorous warheads, obscuring the approach of the recoilless rifle division. One of the rockets, by chance, slipped through the opening in the nearest bunker and detonated, filling the inside with burning, smoking metal shards, detonating the ammunition magazine.

"That one's cookin' off!" The commander crowed into his radio as fire and sparks roared from all the pillbox's openings. "All units, get into the hole in their field of fire! Heavy artillery, form up in the smoke while the gunners and bumrush the next one!"

The trucks pulled out from behind the burning pillbox, autocannons roaring, drawing the fire of the defenders as the heavy artillery emerged from a bank of smoke. The 105mm recoilless rifles bellowed as they lobbed heavy, high-explosive warheads at the embattled defenders, smashing craters out of the concrete. Once the attackers had drawn closer, the pillboxes rolled out their heavy 40mm autocannons and opened fire. Three gunner-trucks were encased in an envelope of smoke and fire as round after round punched melon-sized holes in their unarmored chassis, rupturing and igniting fuel tanks and cooking off ammo. A rifle-truck reloaded and attempted to take aim when a shell punched through the windshield and out the back of the cabin, directly hitting the ammunition rack. The resulting explosion disintegrated the truck and its less durable occupants, throwing flaming debris and body parts high into the air. The driver, a demon obviously made of sterner stuff, crawled along on mangled stumps that used to be his limbs. He looked up in time to see a muzzle-flash as a 1kg 40mm shell impacted him square in the face, bisecting his body from stem to stern in a splatter of gore.


The grainy footage played out on the little screen of the back-up TV as news helicopters and drones voraciously lapped up the carnage. The remaining trucks soldiered ever-onward, even as more and more of them succumbed to the heavy firepower.

"Oooh!" Stompah hissed, one of the rocket pods had taken a hit and the unfortunate crew were doused in shards of Hell-phosphorus, turning the flatbed of the truck into a blazing pyre of smoke and green flame. "Dat's gonna leev a mark."

"You know, all things considered…" Pall said, gesturing at his arm in a sling and bevy of bruises and bumps, one eye swollen and black. "We're pretty lucky to be back here."

"I 'unno," Stompah mumbled, picking at the bandage slapped over his nubbish nose, the rest of his huge frame peppered with a dozen similar bandages. "Looks awful fun ta me. Ooh! Look! We'z gotta runna!"

A battered, bleeding demon sprinted down the killzone away from the pillboxes, having just moments before clawed her way out of the shredded wreck of a Ford Ranger, her companions entrails still hanging over her shoulder like a bandolier. Controlled bursts of machine-gun fire shredded the coward's arm off, then her other arm, before obliterating her left leg below the knee. The demon hopped away pathetically, prompting the Channel 666 to dub in a laugh track and cartoonish sound effects. The pillboxes had fun herding her here and there with blasts of machine-gun fire, kicking up dirt to her right to make her hop left, and left to make her hop right. Before long she had enough and turned to face her tormentors, spittle and blood issuing from her shattered mouth along with a no-doubt vile string of obscenities. Apparently, one of the insults hit too close to home for one of the defenders, because a second later the demon's entire upper body exploded into ichor-black mist and chunky viscera, courtesy of a 40mm shell.

"HAW HAW HAW!" Stompah guffawed and clapped. "Jolly good fun, looks loik!"

"I think you and I have a different idea of what constitutes 'fun'." Pall said, grimacing.

"Dat'z where we wuz ment ta be, Pall!" Stompah said, scratching his bandages. "Out dere! Makin' dem grotz 'op along before krumpin' 'em! Foitin' roit blokez loik us, nawt skulkin' back 'ere wit' th' l'il peeple!"

"Did you forget how one of those 'l'il peeple' just tuned us all up like a fiddle, or did he hit you harder than I thought?"

"Well, see, dat don't count!" Stompah grumbled, pointing back to the TV. "Out dere, any demon werf dere rep would bling out and be known! Dat Red Nightmare grot iz jus sneekin' about in 'is soot, given' us wrong impreshuns, loik! Allz I'm sayin' iz we shoulda been put out dere, not back 'ere! Step agrees wiv me." He turned back and called out to the reclining Sinner at the back of the room. "Roit Step!? We'z shoulda been at th' front, roit!?"

A Seraphim Steel battle-ax whistled through the air, missing Stompah by bare inches before smashing into the television, slicing it into two shattered halves.

"Oh, dat's wasteful…" Stompah muttered, frowning. "Prezent frum me favrit catamite dat wuz."

"I'll kill them…" Steppenwulf growled as he sat back in the recliner chair, the diminutive imp Puck stood on his lap, a pair of snips in one hand and tweezers in the other. "Kill them all. All those kids. All the scum that cow employs. I'll fuckin' carve her up like side of beef and eat her while that fishfaced fuck watches–OW!"

"Hold still," muttered Puck as he snipped the sutures running up the burly Sinner's torso. "You heal fast, Step, but I wouldn't push it for the next few days. That guy didn't hit anything vital, but he got you deep. Push your luck and your guts could pop out."

"Fuck!" Steppenwulf spat.

"I barely pinched you, you big baby!"

"Not that!" The gatorwolf snarled, slamming his fist on the armrest. "We got sent back here to mog some rubes and got our asses put in a sling! Now the Vees wanna have a meeting and what're we supposed to do?!"

"I expect we're gonna do whatever they tell us to," said Pall, dryly.

"Loob up, prolly," grumbled Stompah.

"Just be glad they want to talk to us at all," said Puck, pulling on the last of the sutures. "If the Vees were gonna brush this off and send us to the front, they'd have done so already. The game's still on, Step, try not to blow it for us. There. Done."

Puck hopped off and scurried over to Stompah, crawling onto his mountainous shoulder. Steppenwulf sighed and pinched the bridge of his snout between his eyes; this was going to suck. He got to his feet and buttoned up his vest before putting on his studded leather jacket.

"Pall."

"Yeap."

The portalmancer activated the charm around his neck and summoned a portal, on the other side of the flaming hole was the lavish, expansive interior of the Vees penthouse. The room was huge, with a high domed ceiling from which hung dozens of large pots containing carnivorous plants, a sort of grotesque atrium. The wide floor was peppered with loveseats and lounge chairs in the Vees colors surrounding miniature stages and strip-poles, dozens of figures could be seen splayed out on them as exotic dancers worked the poles. The four steeled themselves and stepped through. Low, droning jazz music filled the air as Lust natives and high-ranking Sinner staff milled about, perfume and tobacco hung in the air in equal measure. Satyrs swung in low-hanging cages, casting sultry gazes about the room. Their eyes fell on the shamed quartet and lit up with amusement, tittering to each other. The rest of the staff took notice, their smiles wide and sharp beneath glowing eyes. Blood was in the water, and their fellow Vees could smell it.

"What…" Pall said out the side of his mouth. "What do we do?"

"Stand up straight and wait," Steppenwulf said, not even able to muster a growl.

"How long?" Pall whined. "My feet hurt."

"Grin an' bear it, luv," said Stompah, a bead of sweat rolling down his bald green head. "Missus Vel gets awful sore wen grots loik us git too komfy wivvout permishiun."

They stood in the center of the room, waiting patiently. A Sinner approached them, a robustly built roach-demon in a silk suit, a pair of scantily clad succubi on his upper arms, a pair of shortstack imps, a male and a female, on the lower ones. Those who knew could tell from his get-up and bling that he was a ranking henchman in Valentino's branch, broadly analogous to a lieutenant. Steppenwulf knew, for his part, that this particular demon made his rank with stacks of cash, not bodies. The kind of henchmen he derisively dubbed 'wallet hoppers'.

"Heya Step," he crooned.

"Raffers."

"Fancy seein' ya here. Weren't ya off in the boonies scrapin' up some new turf for the Bosses?" Rafters said, his mouthparts pulling apart into a gruesome smile. "Howzat goin' by the way?"

Steppenwulf clenched his mighty jaws shut, a vein standing proud on his forehead.

"Hey…" Raffers murmured, brow furrowing in mock-contemplation. "Weren't there more of you? Girls, I know we was hittin' the pipe hard that day, but weren't there more of them?"

"There were more of them, Big Cock Roach," purred the little male imp, tracing Raffer's hard carapace with gloved fingers.

"Two more," said the impess. "Jamsers and that pretty lady."

"Where they at, Step?" Raffers said, voice thick with curdled, spiteful joy. "Holdin' down the fort?"

Steppenwulf said nothing, his remaining teammates fixing one another with nervous glances.

"Yeah, Step, that bitch a'yours, Shoresy, she runs a tight ship," said Raffers. "Prolly back at yer hideout countin' coin and stackin' paper, yeah? But, see, I done heard me a rumor. Crazy rumor. Rumor says y'all ran into a bit a'trouble. Rumor says ya'll got flattened. Rumor says Jamsers' dead, Shoresy's dead, and ya'll got sent home with a word to share with the Bosses. Well, rumors, y'know? Ya know what ain't a rumor? All three'a the Bosses are incomin' from the front directly wit' their entourages in tow. Now, I ain't a speculatin' man, but that either says that someone made it big and got us all some new juicy turf… or someone dicked the dog so hard they wanna sniff what's drippin' out the pooch's mouth. Now, which is it? C'mon, Step. Can't ya give yer ol' friend Raffers the scoop?"

Steppenwulf's mighty shoulders bunched as he prepared to turn about and feed the grotesque pimp his own mouthparts, only for Stompah to reach out and grab him by the arm.

"Step!" Puck hissed, urgently. "Stop!"

"Dere here…" the huge green Sinner moaned.

The air turned sour, greasy, an unpleasant prickling sensation rippled across the hides of everyone present. Feather boas and fur trims on suits stood on end, sparking. Hair and body fur prickled and buzzed. A dull, pulsing thrum filled the air, building and building in depth and pitch until the bass alone rattled the teeth of everyone present. The lights flickered and electricity danced on every metallic surface, including the shiny gold fangs present in every mouth present. A flash burst in the middle of the atrium with a hissing crack, a glowing sphere hovering some two meters above the floor, blue-white arcs of lightning spat and hissed at its borders as the sphere grew. The sphere collapsed into a mirror-polished disc before shattering, revealing a glowing portal ringed with whirling purple clouds flashing with discharges of electricity. Out of it stepped a half-dozen heavily armed and armored demons, behind them a levitating half-sphere, atop which was a throne bearing the one and only Overlord of the Broadcast.

Vox always was a show-off.

A shrill, digitized droning sounded next, a square portal opened up on the floor, magenta light pouring up from it as various artifacts and pixels hung in the air. Ten pillars of red light rose up from the ground, assembling in glowing cubes, dozens at a time, quickly building themselves into the forms of yet another entourage of heavily armed demons resplendent in Overlord Velvette's battlewear. A tasteful ensemble that combined combat effectiveness while maintaining the cutting edge of fashion. Behind them, rising from a laser light show projected onto curtains of mist, was a litter held atop the rippling shoulders of a quartet of muscular demons dressed as Chippendale dancers. The gossamer curtains of the litter pulled back to reveal a decidedly unimpressed Overlord Velvette sitting sideways atop an immense velvet cushion, her focus solely on the Hellphone in her talons. The doll-like harlequin demon briefly glanced up from the screen before rolling her eyes and flitting them back down.

Fingers of pink smoke trailed up from the floor in a concentric pattern, whirling and writhing as though on a breeze, coalescing into an impenetrable fog, a swirling dome of smoke and glittering embers forming up from the carpet. Dark shapes materialized in the smoke, appearing as shadows with glowing eyes and gleaming, crescent grins. The dome popped like a bubble, sending banks of smoke and sparks scattering around the room, revealing an immense stretch-configuration Rezvani Vengeance, its armored hull painted red with chromed gold hearts emblazoned on the doors and hood. Manned machine-gun turrets at the fore and aft swiveled towards the assembled henchmen and upwards in a salute as the doors swung open. Out of it marched Valentino's personal guard, six Sinners in total and their own Hellborn attendants. At the front of the organization was someone who made Steppenwulf's hackles stand on end: Big Mack, his bitter rival.

The tall, broad-shouldered crustacean-demon scanned the room for threats, his Hellborn lackeys - a skittish, neurotic satyr and a particularly unhinged-looking drake - taking up their positions at his flank. His compound eyes locked with Steppenwulf's orange reptilian eyes. A sneer crawled across his hard face as he stood to the side. He and his other guards stood in two lines as a red carpet rolled out between them and out stepped a towering moth-demon: Overlord Valentino. His usual full-body red velour coat traded for what appeared to be a large, armored tunic, his broad shoulders and barrel chest, usually hidden beneath his usual wear, were emphasized by the armored breastplate and pauldrons that now protected the demon lord. His eyes flashed behind his heart-shaped gold-rimmed shades, glowing in the shadow cast by his signature wide-brimmed hat. He strolled forward, his enormous studded Hell-onyx battle-cane clunking on the floor as he strutted towards the line of battered henchmen.

"Steppenwulf's in the house?" Valentino crooned, his smile warm beneath a cold glare. "My Sinna."

The other Vees took notice and rose to their feet. Vox stepped off the edge of his floating throne, his feet landing on sparking plates of metal ripped from the floor, walls, and ceiling. Velvette sighed and put her phone away, lightly clapping her hands three times. Her scantily-clad litter-carriers folded the handles down under the platform, forming legs. Once the litter was steady, the quartet arranged themselves before the platform, bowing to various degrees, forming stairs from their rippling, muscular bodies, the final one prostrating on the floor. Velvette strode down the living staircase, her stiletto heels digging in as she did.

"Well, Step?" Valentino said as the other Vees strode up beside him. "What's the news from our backdoor adventures?"

Steppenwulf knew that the Vees knew exactly what had gone down, but wanted to hear it from his own mouth, before their assembled high-ranking officers and henchmen. "We were making headway into setting up an operation, suppressing local gangs and reigning in freelancers." The word 'freelancers' prompted a round of sneers and grumbles from the assembled pimps. "Things were going smooth like clockwork until we… ran into some resistance."

"Did you, now?" Vox said, his grinning screen-face flickering. "How'd that go?"

Steppenwulf steeled himself, hands bunching into fists. "Jamsers and Shoresy… were killed, and we were forced to retreat to the fallback point."

A murmur sounded from the assembled henchmen, evidently the true extent of his defeat hadn't reached every ear. Velvette raised her dainty hand, her flowing, show-woman's voice cutting the air like a knife. "My boy Jamsers? That's a shame. How'd he go?"

"Decapitated."

"He never was much of a fighter," she muttered, sucking her teeth. "Dead-dead?"

Steppenwulf nodded, grimly. "Dead-dead, Boss."

"But Shoresy, too?" Vox grumbled, arms crossed, talons tapping on his arm. "What were those hicks packing that let them merc a bad bitch like her?"

"Kill her and send the rest of you packing," grumbled Valentino. "Musta been an army comin' down on ya. Who'd these backwater badasses work for, Step?"

"...donna…" Steppenwulf grumbled.

"Wuzzat?" Valentino barked, cupping his hand to his ear. "You still punchy or somethin', Step? Speak up!"

"Lady Belladonna!" Steppenwulf growled.

"That fat bitch from the orphanage?" Velvette cackled, incredulously. "She snipped Jamsers and Shoresy and sent you big boys running?"

"No, it was–"

"Not her?" Raffers spoke up, chuckling. "Then who, Step? The kids? Ayo, Steppenwulf and his pack got spanked by a buncha starvin' orphans!"

A roar of laughter rose from the assembled henchmen, even Velvette and Vox were cackling, the ridiculousness of the idea temporarily overriding their irritation at the setback. Only Valentino wasn't laughing. He fixed Steppenwulf with an expectant glare, eyebrow arching over his shades. Steppenwulf blinked in surprise; Val hadn't told the others the details. He was making a point.

"No, it wasn't–" Steppenwulf began to say.

"Aww did the mean ol' kiddies pull yer tail, pup?" Raffers guffawed, pursing his mouthparts into a mocking pout. "Or did them widdle brats bat them big orphan eyes and make a lapdog of ya?"

"Shaddup, it was–!"

"Ohohoho~" Velvette laughed into the back of her hand. "Ranking henchman of the Vees beaten back by Hellborn orphans! That's a good one! I'm laughing, but I'm actually fucking furious! Do you have any idea what this'll do to our rep once it gets out?!"

"Val, you pulled us away from the front for this?" Vox growled, aura crackling with lightning. "Ax this buffoon and send some real muscle down there and make an example out of those gutter-rats!"

"I'll open a new line of imp calfskin products! Limited edition," Velvette hissed, glaring at Steppenwulf. "But not before I carve out a gator-skin purse from this bungler's hide!"

"IT WAS RED NIGHTMARE!" Steppenwulf roared.

The laughter died, its corpse falling as silence over the atrium. Even Raffers flinched and stepped back as the smile fled his face. On the Vees part, the reaction was more subdued, though their anger had been neatly replaced with sour skepticism.

"Red Nightmare," Velvette said, very pointedly not posing it as a question. "Of course."

"What's the Butcher of the Azathoth doing out in the middle of nowhere, pray tell?" Vox asked, steepling his fingers. "Also, why should we believe you?"

Steppenwulf snapped his fingers and beckoned Stompah forward. The burly green Sinner bowed and shuffled forward, pulling out his Hellphone. "I wuz streamin' fer me fans and, uh–"

"I was going to ask you why your stream cut out," Velvette said, icily. "You know how I love Stompah's Story Hour."

"S-sorry Missus," he stammered, bowing deeply. "Won't 'appen agen, Missus."

"The proof, you oaf!" Vox barked, fist crackling with lightning. His usual level-headed demeanor was beginning to fray. Steppenwulf surmised that both Velvette and the Broadcast Overlord were dreading when news of this setback hit, already looking for a way to spin it, or, to preserve their image, ways to gruesomely exact revenge.

Stompah obediently pawed at his Hellphone with sausage fingers. A small prompt appeared at the lower right corner of Vox's face. He opened it and projected the footage into the air for all to see. Stompah had, at some point after he cut off the stream, placed the Hellphone in his breast pocket, leaving it to record Red Nightmare's intrusion on their work. The Vees and their henchmen watched intently as Red proceeded to 'negotiate' with them, the feed cutting out around where Stompah had been punched clean across the room.

"Well…" Vox said, folding his hands behind his back. "This is an interesting development. Steppenwulf, would we be correct in assuming Mr. Nightmare has some manner of Holy weaponry?"

"Yes," he replied. "Seraphim Steel gauntlets. He likely has Shoresy's knives and rings, and Jamser's blessed Glocks."

"What's he even doing out there?!" Velvette growled, setting her fingertips to her forehead. "Shiny weapons, pithy banter, effortless stomp… damn! He's covered all the bases! Under Lucifer's law, he's entitled to our loot and taken turf!"

"Then we'll have to upstage him," said Vox, a toothy grin filling his screenface. "Put together a posse, some IFVs, our rep demands nothing less!"

"Volunteers?" Velvette said, smirking.

A rabble of replies from the assembled henchmen filled the air, all of them eager to stand tall atop Steppenwulf's failure, to prove to their Lords that they were top-brass material. Even the guards were protesting their worthiness to succeed the disgraced warrior. All but Valentino's men.

"Bosses!" Raffers bellowed, shoving his girls aside and pushing Steppenwulf out of his way. "Send me! My studios have a backlog to release as I gather my boys and get to work! I'll be makin' ya stacks as I grab ya city blocks! I'll personally burn that fuckin' ringscraper orphanage down and roast those brats on a spit! I'll bring ya back that Goat Bitch's head for yer mantle! An' ya better believe no calamari in a cheap suit is gonna stop me!"

"Such theatricality!" Vox crooned, framing the blustering pimp with his fingers. "Showmanship is what we'll need if we're going to spin this right!"

"Save a few ringscraper pups, though," said Velvette, sweetly. "I need tender leather for my new line of products."

"One problem, though," said Valentino, turning to Raffers. "Hey, Raffers."

"Yeah?"

Valentino raised his 7-foot long pimp cane, the gold-studded Hell-onyx shaft shimmered and morphed, an instant later in his hands was a magazine-fed autocannon; a modified Bofors 40mm, its barrel resplendent with Carmine blessings. The cannon roared full-auto, belching smoke, fire, and hot tungsten-cored steel. 40mm projectiles streaked through the air. Steppenwulf barely had time to duck before a shell tore through where his head had been a millisecond earlier. Both of Raffers's right arms and right leg popped off in fine mists of beige blood and shattered carapace, and a hole as big around as a 2-liter cola bottle was smashed out of his side, sending the pruned insect spinning backwards through the air, trailing blood and viscera as he did.

Valentino lowered his autocannon, lip fleered back over his fangs in disgust. "Catch."

"Val!" Vox roared. "What the fuck was that!?"

"My carpet!" Velvette cried, dismayed as the roach-demon leaked foul-smelling blood and innards onto the floor.

"Maybe y'all need your eyes checked, but that 'calamari in a cheap suit' brushed off a worse barrage, twice, with less warning and not so much as a scratch on him!" Valentino said, stomping forward, brandishing his autocannon at the shocked, trembling Raffers. "And the suit ain't cheap, y'tasteless fuck. That was a Braille-brand Kingsely. 220s Wrath wool with a Gluttony silk inlay. From the look of the stitchin', it's from the '65 Spring collection."

"A '65 Spring Braille Kingsley!" Velvette said, reverently. "Only a hundred were made!"

"Worth more than what alla ya limp-dicked punks have made in alla yer time in Hell!" Valentino snarled. "Ya only get those kinda suits on offer from the maker… or if ya find someone important enough to get an offer, kill them, and take it. That means Red's either one or the other. And ya pissants think y'can just stroll in and tell him to fuck off?! Unlike this leaky sack of shit makin' a mess on my carpet, Steppenwulf here was fast enough to get outta the way, and he still got spanked and sent back like a new girl in a hooerhouse!"

He turned around to face his fellow Vees, roughly shoving his autocannon into Big Mack's arms. "We got styled on, hard. That stings, but the kind of muscle we'd need to not just get fed our teeth again would leave us open in PC Central. So, unless you two wanna repeat of what happened, or lose everything we've gained so far, we're suin' for peace."

"Peace?" Vox sneered. "We're the Vees! We don't sue for peace when a single demon gives us a bloody nose!"

"We find that fucker and livestream his execution!" Velvette snarled at Vox's side. "Let those backwater shits know what happens when they try to step to real Overlords!"

Valentino didn't back down, looming over the shorter demons, his eyes glowing. "If you two wanna waste time runnin' fades in the boonies, do it yourselves. Head your asses down there and show Red Nightmare where to shove it. Maybe you can, or maybe he'll turn yer flickerin' ass into a Teletubby, Voxxie! Alls I know is that my collection of hard sunsabitches stays where it is, where we can make some actual gains!"

With that Val turned away from the assembly and headed back to his armored limo. "Step. With me."

Steppenwulf turned to his remaining team before following after the towering moth-demon as he stooped into his stretch-Vengeance.

Vox turned to the rest of the henchmen and growled something unspeakably foul under his breath before heading back to his floating throne.

Velvette walked over to a groaning, wounded Raffers, curled up in a puddle of his own blood and guts. "Will somebody clean this mess up already?!"


Despite the martial outside, the interior of the combat vehicle was as lavish as any Valentino ride, with red leather seats, fur trims, and a mini-bar. Val gestured for Steppenwulf to sit on the side, next to the bar, himself sitting down at the far end with a pair of pretty demons, Dia and Summer, Valentino's ever-present arm-candy. The rest of his guards followed them and took their spots all around the expansive interior. Smoke trailed up the outside, encasing the vehicle. A slight shudder and the stretch-Vengeance was elsewhere in Hell, the dissipating smoke revealing shattered buildings and piles of rubble, the distant thunder of explosions audible even through the armor plating and bulletproof glass. They were somewhere near Pentagram City Central, the warzone.

"I'm not happy, Step," said Valentino, suddenly. "Not happy."

"I know."

"Vox and Vel, they're right," he continued. "Our rep demands retaliation. I'd be right there with them if this war bullshit wasn't goin' down. We'd all head down there and have a bonfire, and you'd be busted down to minion, or tossed on the pyre along with those baby ringscrapers. Ya fucked this up, Step. Ya fucked it up bad."

"But–"

"Butts are for fuckin'! I don't wanna hear yer excuses, Step!" Valentino snapped, hand twisting into a fist before he calmed himself back down. "The second that fishy cunt started flickin' bullets outta the air you and yer team shoulda gotten the fuck out. He'd already merc'd Jamsers, he made his point, but y'stayed and y'fought him and now yer top ho is fuckin' wyrmfood!"

Steppenwulf said nothing, fingers digging into his legs as he glared at the floor.

"Any other bitch and I'd be laughin' at yer dick's loss," Valentino sneered, jabbing a bejeweled finger at the Sinner. "But Shoresy was one'a my best! She earned them rings on her fingers with blood and stacks! I didn't send ya to pull down that turf because yer a mean, bloodthirsty badass! I sent ya because, for some asshole reason, Shoresy liked ya and I could trust her to keep yer dick in yer pants! Was I wrong about her, Step?!"

"No…" Steppenwulf said, quietly, his ears flat against his head. "She tried. She tried to get us to… but I wouldn't listen. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win. Win your respect. Prove myself to you."

"Well, ya done proved somethin', Step." Valentino sighed and leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "Jamsers' dead, Shoresy's dead… Vel's gonna miss that demented little cocksock, but not as much as I'm gonna miss yer girlfriend's level head! Level heads… fuck me, if they ain't like hen's teeth in this shithole! If Vox and Vel had their way, we'd piss away our biggest dicks trying to merc a buncha orphans while our competition grabs all the turf what actually matters! They got the brains for makin' money and earnin' clout, but they don't know this is an actual war yet. That's on me, now. If this shit goes any further south, we're gonna be settin' up shop in Wrath! And you know how I feel about imps!"

Steppenwulf said nothing, eyes downcast.

Valentino lit up a cigar and took a drag, the smoke trailing over to the downtrodden Sinner, forming into a finger and guiding his chin up. "Aw quit sulkin', ya big baby! Yer not gettin' busted down."

Steppenwulf turned to the Overlord. "I'm not?"

"Naw." Valentino waved him off, crossing his legs. "Yer a tough, mean attack dog… gator… thing. Point is, I can't waste yer talent for violence doin' minion shit. I need a killer like you at the front! That's what ya wanted, yeah? T'be out there, killin' fools and takin' names!"

Part of Steppenwulf wanted to smile, to cheer, there was a way out of this mess! But a cold bitter thing in the pit of his guts wouldn't let him. He had unfinished business…

"Yeah ya do!" Valentino said, grinning. "Alls ya gotta do to get out there and make yer glory is deliver our acceptance of terms to Red."

Steppenwulf stared, eyes wide. "What."

"Ya heard me," said Valentino, smirking. "Deliver my terms to Red Nightmare in person, and I'll give ya a spot at the front. Any territory ya take up there is yers to manage for me after the war. We're continuin' our backyard expansion, but around an area I think is generous. If Red knows the game like I think he does, he'll do as I ask and shut down his meat market right quick."

Steppenwulf's eyes narrowed, his hackles raising. "Why?"

Valentino shrugged and sat back in his chair, running his lower set of hands sensuously over the shapely bodies of Dia and Summer, to their apparent glee. "He knows I won't take kindly to him slingin' cooze on my border. Give me an excuse to roll in and stomp 'em! In the name'a peace, he'll shut down his filly-ring and focus on some other shit."

"No, I mean why me?" Steppenwulf growled. "Why do I have to deliver the terms?"

Valentino cocked his head, as though the answer were obvious. "Because ya traipsed into his backyard and started brandin' his merch. Because ya didn't scram when he made it clear yer not worth killin'. Because ya wasted his time. This is me tellin' him 'orale holmes, paz'. Clear enough I didn't know there was someone worth talkin' to back there. Now I do. No harm no foul."

'NO HARM?!' Steppenwulf almost bellowed, holding himself back just enough to say: "We're actually lookin' for peace with that motherfucker?!".

"Down boy!" Valentino snapped his fingers and pointed at the incensed Sinner, wagging it. "Of course not! We'll get around to him, but later. Once the Turf War is over, we'll be able to plop our whole dick on his dinnerplate! But only then. Unless ya can name any ten of chucklefucks back home that'd last more than five seconds against the guy, much less piss him off. Can ya? Cuz I can't!"

Steppenwulf leaned back in his seat, sighing in disgust. "...No."

"Well then, glad I got yer approval, Step," said Valentino, smirking. "So I want ya t'go to Red and hand that over to him." Steppenwulf looked down, in his hand was a red envelope, sealed with Valentino's signature pink wax seal. "And tell him he's in my ledger now. Anything he wants to discuss, he calls the line and we can hash somethin' out. Not that I think he will. Ya got that?"

Steppenwulf glared at the envelope, his fury percolating in silence. That's it? Peace? No, no, he trusted Valentino would get around to Red, but when? How long would he have to stew in his impotent rage? This hot, bitter need for retribution sat in his guts like an acid pill, burning and churning his insides. He felt sick. Ever since he lost Shoresy he felt sick. The derision and mockery of his fellow henchmen was bad enough, but he'd have been able to grin and bear it if only he still had her at his side, whispering honeyed words into his ears, massaging his bunched shoulders with strong-yet-delicate hands. But she was gone. Dead and rotting in some shithole warehouse in some shithole neighborhood in that shithole part of this shithole city. Now he had to meet her murderer and apologize face-to-face. Apologize… to him. Fucking apologize to the bastard who–

"Step!" Valentino barked, snapping his fingers. "Hell to Step! You in there? I asked you a question!"

Steppenwulf looked up from the envelope, looking around at the derisive sneers of the assembled guards, Big Mack in particular was shooting him an acid look. He turned to Valentino, who was leaning forward, his lower elbows on his knees as he cupped a hand to his ear. His red eyes narrow glaring bands over his shades, glowing in the shadow of his hat. "Yeah. I got it."

"That so?" Valentino said, his voice low and dangerous. "I know that look. Don't fuck this up, Step. Vox and Vel don't get it just yet, but Red Nightmare is no one we want sneakin' up and goosin' us when our backs is turned. That guy has kit he shouldn't, and all the ways he coulda got it make me nervous. Shoresy ain't around to wipe yer ass no more, pup, so consider yerself housebroken and do this thing clean. Ya dig?"

Steppenwulf could only nod.

"Good. Now, get out."

The door opened and Steppenwulf showed himself out. The stretch-Vengeance had pulled to a stop outside an adhoc repair shop working out of a blasted out parking garage. The Vees' fighting vehicles rolled in one side to get patched up and came out the other, back into the fray. He looked over at a styled-out Toyota Tundra, a blessed rotary .50 cal mounted in the flatbed. It was riddled with punctures ranging from rifle rounds to fist-sized holes ripped into the sides. A cluster of such holes peppered the passenger side door. Mechanics were hosing out the cabin, multicolor blood and chunky slurry pouring out of the vehicle.

'Damn, looks like these guys were having a lot of fun up here. Maybe if I just swallowed my pride, bit the bullet, I could get out here and get myself a piece of the action?'

"Hey!" A familiar voice called out. "Ayo, Step!"

He turned around to see Big Mack and his wallowing Hellborn lackeys strutting towards him, the crustacean-demon regarding him with a cold sort of disdain mixed with mocking good humor. He was a tall Sinner, about as tall as Steppenwulf himself, with a spikey, elongated face. Besides oozing conceit out of every crack in his carapace, Big Mack's most pertinent feature was the fact that his forearms were grotesque lumps of muscle and shell, earning him the nickname 'Popeye' from their older peers, and 'Jackin' Mack' from the younger ones. Not that anyone would call him such to his face, as the creature he closely resembled in his demon form was none other than the pistol shrimp.

"What do you want, Mack?" Steppenwulf growled.

"Just making sure you're not about to do something stupid, Step," the shrimp-demon said, getting in his face. "Val ain't playing. He didn't want to say so in front of the others, but we need a guy like you out there. The war's not going too well up here, and I'm willing to put aside my dislike for you if it means the Gang can come out on top!"

Steppenwulf eyed him up for a moment, actually dumbfounded at this sudden open frankness. As much as it galled him to admit it, Big Mack had Valentino's council, his trust, and he'd earned it. "Deadass?"

"Pfft! No!" Mack scoffed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Val just wants us to make sure you roll up in the right set of wheels when you're groveling for Red."

"Heh! Yeah!" Rasped the neurotic satyr to Mack's right, a twitchy little shit by the name of Yoshi. "Val wants us to make sure you know to flash them big gator eyes with your tail between your legs!"

"Nnnghyeesss!" Gurgled the gangling drake on his left, a particularly unhinged Hellborn called Kyoki. "Baws is mad."

Steppenwulf ignored the chattering animals and glared at Mack, who crossed his arms and gestured over Steppenwulf's shoulder. He turned around to see an unaugmented LX600. While above and beyond the means of the average Hellion, the unbearably mundane vehicles carried an unspoken stigma among the Vees' henchmen, an unshakable association with soccer-moms and specialty coffee orders. He turned back to Mack and his minions, a low purring growl building in his throat.

Mack smiled at his indignance. "Grab us some lattes on your way back, will ya Karen?"

Steppenwulf roared and moved to swing at him, but Big Mack's arm was already up. His gnarled, claw-like hand was extended, fingers straight and thumb cocked. He brought it down in a slashing gesture, thumb snapping down like a trigger. Air compressed, collapsed, heat and light flashed from his palm as things moved too fast for even a demon of Steppenwulf's caliber to fully perceive. The shockwave rippled out, the air superheated as a tongue of plasma over a meter long extended from the claw. Steppenwulf only barely had time to dissipate before the full shockwave hit, his smoke scattering in the rush of wind that ensued. A fully-armored truck ten meters away collapsed as the concentrated shockwave impacted it in the midsection, causing the entire frame to crumple and bend into a U-shape before it was sent tumbling across the garage. Steppenwulf's smoke tumbled across the room at speed, coalescing back into his form in time for him to smash into a tool locker, crushing it like a beer can. He grunted in pain and tumbled to the floor, blood pouring from the four vertical slices raked across his torso, his sutured wounds burst open. He groaned in pain and grimaced, clutching the wounds, quietly thankful that his guts had stayed inside him.

"I take mine with whole milk and a double-shot of Jack's," Mack called out.

"My Sinna you just got roasted!" Yoshi cackled, his raspy voice making his laughter a coarse croak. "YOW!"

"Nnnyesss!"

"Ayo Step!" Big Mack called out. "I almost forgot."

Steppenwulf did not look up, ear cocking at the musical, metallic 'ping' that sounded. A shiny enchanted ring tumbled on the filthy ground in front of him: one of Shoresy's command rings.

"We scoped your hideout after you got spanked," said Big Mack. "He took all her knives and rings, except that one. My guess is that he left it for you. Just something to keep in mind."

Steppenwulf reached out and picked up the enchanted ring, the blood on his hands streaking across its patterned surface. He looked back up only to see that Mack and his minions were gone. That burning pit in his gut flickered and shrank a bit, still acid and bitter, but losing out to the warmth building in his chest. He at least had something of her now. For the first time in a long, long time, Steppenwulf felt the hot burn of tears as they welled up in his eyes. He bid them back, shaking his head, not now, not in front of the pit crews. He silently slid the ring on his right ring finger and stood up, turning to the Karen-mobile, lip curling in disgust.

What would he do?

Steppenwulf reached into his pocket and fished out his Hellphone. "Ayo Pall. Portal the guys over here. We got an errand to run."