Chapter 3: Vital Spots
Kabby rolled into the courtyard, well and truly bagged. He hopped out early, into the courtyard, trusting the driver to deliver the goods to the Shop. She was a robustly built Sinner by the name of Cowlick. She resembled an ambulatory callus and was every inch as tough as her appearance implied. He liked her. She wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but he could tell she had a good heart, underneath it all. Reliable and stolid, secretly overjoyed to be out of that ghastly cathouse, but with a coarse, ragging sense of humor that jibed with his.
He bade his fond farewells, enjoying the sincere return he got on that front. When it came to women he enjoyed the more 'robust' figures, though his tastes tended towards 'padding' not 'armor'. Still, he allowed himself a moment's fancy. Maybe in the right digs, with some proper polish, the Sinner could be someone he could be more than friends with. He discarded the idea, for now at least. It had been a long day of trekking and picking and pulling, as well as setting down blue darts for instant transmission. They'd picked up six new cars for disarming and sale today, with number six being a reasonably new Volvo S80. Nothing fancy, but reliable with a decent engine and low mileage; with some spit and polish and a good salesman, the thing would probably go for 10 grand, 12 if they took liberties with the odie. His conservative estimates put today's haul at a cool 100K after all the various parties got their cut. Boss Lady would be tickled pink.
He checked his watch, noting the time. Speaking of Boss Lady…
The scrawny imp walked through the 'Donna, its halls empty save for a few critters here and there sweeping the floors and emptying the bins. The cleaning kids, three imps, stopped what they were doing and waved at him, smiling their gap-toothed grins. Kabby smiled in return and reached into his pockets, pulling out little packs of gum, tossing them to the kids. Hailfire flavor – not authentic hailfire, mind, as those spicy suckers run a hundred $ouls a fruit! – sweet and fruity but with a burning heat imps craved. They snatched the packets and gave thanks before setting off back to work. He watched them, smiling softly. If anyone had told him those months ago that he'd walk these halls with a sense of purpose, of satisfaction, he'd have kicked them in whatever sore spot they had for thinking so little of him.
But here he was, almost enjoying himself as he worked within what was ostensibly a slave-gang. That should have bothered him, were it not for the fact that this shitheap was changing for the better. The kids were happier, safer. Their exploitation, while still very much present, was less gross and absolute. That and the fact it wouldn't be long now before he was running this joint mollified his outrage at the state of the children. Once that thicc bitch was wyrm-food and Red Nightmare presided, Kabby would be able to notch one tally in his 'good deeds' column and finally restore some dignity to these poor creatures.
Not too long now…
He turned the corner and approached the Staff lounge, entering it. The Staff lounge was pretty basic with a kitchenette, a doublewide fridge, and an assortment of chairs and couches surrounding a TV. Macks sat splayed out on a loveseat, glugging from a plastic bottle of bathtub vodka, a box of Belphegor's Brimstone Bunker Wunkers in his hands, wisps of yellow, sulfurous smoke stinking up the room. His eyes were drunkenly fixed on the TV, on which an ad played. An animated imp boy held up a garishly colored box, a trusty emberhound at his side.
"Golly! This box of Belphegor's Brimstone Bunker Wunkers, now with Bigger Chunks of Burning Brimstone, contains no prize!" The boy grasped the box, smiling maniacally as vantablack energy radiated it, placing it on his head. "Such a box is rare with dark power!"
"Y̵̡̘̙͛͊͠o̸̘͇̽͐͝u̸̞͉͕͊̈́ w̴͇̟̫͑͑͒e̸͉̼̼̽̈́̚r̵͚͚͎̔͌͛e̵̙͚͕̒͆̓ w̴̡̝̞͐͐̐ì̸͎͕͖́̽s̵̡̠͔̒̽͐e̵̙͔̟̒̒͝ t̵͕̺̺̿̓̚o̴̟̒͑̐͜͜ c̴͉͖̿̔͠r̴̙̻͕̐̔͑à̵͎͎̠̚f̴̦͎͙́̓͝t̵̞̺͓̀̓̓ a̸̠̪̟͊͆̈́ c̸̼͕̺̀̾́r̸̡̟͔̀͠͠o̵̦̪̔͌̈́͜ẁ̴̡̙̓̕n̸̢͔̝̈́̒̿ f̸̡̻̪͒͐̒r̸͓͓͔͆͊̕ö̸̟͕͕́͛̕m̸̻͓̟̓͑͝ i̸͇͚̘̓͌t̴͙͍͐́̈́!̵̡̦̦̐̕͠" The emberhound gurgled, tears of pitch bubbling from its eyes.
"I can feel my Dark Lord overtaking me!" The imp boy gibbered, black veins spreading across his flesh. "I̢̙̼t̢͔̠ i̢͓͕s͖̙͕ a͉͚̞ g̞̞̻o̢̺̺o̝͓̻d̦͓͜ p̡̻͉a͉̼͇i̟̠̟n̡̡̟.͉̘̞"
The imp kid's eyes rolled back in his skull as his jaw unhinged, an endless swarm of vile black flies issuing forth. "Í̵͎̠̔͐͜ A̴̢̘͍̒̐͝M̸̻͔͆́͌ I̵̻̞̠͑̕N̵͇̟̺̈́̈́͝T̵̪̙̪̓̕E̴̡̠͛͆͒R̵̢̼͍͊͘̚F̴̟̟͉̓́̕A̸̡͚͚͋̈́̚C̴̢̫͋̽͜͝E̸͔̪̙͋͑̓D̴͕̞̦̓͑!"
"Almost every box of Belphegor's Brimstone Bunker Wunkers, now with Bigger Chunks of Burning Brimstone contains a prize!" The narrator announced, pleasantly. "The others: oblivion."
"Tch." Macks hissed, tossing the empty box over his shoulder. "Been eatin' these things since I was a pup, ain't never been subsumed by no Manifestation of Sin."
"Pretty sure it's just a marketing gimmick," said Kabby, pouring himself some coffee. "Dinner meeting's soon, right?"
"Yeah, soon," said Macks, smirking at him. "As in 'five minutes ago'!"
"Shit!" Kabby spat his coffee and scrambled across the lounge to the door to the adjoining meeting room.
He stopped a moment, straightening out his shirt and fixing his short white hair before stepping in. Waiting for him were the assembled heads of the 'Donna, around a long, carved wood table. Belladonna liked to have her meetings along with a sumptuous meal and expensive wine, her reasoning being that even bad news was easier to swallow with good food and drink. It also let her flex on her employees with the seat selection, the closer to the Boss Lady you sat, the more closely she'd listen. In addition, of course, for the privilege of making smalltalk with her. All dressed up in a self-aggrandizing display of generosity.
All the heads turned, their expressions ranging from apathy to flat distaste. Those who disliked the fact that there was an imp at the table kept their mouths shut, their impotent outrage better than any seasoning for Kabby's meal, especially because…
"Mr. Kabby!" Belladonna mooed, smiling, standing up and waving him over, gesturing to the empty seat at the end of the table, to her left. "Fashionably late, as always. Come, come. Take your seat."
"Yeap, well," Kabby said, sniffing nonchalantly. "Just had to get things square with my contacts, grabbed one last car, you know how it is."
"Oh, indeed I do, Mr. Kabby." Belladonna chuckled. "You work so hard for this organization, you deserve a good meal, at least."
He smiled and strutted over, careful to shoot a sideways glance and smirk at the Sinners he knew hated his guts. To be fair, out of all of them that amounted to only two of the assembled Heads.
At the far end of the table was Doc Habbo, the resident sawbones. Out of the lot he was perhaps the closest thing to a good person. Though, if the kids were to be believed, also a drunk and a coward. His status at the table stemmed from his continuing insistence on, Kabby suspected, actually caring about the kids.
Next was Laila, head of Home Ec; Kabby didn't know much about the skinny, fuzzy moth-demon beyond that she ran the sweatshop and was something of a stuck-up wannabe fashionista. Quite the babe, though. Her department made decent money consistently, but never quite rolled out bank. End of the table.
Sitting opposite her was Surf Mesa, the groundskeeper, a gimlet-faced creature of some kind, perhaps a fish or amphibian-demon, something low and mean you'd find in a swamp. The ugly, ungainly fuck was well known for being the most honestly bigoted at the 'Donna, always grousing and insulting the kids under his employ, assigning them the filthiest, most degrading jobs. Still, he knew his stuff well enough to keep the lights on, the toilets flushing, and the furnace chundering. His distaste for Kabby sometimes seemed to verge on personal, as though the imp's presence here somehow assaulted his pride.
Kabby winked at him, sending the Sinner into silent, fuming fury.
Sitting in the middle of the table, in his new position, was Diamanti, the Shop Foreman and the other asshole with an ax to grind. His scrapping operation used to make the most at the Donna besides the Carriage House, as such he used to sit right next to Lady Belladonna and polish his fat brass face on her ass. He used to get all the perks such a position offered in this shithole.
Used to.
No need to guess why he locked the swaggering imp with a baleful glare.
Across from the portly clockwork Sinner was Taco, the Computer Lab head who he'd met for the first time just that morning. His department kept the not-inconsiderable profit the 'Donna produced from raising the wrong eyebrows, as well as managing its investments and stocks. Out of all of them, his position was the most stable, because even if Boss Lady axed the 'charity' racket, he'd still be the one balancing her pocketbook. Kabby didn't care for his attitude, but conceded that the idiot was smart enough to keep his trap shut and eyes down, especially considering who was sitting next to him.
Red Nightmare, his and soon-to-be-everyone-else's boss smiled at him as he approached, subtly gesturing to the other seat of 'honor' at the table, opposite him. Red was the negotiator and now Street Manager, official second-in-command and unofficial Overlord-to-be. While Acquisitions was split in duties between the Shop and the Street, both plenty profitable on their own, it was Red's progress on the 'slaughtering or kowtowing local gangs' front that had made him the 'Donna's top earner, getting him his spot.
"Please, take your seat," said the Boss Lady. "That we may begin."
He eyed up the merciless, cruel head of the 'Donna. She was a tall Sinner, some seve-and-a-half feet not including her goatish horns. She was done up in a loose white silk dress that hung easily over her shoulders on two bands that joined behind her neck, her impressive bust on full display through the plunging v-line and generous side-windows. The waist of the dress was bound with a red sash folded through a gold ring, accentuating the swell of her round belly and frankly outrageous curvature of her hips and rump.
Kabby hated the heady rush of hot blood that flared in his veins when he was close to her. She was an evil, cruel, greedy, vicious bitch who happily subjected helpless kids to daily abuse and degradation just to make an easy $oul… but by Satan's scabby scrote if she wasn't every voluptuous, curvaceous, full-bodied-like-a-Gluttony-Merlot inch his type! A Venusian exemplar to the short, skinny imp who, in his off-time and with cash to spare, enjoyed a night at Pies'N'Thighs, a local fried chicken and stripclub franchise that specialized in rubenesque ladies of every stripe. He cursed whatever God saw fit to attach that ass and those tits to such a vile creature.
He took his seat next to her, forcing himself to return the smile she shot his way. She rang a little bell and out came eight well-dressed kids entered, in their hands were fancy metal trays. They set each one down in front of the attendees and removed the covers, revealing a roasted Gluttony mallard sitting in a bed of armandine potatoes, glazed carrots, and asparagus, lined with a crisp kale garnish. Kabby felt his stomach clench in anticipation, he hadn't had a proper meal since breakfast! He looked across the table and into the wide, staring eyes of one of the kids, a tall impess, looking very thin in her monkey-suit, a silvery line of drool running from the corner of her mouth. He turned back to the meal and sighed, trying not to hear the growl from the belly of the incubus pouring his wine.
"Now," Belladonna announced, silently bidding the kids to leave. "First thing's first. It's my pleasure to announce that profits are up 50% from last quarter's total and we're not even half-way through! This may come as a surprise to some of you, what with the Carriage House and related Services department shutting down. However, it is the sign of a great leader who can not only move on from old and reliable but stifling ventures, but see the potential in others. Our expansion into the Little Wrath area has yielded bountiful new hunting grounds, to this end I saw it fit to expand our home operations in kind. I would like you all to meet our newest member, Mr Kabby, Head of Sales and Distribution. Here here."
A largely unenthusiastic 'here here' ensued, with several Heads draining their glasses in a single gulp.
"Here here, Mr. Kabby," Red crooned, clapping. "A round of applause for our rising star!"
Taco, looking as though he were sitting next to a live explosive, broke into unsure applause. No one else joined in.
"A round…" Red said, still smiling despite the metallic flanging in his voice. "…Of applause."
The other Heads reluctantly joined in, only Surf Mesa staunchly refusing.
"So good to see such camaraderie among my trusted Staff," said Belladonna, amused, leaning in close and setting a hand on the imp's shoulder. "Now. Mr. Kabby, if you would begin?"
"Er…" Kabby muttered, getting a full view through the low-hanging dress' generous side-window. "Yeah. Right! Uh, so, as we push into nicer parts of the city, we'll have access to more and more profitable, er, prey. That said, we run a fine line. Push too hard, and we could get some push back. So, it's my opinion that we'll need to expand our truck fleet by two units, in order to pick up more of the less fancy models and turn over the same profit, or pick up a few fancy catches while the rest pick junkers. This will keep both the Parts and Sale departments in the Shop running at maximum capacity."
"An excellent idea, Mr. Kabby," crooned Belladonna, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a friendly hug. "And so considerate!"
'Lucifer on his throne they're bigger than my head…' Kabby thought, hoping he wasn't visibly blushing. "Th-thank you, My Lady."
She pat him on the head, turning to her treacherous second. "Mr. Nightmare, I understand you have something to report?"
"Yes," said Red, clearing his throat and rising to his feet. "You'll be pleased to hear that the gangs known as the Greebles, the Tchotchkes, and the Ball Puncherz have all come to heel. They cover the various rackets in the area. Most relevant to us is the Greebles' various chopshop operations and the Ball Puncherz' protection rackets in the mercantile district. The Greebles will not interfere with our collectors or thieves, and the Ball Puncherz will 'convince' every shop under their protection to sell Home Ec's wares. All three will be paying a monthly stipend of 25% total profits."
"Excellent," she said, noticing a lingering expression on Red's face. "Something else to add?"
"As Mr. Kabby said, we shouldn't push our luck too hard," said Red, gesturing at the imp. "Could prompt push-back. It is my opinion that we should pressure the gangs under our thrall to extend their protection rackets to middle-bracket neighborhoods, with the pretext of our robbery teams providing incentive. To this end I'll need to train a specialized burglar corps to ransack the abodes and stores of those that refuse to pay."
Belladonna pondered this for a moment. "And where will you be drafting this corps from?"
"That will be at Syx's discretion," said Red. "He knows the strengths and weaknesses of each kid best."
"That he does…" She rapped her hard, polished hoof-fingers on the table. "Will the diverted manpower affect the profit margins of any department in the short term?"
"Possibly, but the potential earnings of protection fees and plunder will offset this."
Belladonna nodded and waved him on. "Very well. Tell Syx to put a team together. Anything else?"
Red cleared his throat. "There was an… altercation earlier today."
"Yes…" She said, her voice taking on that hard quality it took when she was pleased with her control of a situation. "I heard. How is Emerson?"
Kabby shot Red a questioning look, who continued: "He'll be alright, nothing a night's sleep and a few aspirin won't fix."
"What happened?" Belladonna said. "I heard he hit you. That's… unusually bold for him."
"I think the stress of the job is getting to him," said Red, airly. "Perhaps we could move him to another area?"
"If you can find a replacement driver, I'll consider it." Belladonna turned to Taco. "Taco, anything to report?"
The Sinner started as though jabbed with a taser, glancing over at Red and then looking at Kabby, who smile and winked. "N-no. Nothing out of the ordinary. The money's… good."
Belladonna glanced between the three of them. "…Indeed. Anyway, moving on…"
The night proceeded as usual. Diamanti grudgingly agreed with Kabby's assessment and assented to it, but not before demanding an extra team from the resale workers. Kabby agreed happily. Laila appreciated the extra workers, though insisted on more training time before increasing order sizes; she was ignored. Surf Mesa grumbled something about the 'teevin' ringscrapers brooin' sheen in the fernis 'gain' as the rest of the Heads pretended to understand him before moving on. Last, Doc Habbo, voiced concern about the sharp increase in injuries among Acquisition children, and how the kids never seemed willing to mention just what caused them. He was also ignored.
The wine flowed.
Kabby stumbled down the halls, head swimming. The Boss Lady had been very generous with some apparently very strong wine. Chatting him up, laughing at his jokes, entertaining his ideas as they flowed with the alcohol. Kabby didn't consider himself a lightweight by any means, but he was also keeping up with creatures that were, at a conservative estimate, five times his size. Still, he kept up.
Red Nightmare strolled alongside him, also a touch swervy, as they approached his office. Kabby stepped forward and opened the door for his boss. Red strolled in and beckoned him to follow, so he did. Red's office was hardly austere, but even with a nice throw-rug, tasteful wallpaper, and a very fancy carved oak desk it was a far-cry from the Boss Lady's lavish digs. Red sat down behind his desk and gestured for Kabby to sit.
"So," said Red as Kabby sat down. "Set down the last of your pins?"
"Yeap. All twenty in vital spots. If we need to get anywhere or send anything to anyone what matters, I'm your imp." said Kabby, belching quietly before patting his belly. "Say, got a night-cap on hand?"
"Sorry," said Red. "I don't drink besides at dinners."
"Well then, [Bridge Over Troubled Waters]." His aura flared as his Stand materialized, the stylized quiver now empty save for the single red, glowing dart.
"You don't have to say it–" Red began to say before Kabby vanished. "…Every time."
Kabby reappeared a second later, a bottle of liquor and two glasses in his hands.
The imp handed the demon the bottle and a glass. "This is good shit, Red. It's–"
"Bunnahabhain…" Red said, quietly, studying the bottle. "25 year single male Islay scotch, with notes of sherry, oak, caramel, berries, and a 'hwisper' of cardamom."
"Never pegged you for a scotch-drinker, Red."
"I'm not…" he said, frowning slightly as his eyes went distant. "But I once knew someone who… nevermind."
"Alright," said Kabby as Red handed the bottle back, cracking and pouring a finger in each glass. "Never say I don't get you anything nice."
"And where did you get this, exactly?" Red examined the amber liquid, rolling it about in the glass, watching the legs form. "One of your 'vital spots'?"
Kabby tapped his nonexistent nose and winked. "Underground cellar of some rich asshole. Setty got me in there with her Danny Phantom schtick."
"Danny who?"
"Nevermind." Kabby sipped his scotch, face creasing into a mask of bliss. "Fuck me, that's good. The only asshole who could fail to enjoy this is the guy with the dough to buy it! Anyway, all the sites are set up, the operation should go smooth as a good shit, now."
Red sipped the overproof whisky, smacking his lips, scowling now. "…Brings back memories…"
"Huh?"
"How's Setty settling in with Acquisitions? I've been busy on the gang front. Is she doing her job?"
"Her job? Pssh! You don't need to worry about that, Red!" Kabby scoffed. "Especially with that Stand of hers. It's piss-easy picking pockets when you can just 'fwoosh' right through a fucker."
"Tell me about it…" He grumbled. "She's managing the other kids well enough?"
"Yeah, she gets on with them well enough. But she's… cocky. Takes risks. Managed to wrangle a bunch of the anklebiters into knocking over a swanky home. Once I found out, it was too late, they'd cleaned the place out and we had no choice but to take the haul. Can't unbake a bun and all that. And the other day, she tuned up a bunch of Goldies, even though they ain't our problem no more. Squished a Sinner flat with a fucking steamroller! Just picked it up over her head and SPLAT! That [Titanium] of hers is a corker, to be sure, but I need you to talk some sense into her before she gets herself – and us – into trouble."
Red sighed and nodded. "I instructed her to make an impression. We're moving forward with this protection business, so we need protection to feel necessary. But you're right. Going forward, no more high-profile B'n'Es, and no more steamrollers. We're reaching our limit regarding the territory we can hold as is. We don't need a war, not while we're short of muscle."
"War?" Kabby said, taking another sip. "Feeling like anyone back here can give you trouble?"
Red smirked, examining his drink. "Hardly. Fearsome spectacles and intimidation may work with minnows like the Greebles and Ball Puncherz, but we're getting close to Little Wrath. The gangs there are of a tougher stock. Anchovies, herring, that sort of thing. I could kill every single one of them, true, but we just don't have the skilled, professional manpower to keep tabs on organizations of that size. In time, maybe, but not right now."
Kabby nodded. Little Wrath. He knew the place; a series of traffic chokepoints some enterprising types put a bunch of tollbooths on and staffed with enough muscle to enforce them. The city that sprung up, around, and under the overpasses became particularly wretched hives of scum and villainy, mostly populated by imps, hence the name. He'd had his share of action passing through there in his cabbie days. They'd need more than just a bunch of superpowered tots to hold that ratsnest.
Oh, speaking of…
"How'd it go with fatass?"
Red smiled, sipping his scotch. "Swimmingly. No combat potential, but this business is about more than just bruisers. It's an object Stand, like yours. He calls it [Ballads1]. Looks like a fancy tablet. As I understand it, using a series of apps on the device, Arby creates a profile of his target using various bits of data it can detect. Height, weight, location, age, personal info, that sort of thing. Once a profile is ready, he loads it into a hangman program, with the target's name and likeness appearing in the noose – presumably this allows him to gauge the completeness of the profile – and when complete, the Stand becomes [Slow Dancing in the Dark]."
"Pretentious name for a pretentious kid."
Red playfully gestured for him to 'shut'. "Shush. This is where things get interesting. [Ballads1] then transforms into [Slow Dancing in the Dark] – oof, doesn't roll off the tongue, does it? – and it becomes one of those… uh… the visor things, with the little hand doo-dads?"
Kabby nodded, framing his hands around his eyes. "VR headsets."
"That's it! Anyway, once that happens he can, well, control them." Red pantomimed playing on a controller. "Like a player with a video game. Controls their movements, their speech, the whole nine."
Kabby gave an impressed whistle; he'd have to remember not to tick that big little shit off. Graciousness and forgiveness were dirty words to the salamandrine. "Damn, that's… that's a good one. Any drawbacks?"
Red leaned back in his chair, fingers strumming on his glass. "A few, potentially. For one, he can't re-establish a connection once it's been lost. Could be you only get one 'life' per character, could be there's a refractory period, or maybe something as simple as having to re-enter the data. Who knows? We'll just have to wait and see as he figures it out. Another, potentially, is that he has to be within visual range of a target. But again, maybe he can establish a connection with something as simple as a picture? These things tend to change over time as the user grows as a person."
"Yeah, I guess–" Kabby nodded before pausing. "Wait, he tested it out already?"
Red chuckled, amused, and nodded. "Oh, right! You weren't here for that! Alright, so, him and Setty are figuring out how the thing works, right? Not wanting to test it out on one of the kids, who do they target but…?"
Kabby cocked his head to the side, arching his eyebrow as he gestured for Red to continue.
"Okay, so get this," Red said, wetting his whistle with a sip of scotch. "There I am, chatting with Syx, when who else but Emerson strolls up and slaps me in the face with a glove! Like, a challenge to a old-timey duel!"
"No!" Kabby exclaimed, shock and amusement spreading across his face. "He made Emerson slap you? That Stand's stronger than I thought!"
"Oh, it gets better~"
They continued chatting, laughing and carrying on, unaware of the small, ugly device affixed to the underside of the chair. It was crude, a headset mic gutted and attached to a bluetooth transmitter. The little white light on it flashing.
The Computer Lab was dark, the only light the flickering screens. Arby sat and listened, having been granted leave to remain in the Lab to 'catch up'. He held a finger to the receiver in his ear as Red went through the day's happenings.
He held up [Ballads1], his voice low and soft. "Red Nightmare is arrogant."
The words flashed green and appeared next to his picture in the profile.
"Red Nightmare is overconfident."
The process repeated.
"Red Nightmare is easily fooled."
The words flashed red and vanished.
Damn.
"Red Nightmare is…" He paused, listening in to the conversation.
"…ow'd it go with the fatass?" The imp gurgled.
Arby added Kabby to the list. He would begin crafting a profile of him immediately. The insult would be answered eventually, once he knew what he could get away with.
"Hurts," said a flat, reedy voice. "Hurts bad."
He glanced to the side, seeing Tortilla, loyal Tortilla, perched on the table. One of his buggy yellow eyes was swollen shut, his lip badly split, as welts and bruises darkened all over his face, neck, and arms. His hand - knuckles bruised and split from when he had hammered them into his own face and body as hard as he could - cradled his leg, where a ballpoint pen had been stabbed and then pushed deep into his thigh. His unswollen eye was wet with tears, mixing with the blood from the wound on his cheek, where the pen had gone first, veering from his eye at the last second. It would seem there were limits to what this Stand could make a person do to themselves. Optimization would require further investigation.
"Quiet," hissed Arby.
Tortilla shut his mouth and looked down at the pen.
"Stop fussing with it," said Arby. "Pull it out and you'll stain the carpet more than you already have."
"Sorry Arby," replied Tortilla.
"Shh!"
He listened in. "…can't re-establish a connection once it's been lost. Could be you only get one 'life' per character, could be there's a refractory period, or maybe something as simple as having to re-enter the data. Who knows? We'll just have to wait and see as he figures it out. Another, potentially, is that he has to be within visual range of a target. But again, maybe he can establish a connection with something as simple as a picture?"
A picture! Why hadn't he thought of that? If he could make do with a simple picture, well, it would certainly help him optimize his powers, and without needing to damage his loyal minion further. But still… too much of Red's conjecture was accurate.
"Red Nightmare is… not unintelligent."
The words shone green and added themselves to the profile.
Indeed, the failure to reconnect with Emerson after he'd regained consciousness frustrated him. There were so many other things he wanted to make the Sinner do. But Red was right twice: there was a refractory period of one hour, and new 'personal data' needed to be entered each time. In all, three truthful points of 'settings' information were needed in addition to the physical info provided by the other apps – the camera, the clock, the map, and the scale – in order to create a profile. Should any be missing, the hangman would be incomplete and [Slow Dancing in the Dark] would not manifest. Worse yet, the personal data, once used, could not be reused.
"Hurts," said Tortilla in his flat, reedy voice. "Need Doc."
"Shush."
Another thing he'd learned since then was that three points of 'settings' data was the minimum. The more points, and the more personal they were to the subject, the finer and more complete the control of their bodies. Three points and he could make Tortilla dance about like a monkey, hooping and hollering. Four points and he could get the little imp to undress before him as though in a cabaret, albeit with some resistance. No fewer than six points were needed for self-harm, as he easily made the imp pummel himself bloody with his own fists. But when it came to the pen… it would seem the threat of losing an eye awakened some atavistic sense of self-preservation, causing it to deviate at the last moment, stabbing into his cheek. In his frustration, Arby had made the imp jam the pen into his thigh and slowly press it deeper and deeper, twisting as he did. Which was interesting. The unconscious mind would intervene when only grievous damage – such as the loss of an eye – was imminent, but simple injury was within his control.
How many points of data would he need to force someone to kill themselves? Or, perhaps, how personal would the data have to be?
He'd have to investigate further.
He listened back in. "…Another point of weakness, possibly. Emerson, that feeble worm, even he was able to fight off the influence, at least a little. If that walking pile of cowering sewage is able to override its control, even a bit, perhaps stronger-willed targets are immune? Or maybe the degree of influence scales to the personal nature of the information? Say, 'Emerson likes to eat food' vs 'Emerson's favorite food is a double bacon cheeseburger with grilled pineapple'. One lends itself better to control than the other."
Damn.
"Maybe it's also a survival instinct?" Kabby opined. "Emerson's a worm, sure, but he's so scared of you, giving you shit is like putting a loaded gun to his head! He just couldn't let it happen, not without a fight!"
Damn! These two were far more clever than he anticipated. He would need to be very careful around them going forward.
"In any case, be wary of Arby," said Red. "There's something in him. Something cold and flat, like a frozen lake. It may look stable and solid, but there are cracks you can't see. Walk carefully with Arby, and don't put too much weight on him, too much trust, because that's when the ice breaks and you fall in."
"You're drunk, Red."
"Schtop fillin' my glash, then!"
Arby pulled the earpiece out and sighed, drumming his fingers on the desk. He turned to [Ballads1], clearing his throat. "Red Nightmare is not to be underestimated."
The words glowed green.
"Red Nightmare is dangerous."
The words glowed green.
He paused, sighing, before saying. "I should not betray Red Nightmare… for now."
The words glowed green.
Arby groaned and reclined in his chair. So be it. For now.
But a time would come when his account would be settled. When the Sinner would regret addressing him in such a disrespectful fashion. An insult. Him. An insult?! How dare he! That Faller trash! How dare he presume to know the lives and culture of beings infinitely his superior?! Arby's people ruled Hell once, and they would again! It would just… take a little more time. Patience. The checkbook will balance, oh yes, for him and all his people, and all debts will be taken into account. The fees will be tallied and paid in full.
An insult.
Him.
Red Nightmare would find that particular bit of pointed insight carried a hefty price.
"Hurts." Tortilla whined. "Hurts bad."
"Yes, I know," said Arby, reaching out and plucking him off the table and setting him on his shoulder as he walked out of the Lab. Part of him dimly hoped that Red's picture theory bore out, allowing him to form profiles of strangers instead. Subjecting Tortilla to further tests ran the risk of permanently damaging the little creature. He'd have to find new test subjects, if only to keep his own workload light. "I'll carry you to Doc Habbo, okay buddy?"
"Bleeding on your suit," said Tortilla. "Sorry Arby."
"It's alright, I have spares." Arby turned to him. "What happened, again?"
"Fell down stairs," said Tortilla, nodding. "Yep yep yep. Fell down stairs, holding pen. Yep yep yep."
"Good man."
