Author's Note:
Sorry this one took so long, guys! But here we are! THE END!

Enjoy!

Get Out Alive Epilogue: New Management

"Kallis, you're angry, I get that," the Vees rep on the phone said, understandingly. "That doesn't change the fact that our organization signed a noninterference treaty with–"

"I don't give a fuck!" Kallis Konos snarled into the hellphone, his arm in a sling, pacing about his still-empty suite, the damage from the ransacking only freshly plastered over. "What do we pay you frauds for if your buddies can just waltz right in and rob us blind?!"

"Kallis–"

"Mr. Konos to you, peon!"

"I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Konos," said the Vees representative. "As soon as we have the manpower, we'll send some minions out there to assess the situation, but as for 'razing that orphanage to the ground and selling the brats for leather' I'm afraid our treaty forbids such action. We can, however, arrange monetary compensation–"

"Monetary compensation!" Kallis spat. "Those little shits didn't rob my bank or steal my wallet! They robbed my home! Stole my records! My awards! My antiques! Heirlooms and gifts from esteemed clients! Items of immense sentimental value! Can you put a pricetag on the pair of panties Verosika Mayday wore during her Springtime Bedsprings Tour?!"

"…I suppose not."

"'I suppose not'!" The portly imp sneered mockingly. "And my reputation! Cleaned out by a bunch of orphans! That doesn't just reflect poorly on me, but on my studio! If you Vees can't step up and satisfy the honor of me and my company, I'm afraid I'm going to have to find someone who will!"

"That will not be necessary." A deep, smooth voice emanated from behind and high above the incensed imp.

Kallis noticed the large, dark shadow being cast over him, slowly turning around, his eyes widening as he looked up, and up, and up. Looming over him was a Sinner, tall and well-built, dressed in an immaculate black three-piece suit with red tie. In appearance he brought to mind a handsome compromise between a predatory fish and some pale, shapeless horror of the deep, his head full of rosy-pink tentacles slicked back save for a single boyish cowlick hanging over his forehead. Kallis locked gazes with the towering Sinner, his eyes the color of river-polished jade in the sun, and every bit as warm and soft as the namesake stone. He'd never met this demon, but knew him nonetheless.

"Red Nightmare…" Kallis croaked, the color draining from his pudgy red cheeks.

"Mr. Konos?" The Vees rep said over the phone. "Mr. Konos, who's there?"

Kallis Konos said nothing as he hung up, staring up at the increasingly infamous enforcer of the 'Donna. If nothing else, Kallis' time as a producer had bestowed upon him an eye for talent, to pay attention when a nobody made a splash, and Red Nightmare's debut at the Azathoth had been, among other things, a splash. After that it seemed like Red was a one-hit-wonder, vanishing just as abruptly as he had appeared, but soon resurfaced out in the boonies, building up a small but dedicated fanbase, growing slowly but surely.

Kallis Konos, if nothing else, had an eye for talent.

"Can I… help you, sir?" He ventured, sweat breaking out on his brow.

"You can, in fact." Red Nightmare stepped aside, revealing a very familiar teenaged succubus. "By accepting my impetuous young employee's apology."

Konos blinked in surprise, eyes darting back and forth between the Sinner and Hellborn. "Apology?"

Red Nightmare nodded, waiting a moment as silence hung in the air before gently nudging the girl. Her beautiful face scrunched up into a pout, arms uncrossing over her generous bosom as she stepped forward, bowing. "Sorry for breaking in, stealing your stuff, and attacking you. I was acting without my boss' say-so. Please accept my apology, sir."

Kallis smirked at this, glancing up at Red Nightmare. "Nice apology."

Red Nightmare sighed and nodded, snapping his fingers. Kallis flinched as various items suddenly appeared inside his living room. His entertainment system, his guitars, his Wrath steel knife set, on and on and on. Kallis gasped as boxes of records, awards, signed posters and autographed photos of him posing with stars. He looked around, grinning as almost all of his purloined wares were returned to him.

Almost.

"I seem to recall a few bottles of very expensive liquor," he grumbled, smiling despite himself as he picked the framed panties out of the box and sniffed deeply. "Still got it…"

"Those were consumed, unfortunately." Red stepped to the side, revealing a crate. "I can only hope that these will prove a suitable replacement?"

Kallis opened the crate and gasped. In it were over a dozen bottles of various shapes and contents. Tequila, scotch, cognac, bandy, some from prestigious distilleries throughout the rings, whereas others looked to be from Earth itself! "Ah. Yes. This is a good start."

"Once more, I would like to extend to you my deepest apologies for any inconvenience, Mr. Konos," said Red Nightmare, reaching into his pocket and producing a card. "Going forward, I would like you and all your neighbors to know that me and my organization are friends of Little Wrath, and hope for productive future endeavors."

Kallis took the card, reading it aloud. "The Institute for the Enrichment and Education of Dispossessed Hellborn Children?"

"The Institute, for short." Red nodded, gesturing 'so-so'. "It's a working title. We're workshopping it."

"I take it that Lady Belladonna's out of the picture?" Kallis said, smirking sourly; he hardly considered himself a soft touch, but the things he'd heard about that miserable Sinner even made his tough imp hide crawl.

Red and the succubus girl grinned at this, glancing at one another with meaningful looks, a private joke passing silently between them before turning back to him. "She's taken a sabbatical from the business."

Konos cocked his head, confused. "A what?"

"Pardon the Sinner parlance," said Red, thinking for a moment. "She's taking a… vacation."

"A long vacation," said the succubus, smirking, crossing her arms across her chest.

"So she's…?" Kallis trailed off, drawing his finger across his throat.

"Goodness, no! She's very much alive." Red Nightmare crooned, his smile becoming a sharp, toothy grin. "Safe and sound for the immediate future… Needless to say, the Institute is now under new management."

"Alive, is she? Pity. If you're worried about anyone around here kicking down your door to avenge her, well… don't,," Konos said, smirking. "That being the case, I think you'll find the residents of Little Wrath a sight more welcoming now. I accept your apology, just don't let it happen again."

"Very good," said Red, nodding and standing up straight, pointing to the card in Kallis' hand. "Please consider voting for our representative Mr. Macks in the coming elections. As we are conscientious neighbors – and not embroiled in the Turf War to boot – I think you'll find both the quality and expedience of our services second to none."

Kallis flipped the card over, seeing a clean-scrubbed, smartly dressed male imp standing proud and imperiously atop a pile of beaten Sinners, the slogans next to him reading: A Vote for Macks is a vote for change! A Hellborn fights for Hellborn rights! Stand proud, Little Wrath!

"I'll think about it… say, how did you get…?" asked Kallis, looking up only to find the room vacant, all his stolen goods tastefully arranged around his suite. "…In here? Tch. Sinners…" He re-examined the card, arching an eyebrow. "A Hellborn fights for Hellborn rights, eh?"

The imp couple trotted down the hallway after the handsome young incubus, looking around at the clean, well-lit halls, the walls festooned with framed paintings broken up by wood and glass cabinets displaying various sculptures of clay or welded metal. They were a good-looking pair, well-groomed and trim-bodied, clothed in designer garments, a three piece suit and a knee-length silk business dress respectively. On their fingers and around their necks were expensive-looking gold chains and jewel-inlaid rings; clearly of the upper crust, straight from Little Wrath.

"We here at the Institute strongly believe that a robust array of stimulating hobbies are vital for promoting the personal growth of our wards, including art," said Zak, their incubus guide, gesturing at the paintings and sculptures. "Every month the kids vote on whose works get put on display."

"I see…" the male imp said as he examined the interminable displayed works; some were obviously the work of small children, crude and rough in composition or construction, but others were obviously the work of some virtuosos, raw unfiltered emotion committed to scrap-metal sculptures and remarkably complex papercraft constructs. He even caught his wife pausing to examine a Cubist painting of a tastefully nude imp, his eyes and mouth crossed out, pushing a boulder up a hill in a sisyphean pose. "You could sell some of this stuff, actually…"

"We have some talented kids around here, to be sure," said Zak, fondly. "But it's not all play around here. In addition to promoting mental and physical health, the Institute offers a robust educational curriculum, allowing them to learn and refine necessary skills for future employment." Zak handed them each a pamphlet, which they opened. "The Shop offers both generalized and specialized education regarding fabrication, vehicle maintenance, and small engine repair. For the more intellectually inclined, we have a comprehensive computer sciences lab that teaches coding from beginner to advanced. For other educational requirements, our local doctor teaches beginner to intermediate chemistry, biology, and physiology courses."

The wife turned to her husband, smiling hopefully, only for him to roll his eyes skeptically; they'd both heard the Institute was under new management, sure, but they also were well aware of the place's former reputation. He stopped and sniffed the air, smiling at the rich, buttery scent of baking wafting down the hall: pastry.

"Something smells good!" Exclaimed his wife.

"That would be Home Ec," Zak replied, smiling as he gestured at the door, cracking it open for them to see.

Inside the room were several rows of kids, arrayed in pairs, standing behind a cooking station. At the head of the room was a Sinner in an apron addressing the class. Despite his unpleasant resemblance to a humanoid cybernetic lamprey, the bright smile beneath the digital visor that were his eyes lit up his face into something tolerable to behold.

"Now, technically, cooking key lime filling isn't necessary, as the citric acid–" He noticed the trio peeking in and waved. "Oh! Just in time! Come in, come in! The tarts are ready!"

Zak nodded and led them in, the kids' faces brightening up upon seeing him, some of them waving. "Hi, Big Bro!"

"Hey kids!" Zak waved back, walking over to the front of the class, to the Sinner. "Good smells! What're we cooking today, Emerson?"

"Key lime tarts!" Emerson proclaimed, proudly. "Quick, easy, and never fails to impress! Here, try some, they should be cool enough, though they're better chilled."

The pallid, greasy-looking Sinner gestured to the cooling rack on which sat a dozen small tarts with pale yellow filling. They each took one and sampled, the wife squeaked in delight as the sharp citrus flavor cut through the rich cream of the sweetened condensed milk, the soft texture of the filling complimented by the granular crunch of the buttery graham cracker crust.

"This is Emerson, co-head of Home Ec," explained Zak through a mouthful of tart. "He and Ms. Laila make sure the children can handle themselves in the homestead as well as in the culinary and textiles industries, respectively."

"Hm…" The husband murmured, nodding thoughtfully; why would any Sinner-run operation bother putting up this front for the sake of Hellborn? "I see. What about facilities?"

"Of course!" Zak said, gesturing to the door as he led them out. "For exercise, we have a fully equipped gymnasium, complete with swimming pool and…"

With the tour complete, Zak led the couple to the main reception area, pouring each of them a steaming cup of coffee. The female imp reached out and took her husband's hand, a sad smile on her face as she nodded.

"We're very, uh, impressed with the facility," he said, squeezing his wife's hand. "We'd like to put our daughter up for adoption here."

"Oh?" Zak replied, surprised. "Forgive me, I assumed you were here to invest. That's generally what people who take the tour are here for."

"We wanted to check the place out," the husband said, sorrow darkening his features. "T-to make sure our little girl would be looked after. Would be comfortable and-and…"

"Looked after. Cared for," the wife finished, her eyes glistening with tears. "When we heard that this place had changed, we'd hoped… there are no other orphanages run by Sinners, no where she'd be…"

"Safe?" A voice rumbled from behind them. "Safe from what?"

They turned around, eyes wide with terror as none other than Red Nightmare towered over them, hands folded behind his back, an eyebrow arched in fascination.

"Oh, Mr. Nightmare!" Zak exclaimed, unperturbed by the enormous, terrifying Sinner's sudden appearance. "I assumed these fine people were potential investors so I took them for a tour, but–"

"Did you, now? Good man." Red turned his gaze back to the couple. "Safe from what?"

The couple exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them, before turning back to the Sinner, the husband speaking. "I'm Tezzo Incogni, don of the Incogni Syndicate in Little Wrath, and this is my wife, Teena. Crimson Knolastname's Syndicate from Greed is making moves on our territory, gearing up for war. The Overlords of Il Nove are bankrolling Crimson and his gang to seize Vees affiliated territory, and the Vees can't spare any muscle from the Turf War to stop them. We don't know how much longer we can fend them off, and if they–"

"You understand that this is an orphanage, not a private school," Red interrupted, his expression flat. "For your daughter to stay here, to be safe, you must sign her over to my custody and out of yours. You'll have to adopt her to get her back. Assessment, paperwork, payment, the whole nine."

Mr. Incogni nodded, smiling sadly. "If we survive, we will."

The enormous Sinner studied them in silence, the agonizing seconds feeling like hours as they sat under his withering emerald gaze; when he spoke, his voice was strangely low, subdued. "Why here?"

"None of our associates will take her, to avoid getting involved, and she'll be safer here than in any Hellborn-run orphanage," said Mrs. Incogni, gesturing at Red. "Not even Crimson Knolastname would cross a Sinner just to get to her, much less, well, you, Mr. Nightmare. Needless to say, you've developed something of a reputation around here."

"We'd heard rumors you'd changed things around here, from what it was before. That you turned this place into, well, an actual orphanage," added Mr. Icogni, gesturing at the building in general. "And from what we've seen, the rumors are true. We're sure she'll be safe here."

"And!" Teena exclaimed, pulling a checkbook and pen out of her purse, depressing the plunger with a crisp 'click'. "We're willing to pay an entry fee!"

Another pause, his expression unreadable, until: "What is her name?"

Ms. Icogni, now on the verge of tears, reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, cueing up a picture of a smiling imp girl of perhaps seven, her smile gap-toothed and bright, her glossy black hair done up in long ribboned braids.

"Her name is Trish," said Teena, her voice thick and hitching despite the hopeful, desperate smile on her face. "She'll be s-seven this year. She's very friendly and ch-cheerful and-and-and–"

Red Nightmare reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a hanky, handing it to the unraveling imp. She took it and sobbed quietly, futilely mopping away her tears as they flowed freely. Mr. Incogni reached over and cast a comforting arm over her heaving shoulders.

"Trish, eh? Hm…" Red Nightmare grunted, rubbing his chin in contemplation, silently refusing when Teena reached out to return the hanky. "We do have rooms available…"

"Please!" Tezzo pleaded. "We'll do anything!"

Red Nightmare smirked, arching an eyebrow. "Anything?"

"Name it!" Teena cried, eyes bright with tears and determination. "If there's anything we can do for you, we'll do it! Just keep our little Trish safe!"

"Very well. I accept. Trish will be safe here," said Red Nightmare, smiling now. "Should you know anyone else in similar straits, tell them that I am offering my personal pledge of care and protection for any of their children… for a price."

"What price?"

"Fifty thousand $ouls per child, up front, " said the Sinner, folding his hands behind his back. "And should you wish to retrieve them, the standard adoption process – including fees – will be observed. I can only protect them so long as they are officially in my custody. These are my terms, Mr. and Mrs. Incogni. Do you accept?"

Tezzo turned to Teena, a mix of relief and apprehension on his face. She said nothing, her full black lips pulled into a thin line. She nodded, a gesture that he returned.

"We accept," he said, quietly. "And we know several others in Little Wrath who would too."

"Splendid," said Red, gesturing behind them, to Zak as he pulled up a stack of papers. "While we were talking, Zak drummed up all the necessary paperwork. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. and Mrs. Incogni. I look forward to meeting little Trish."

He turned to walk away when Teena called out. "Mr. Nightmare!"

He turned to face her, "Yes?"

"She's a sweet girl, a sensitive girl," she said, tears threatening to spill once more. "You will look after her, won't you? Keep her safe?"

"Mrs. Incogni, the moment you sign those papers, she becomes my responsibility, just like all the children here." Red Nightmare chuckled and held out his hand, a beautifully ornate Seraphim Steel gauntlet appearing on it in a flash, his hand snapping shut into a fist with a sonic boom, heat and light flashing from between his fingers as they sundered the air. "Anyone who wishes to do her harm will have to go through me first, I can promise you that."

Red Nightmare stepped into his office, humming jauntily to himself. Gone were the prior trappings of performative wealth, the curtains were simple polyester, his desk and chair simple yet tasteful IKEA affairs, the wall behind him covered in framed drawings provided by the children, the centerpiece being a portrait of him donated by Patty; looking at the meticulously detailed Cubist rendition of himself made his hands and right leg throb, a reminder of his brief stint in the Second Dimension.

'Always good to have reminders on hand,' he thought to himself, looking down at the rather nice rug. 'The past has a habit of growing resentful when forgotten.'

He'd kept the rug as planned, not only for its admittedly exquisite stitching and patterns, but for the dark stain in the corner, the remains of a certain Shop Head. Red smirked at this, recalling the look on the clockwork Sinner's face after he'd reassembled himself, only to be tossed into the tender clutches of the Shop Kids. Dew had made good on his promise to make a 'shine still out of the bloated old oaf's remains. He pulled out a bottle from his desk, its crude label reading: 'Klokpunk Broories'. He poured himself a finger and, after a moment's bracing, slugged it back. He winced at the burn as his mouth and nostrils were filled with subtle notes of axle grease and a delicate bouquet of industrial cleaners and brass polish, carried on the back of 151 proof grain alcohol. He shuddered and shook his head, blinking tears out of his eyes. As touching as it was that the kids saw fit to gift him the first sample of the batch, the sooner he saw the bottom of this particular bottle the better.

"Mr. Nightmare," said his secretary, a charming young impess hired at Kabby's request, over the intercom. "There's, er, someone here to see you."

"Do they have an appointment?" Red said, recalling his schedule.

"He says he doesn't need one," she said, a nervous twinge clear in her voice. "He says he has… prior arrangements with old management?"

Red's lips tightened into a thin line as something cold crept into his gut. "Send him up, then."

The bell rang as class let out, the clamor of children's voices overlapping filled the air as they set off to their next classes. Former beggars, thieves, and sweatshop workers didn't need to learn how to sew or fix cars, but were now learning to code, to do math, to cook, otherwise useless things in their prior vocation, but were nonetheless charming and novel for their frivolity. Gone were the long days of walking the dangerous streets picking pockets and stealing cars. Gone were the endless streams of fabric and joyless assembly of products. Gone was the endless, interminable labor of boosting and selling cars. All replaced with the charmingly mundane grind of something approximating school.

The children shuffled down the hall, the scuffling of feet and the clopping of hooves backdropping the buzz of overlapping young voices as they excitedly discussed whatever topic came to mind. Slowly but surely the clamor quieted, receding like the tide as conversations died and ears perked to an encroaching sound: footsteps.

Very particular footsteps, the clipped, regular cadence of which sent chills down the collective spine of the Institute. The sound of hard black polished dress shoes echoed in the newfound silence, their tips clad in metal that rang like tiny silver bells with every meticulously timed and measured step. The children froze in place, some daring to try and turn to the source of the footsteps.

Then, underscored by the perfectly even marching, came a sound, a terrible awful sound, a familiar sound: whistling. The tempo was mild, at once jaunty and melancholic, every rolling, placid note hit perfectly, adding to the eerie beauty. Every kid at the 'Donna knew its portends, knew who was serenading them.

The Highest Bidder.

Mr. Whistles.

The Marching Man.

One the few occasions he'd shown up at the 'Donna in recent years, it was always after Lights-Out, never during the day. He'd stroll up the hallway to the Bunks, his footsteps as perfectly timed as a metronome, every step unscored with a delicate metallic 'ting'. And he would be whistling that tune, always that same horrible tune, as he marched up and down the Bunks, always pausing as he hit the high, sustained notes of the melody before resuming. The morning after, kids would be missing, sometimes two or three, sometimes a dozen, but he always took some. Legend had it that when he stopped and whistled those terrible notes, he was challenging a kid to open their eyes, to face him, to see him, taking them if they did.

Instantly, they all froze where they were, staring at the floor, turned to the walls, squeezing their eyes shut, youthful faces pale with terror. The steps moved through the crowd, ringing steps keeping the beat of the whistled tune. One hellhound in particular trembled, he was tallish and handsome, resembling a doberman in appearance, his pointed ears flat, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed together.

'Don't,' Barkley thought to himself, fighting the urge to engage with the music, to join in with his one true passion. 'Don't do it, Barkley! So what if you haven't hit the notes right yet? Don't do it!'

The intrusive thoughts won and Barkley pursed his lips together and whistled, harmonizing with the Marching Man just as the tune reached the sweetly fluttering, rolling notes, the most difficult ones. 'Heh. Nailed it. Holy shit…'

The footsteps stopped, as did the whistling. A choked, silent gasp rose from the crowd. After a small eternity of perhaps one second, the pace and whistling continued, drawing closer and closer to Barkley, only now there was an amused, challenging lilt to the notes. Terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, Barkley whistled, effortlessly harmonizing with the Marching Man, putting little flourishes on the notes as he did. The Marching Man imitated the additions before responding with his own, with Barkley replying in kind. The two dueled through the tune, the footsteps drawing closer and closer and closer, as the crescendo approached.

Barkley, trembling and sweating, opened a red eye a sliver, staring at the ground: standing before him were a large pair of polished black dress shoes, high heeled in a way that implied digitigrade feet, the tips capped in shimmering Seraphim Steel. Embossed into the mirror-like surface was as a sigil he did not recognize.

(insert Marchosias sigil here)

"Bold little thing, aren't you?" The Marching Man said, his regally accented voice almost impossibly deep, his tone flatly amused. "At least you can carry a tune."

With that, he resumed walking and whistling, heading down the hall, to the Head Office. A crisp knock sounded, followed by the opening of a door and, after some murmured words lost to every ear present, the door closed.

Barkley stood there, trembling violently, staring numbly at the floor as urine pooled about his feet.

Red sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly on top of it, if only to stop them from fidgeting. Cold dread crept into his veins as the sounds of clamoring children wavered, then quieted, and then stopped altogether. Soon, the only sound coming from outside was… whistling? A strangely pleasant melody whose softness and immaculate notes only underscored the ominous pall that had fallen over the building. Bella's legacy, the final slight she had to hand, was walking up the hallway towards his office.

He almost jumped out of his seat when knuckles rapped against his door in a crisp, polite request. "Door's open. Please, come in."

The door opened to reveal a demon. He was tall by Sinner standards, somewhere between eight and nine feet, his build trim and athletic, filling out his regal tyrian suit with lithe, chorded muscle. In appearance he resembled a black-furred wolf, with thin, delicate features of almost feminine beauty, his black griffon wings folded so flat against his back that the obsidian feathers trailed the ground like a flowing cape, a serpent's tail ever-so-slightly waving behind him. His eyes, black sclera surrounding fire-orange pupils, locked Red with a flat, unbothered gaze, the kind of look one might spare a benign insect.

With growing horror, memories as Moonchild, as Stolas' secretary, surfaced from the murk; he knew this demon.

"Grand Marquis Marchosias Goetia," Red said, glad that his voice sounded steady. "You honor us with this unexpected visit."

"Red Nightmare," Marchosias rumbled as he started forward, his deep voice impossibly dissonant to his almost feminine face. "I take it Belladonna is alive."

"What makes you say that, My Lord?"

He arched an eyebrow, marching about the office, examining the decorations. "Anyone who killed her would have had her head stuffed and mounted on the wall. Answer the question."

"Yes, she's alive. Though she will not be returning here," Red replied, slowly rising to his feet. "You were her associate, My Lord?"

"She spoke of me?"

"More like brandished you," said Red, quietly readying himself. "A 'I have contacts in Court' sort of thing."

"Vulgar creature," the Marchosias snorted, looking out the window, his back turned. "She was one of my suppliers. I found her stock to be hardy. Resourceful and possessed of a unique tenacity. Ideal for my purposes."

Red subtly grit his teeth, willing himself to not imagine the uses a Goetia with Marchosias' reputation could conceivably want with Hellborn children. "Indeed, My Lord?"

"Worry not, Mr. Nightmare." Marchosias turned his snout slightly, not quite looking over his shoulder at the Sinner. "I shall not be asking the same of you and your new paradigm. That experiment was a failure. No, I won't be asking after livestock."

"Then why have you come, My Lord?" Red said, considering scrying the immediate possible futures before deciding against it; the Goetia, with all their tricks, might be able to sense such a thing. "If not to resume business?"

"Lady Belladonna was a loose end I intended to tie up at some point," he said, clasping his hands behind his back, serpentine tail idly flicking back and forth like a playful cat's. "She's alive, as you said, but I can also infer that she is indisposed?"

"Yes, My Lord. And Dealt with on top of that," said Red, willing the sweat away from his brow, agonizing over whether to launch into a surprise attack and end this cleanly, or wait and see what the Royal would do, what he would infer. "Should she escape confinement, she cannot form Pacts with other Sinners. She won't last long out there."

"You Pact-sealed her?" Marchosias said, actually glancing over his shoulder. "Interesting."

"Is it, My Lord?"

"Well, not terribly." Marchosias stepped away from the window, running a finger along the sill, rubbing the minute amount of dust he found there, walking over to the bookcase, examining the literature. "So, you killed Sallos, then?"

Red's eyes snapped open, his guts clenching in cold coils. His hands snapped open, talons flexing, as he prepared to summon his angelic armor, only to stop dead in his tracks when Marchosias called out: "Don't try it. You are outmatched. Handily."

Red said nothing, frozen in place, Marchosias reached up to the bookcase and tilted a copy of 'Juvenile Psychology 101'. "You can check, if you like. I'll wait."

The future 100 seconds played out in its full glory, mind-bending in its infinite fractals of probability and fate, each one reacting and dancing about one another to fashion endless distinct variants of the same moment in time. He was right. There was not one permutation where Red prevailed, not within the next 100 seconds, at least. In many, he would be swiftly defeated, his precognition countered by the Goetia's precognition, borrowed from Orobas, his time erasure evaded, and his immense strength and speed countered in kind. Red noted that while the Marquis was no Duke Sallos, in several timelines Red was indeed able to overpower him and outspeed him, but all this would do is prolong the engagement and wreak terrible destruction to the orphanage.

Among all the Goetia, in the tomes and grimoires written by half-mad sorcerers on Earth, Marchosias' martial skill warranted mention in their glib descriptions. Marchosias was one of most skilled combatants in all of Hell, if not necessarily the most powerful. Even with his crude, novice's eye for combat, Red could see his battle tendency effortlessly flow from one form to the next, with no approach or form or tactic able to penetrate his defenses or intercept his attacks. It was as though he knew every move, every counter, every art and form and method of death, with Red's clumsy flailing amounting to little more than an irritation. Red could plainly see, in that imperceptible span between moments that was his precognition, he stood no chance. At the very least, battling this demon would see the annihilation of everything he'd built here.

Marchosias smirked as Red deflated, his hands unclenching and hanging at his sides. "There we are."

"What are you going to do?" Red said after a moment. "Are you going to kill me?"

"I don't know," Marchosias said, arching an eyebrow. "Am I?"

Red said nothing, glaring at the Royal.

"I suppose I should take you before the Inner Circle and have you punished for your transgressions," said Marchosias, airily. "However, convincing them that a flailing oaf like you killed Sallos would be a tall order. That is his suit and armor, no doubt, and he certainly didn't give them to you. Sallos was powerful, certainly, but it was his skill as a warrior that set him above the rest. His instincts, his knowledge, in some ways they were on par with my own. I see you bungle about in potential future battles and I see a man who's barely thrown a serious punch in his life. So, the question remains: How did you kill Sallos?"

Red grit his teeth, dread and humiliation mixing like water and oil in his guts. He opened his mouth to reply when the Royal cut him off.

"I suppose the details don't matter. Whatever ability allowed you to do so is obviously not with you now. Or not in your control, at the very least," said Marchosias, turning to face him, eyeing him up and down. "You're a Nephilim, aren't you?"

"I–"

"Yes or no will suffice."

"…Yes."

"Tricky things, Souls. Changeable, dynamic, powerful, but also abstruse and mercurial. You have your Human mother to thank for your neutering." Marchosias said, an almost perceptible sneer in his voice when mentioning her. "Do you know who your father is?"

"No."

Marchosias paused, his eyes cold despite their fiery orange color as he examined the specimen before him. "Despite your abysmal fighting style, you are remarkably strong. Fast too. The Stand abilities your Human Soul manifested are also potent. And when you hit your stride, your killing instincts serve you well. The combination of the two sometimes approximate competence. You are also able to bend Royal livery to your will. That fact alone confirms that you are of Royal blood."

"I suspected as much," Red grumbled.

"But it's the Pact-sealing you apparently performed on Belladonna that confirms my suspicions," said Marchosias, walking up to Red, eyes boring into him. "The ability to cauterize a Soul from Dealing with other Souls is a preserve of the Seven… and Lucifer."

Red blinked in surprise, his mouth hanging open in shock.

"Stop that, you'll swallow a fly," said Marchosias, notching a finger under his jaw and shutting his mouth. "And yet… I do not smell them on you. You are not of their blood."

"Then who–?"

"Who indeed?" Marchosias quirked an eyebrow, stepping back from Red. "Worry not, child. I will not be bringing you before the Inner Circle. Indeed, I will not be divulging any of what we've discussed here with anyone."

Red boggled at him for a moment, struggling to find the words before simply saying: "Why?"

"Wheels are turning. Plans within plans, like the gears of a great clockwork," said Marchosias, turning to look out the window, at the children milling about on the ground. "Every cog must play its part."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do not trouble yourself with such trifles," said Marchosias, turning back to Red. "You will play your part before long. However, until then, stay out of PC Central."

Red sighed, knowing full well the futility but compelled to ask anyway. "Why?"

Marchosias allowed the faintest smile to curl the sides of his wolfish snout. "Because, brat, the last time you disregarded an enigmatic warning, it landed you here, in this hovel. As you are now, neutered. Completely at my mercy."

Red said nothing, swallowing despite his dry mouth.

"I'll be off, then," said Marchosias, summoning his grimoire and opening a portal. "Be safe now. Don't do anything stupid like getting yourself killed."

Red said nothing, glaring at the floor, the tasteful rug upon it.

"Oh," Marchosias said, stopping just as he set foot in the portal. "One more thing."

Red looked up, a questioning expression on his tired face.

"Stay away from the Princess," said the Marquis, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Her fool's errand is no longer your concern."

With that, he was gone, the portal vanishing with a flash. Red exhaled explosively, slumping against his desk and sliding down to the floor, his face slick with cold sweat. He ran a shaking hand up through his bangs, eyes wide, before his fingers traced the little face there, on his forehead. Solido slumbered, and with him his full might, forever out of his reach.

…Or was it?

"Maybe…" Red muttered, rubbing Solido, his green eyes narrowing as his mouth curled into a snarl. "Maybe what I need… is therapy."

Author's Note:

You didn't think I'd end this without one final pecker-slap to Ol' Red, did you? Hoh ho ho! Heavens no, that boy cannot be allowed to get too full of himself.

Also, for those of you who've read Overdrive, that last little exchange was probably a great big 'oh fuck' moment. Will JoJo and Kashmir one day be greeted with brisk footsteps and a jaunty whistled tune? Well yeah, probably, considering I am now back inthe headspeace to resume Overdrive!

Anyway, thank you all so much for reading this fun little tangent series/ungodly long novel-posing-as-an-anthology. It's been long in the making, longer in the finishing, and is now DONE.

Love you all, hope to see you at the next fic! WA OUT!