The Campbell Chronicles
Chapter 10
Thomas Dickerson stared into the mirror, water dripping from his face as he gripped the sides of the sink. Oh, how he hated working at Arkham Asylum. Every day, he was around Gotham's worst criminals.
His stomach churned with nerves. The next time they escaped, would he be one of the casualties left behind as they returned to the world. Tearing his gaze away from the mirror, he looked around the room, searching for anything to calm his mind.
He found nothing. The walls were the same brownstone that comprised the rest of the building. Porcelain sinks lined the wall before him, and a large mirror reflected the space behind him.
Two urinals and three beige-colored stalls finished the space.
"The money is good, the money is good," he repeated to himself over and over as he turned back to the mirror.
His eyes widened as his gaze fell on the glass.
His reflection was gone, replaced with something else.
A red face stared back at him, and a broad smile revealed pronounced canines stretching the skin of the high cheekbones. A thin black mustache decorated the upper lip and a goatee hung from the pointed chin. Pure white eyes froze him in place.
Slowly, the face turned from side to side, revealing pointed ears. Focusing on him again, a red hand pushed against the inside of the mirror, causing it to ripple. Sharp black nails emerged into the room.
Thomas threw himself away from the mirror, falling onto his butt as he scrambled backward. He mentally cursed as his back slammed into a stall. His gaze flicked to the door, only for him to watch the lock click into place.
With a shaky hand, he grabbed his baton and extended it with a flick, almost dropping it. At that exact moment, his eyes glanced back toward the door, his mouth opening to scream for help, but no sound came out.
Red hands balanced on the sink as a man in a red button-down shirt, black slacks, black overalls, and black shoes stepped onto the bathroom floor.
White eyes regarded his fallen form, "You will do nicely, Mr. Dickerson."
"What do you…"
Mephisto leaned forward as he transformed into red smoke that poured into Thomas's eyes and mouth. The man spasmed on the floor, his veins pushing against his skin as his chest rippled.
He stilled as the last of the smoke disappeared inside him, and his Hazel eyes briefly shone white. Slowly, he rose to his feet and stared into the mirror.
Thomas Dickerson was 5'9" tall, slightly overweight, with a rounded face, receding Brown hair, and Hazel eyes. He ran a hand over a bald spot, "If I were a nicer man, I would leave him something for his help, but I'm not."
As he turned toward the door, Mephisto slipped the baton back into its sheath. With a wave of his hand, the door unlocks.
Pushing the door open, Mephisto exited into a small hallway. Turning to the left, he made his way out into the prison proper. It was a rectangular space. Three stories tall with iron walkways leading to each section.
Light poured down from florescent tubes surrounding two large openings in the ceiling.
Hardened glass sealed each cell, letting the guards see the occupants inside.
Mephisto inhaled deeply, 'There is so much sin here; it's too bad I can only take one soul in my current condition.'
Walking toward the stairs, Mephisto inhaled again, letting his nose guide him to the most wicked here. With his eyes closed, he moved past the stairs and down another hallway. Steel doors lined either side of the passage. Black letters were stenciled above rectangular openings.
Stopping before a particular door, Mephisto stared.
According to Dickerson's memories, this contained a man called the Joker, an insane mass murderer.
High-pitched laughter echoed from beyond the door, and bright green eyes peered at him from the rectangular opening, "Hello, Tommy boy, have you come to play?"
A slow smile spread across Dickerson's face, pulling the skin unnaturally tight. The fat fingers of Mephisto's vessel twitched. Oh, yes, this one will do nicely. There was no remorse, only a drive for blood and chaos.
Leaning down, he stared into the opening, "You could say that, Mr. Joker, but I don't think you'll like my game."
Insane laughter echoed through the hallway again, and a flash of yellow teeth appeared in the opening, "Oh, Tommy boy, I love all sorts of games."
"We'll see."
Suddenly, the lights in the hallway winked out, plunging the space into darkness.
–XX –
Joker instinctively backed away from his cell door, his green eyes never moving from it.
As the light of his cell buzzed and flickered, something moved in the shadows. They bowed outward and grew up. They deepened, and the shadows flaked away to reveal Thomas Dickerson.
Despite the development, Joker grinned and clapped his pale bony hands together, "Ooh, now that's impressive."
As the Joker began to dance around him, Mephisto took him in.
The Joker was 6'5" tall and thin with high cheekbones, a prominent chin, green hair, green eyes, and yellow teeth. His skin was the color of milk, and his lips the color of blood.
He danced around, his thin arms extending out of his loose grey shirt and pants.
As he finished another circuit, Mephisto's arm shot out. His hand wrapped around the Joker's throat, and in a blur of motion, he slammed him into the back wall of the cell, cracking the stone.
The Joker coughed, and spittle landed on Mephisto's cheek. "Kinky, Dickie boy, I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."
Ignoring the pale man's words, Mephisto leaned forward and sniffed.
The Joker's gaze flicked to his shoulder. He watched as red vapor rose from his body and entered Dickerson's nose.
Turning his gaze to the Joker, Mephisto stared into the clown's face as the color bled from Dickerson's eyes, leaving behind pure white orbs.
"So much innocent blood on your hands, Mr. Joker," Mephisto cocked his head to the side, "as a matter of fact, I can still hear the innocents screaming."
The Joker snorted, "People say I'm crazy," he lunged forward, putting himself nose to nose with Dickerson, "but you are loony," he twirled his index finger near his temple.
A strangled gasp cut off the Joker's taunt as Dickerson tightened his grip on his throat. "You know, for a clown, you're not that funny, but then again, I guess some things never change," a malicious glint appeared in his eye. "You're still the same failed standup comedian who lost his wife and child."
The Joker's eyes narrowed. A sharpened toothbrush slid into his palm with a flick of his right hand.
"This was fun, but now it's time you die." In a flash, the Joker reversed his grip on the toothbrush and jammed it into Dickerson's temple. His eyes widened when, instead of falling to the floor, Dickerson stared at him. Blood ran down his face from around the toothbrush now lodged in his skull.
"So much for letting dear Thomas go when I was done with him," he stared into the Joker's wide eyes, "I guess that's just a little more innocent blood on your soul."
The Joker winced as the thing that was once Thomas Dickerson's fingers transformed into sharp claws that dug into his skin, "What are you?"
"Someone that will use your wretched soul to rise to greater heights."
Mephisto inhaled, and the Joker screamed as white light poured from his eyes and mouth.
His body shrank in on itself, paper-colored skin hanging off bones as his eyes withered, leaving behind empty sockets. His green hair faded to gray and fell to the floor, and his wiry muscles disappeared.
Streamers of red flowed from the body, spiraling together to form a tiny golf ball-sized sphere of dense crimson liquid.
When the light faded, Mephisto released the bald skeleton covered in pale skin to fall to the floor. Mephisto tilted his head back as an orb of blood circuited the body.
Red smoke poured from his vessel's mouth, eyes, and nose. As the smoke drifted toward the ceiling, a thin wisp wrapped around the orb of blood, and it was dragged through cracks in the walls.
–XX –
Appearing above the desert surrounding Yemen, Mephisto stared at the runic circles of carved symbols connected by a five-pointed star made of rigid runic blocks.
Drifting around the symbol, Mephisto looked over the five runic circles connected by the pentagram. A ritual ingredient sat in each circle.
There was sap from the Dragon Blood tree, Yemen's national tree; a branch with leaves from the Lote tree, whose thorns were said to have pierced Christ's brow; a 3000-year-old mummy liberated from the Central City Museum's storage; and a block of iron with curved runes that flared and shone with a blue-white light.
Mephisto grimaced at the iron. The symbols etched into it were said to have been from the Book of Solomon. Inside each symbol was the residue left after boiling salt in holy water, the most painful ingredient to procure.
Finally, there was the blood taken from the Joker, who murdered thousands of innocents, and in doing so, bits of their souls became connected to him as he took their lives.
Exhaling, Mephisto released the Joker's soul from his body. The soul flowed down his arm and merged into a loose white mist. With a spark of power, the soul became luminescent white flames.
If you listen just right, you could hear the Joker's screams as Mephisto reared back his arm and threw him down in the center of the pentagram. The runes in the pentagram's center flared, creating a triangular barrier around the soul.
Spreading his arms wide, Mephisto began chanting in a language unheard in human history. He may be in a new universe, but his magical knowledge translated with some tweaking.
Energy flowed down the runic lines, and one by one, the five ingredients were consumed in crimson energies as their runic circles ignited.
Five beams of energy pierced the sky, slowly expanding until they touched. As they connected, they winked out of existence, leaving behind a portion of shimmering sky the circumference of the pentagram.
Mephisto thrust his hand toward the distortion in space, "Elias, the devil of the djinn, I summing you forth."
The distortion in the sky shimmered, slowly changing into a mirror of the desert around him. Slowly, the pale blue sky of the vision began to change. It became blood red, and dark clouds swam across it as something shot through the air toward the opening.
Mephisto backed away from the pentagram as the shape slammed into its center. The pentagram folded in half, around the thing in its center, and twisted before exploding into a ring of black flames.
In the center of the flames stood a man of Egyptian descent wearing white robes and a red turban. Purple chains trailed from his wrists and ankles into the fire. Brown eyes that turned a sickly yellow locked on Mephisto, "Who are you."
Mephisto waved his hand dismissively, "That isn't important; you wouldn't know who I am if I told you; what is important is that I challenge you for your domain in the sphere of the gods."
Elias sneered, "Have you no honor? Challenging me while I am bound," he flexed his wrists.
Mephisto's eyes flared white; "You know as well as I do there is no honor among beings such as us; besides," he sneered, "you and I both know those chains can't hold you. They were to get your attention."
Elias flicked his hand, and the flames winked out, leaving behind a glass circle. "Tell me, little demon, why should I accept your challenge?"
Mephisto disappeared and reappeared in front of Elias. He slammed his fist into the genie's chest, sending him flying backward. His heels dug furrows in the sand before the momentum was spent, and he finally stopped.
"The challenge was a courtesy; I don't need you to accept."
Taking a deep breath, Elias thrust his hand forward, but his eyes widened when nothing happened. He could feel his power, but it would not manifest.
A chuckle echoed in the air as Mephisto made his way forward.
"What did you do?"
"Did you really think I would summon you without taking precautions?"
Elias swept his hand in a circle, creating a sandstorm between him and Mephisto.
Mephisto clapped, "That's the spirit! Never give up."
Inside the sandstorm, Elias closed his eyes. His skin rippled and bulged as he tried to take his true form, but a force within pulled it back into his being.
His teeth ground together, and he glanced behind him.
His hands curled into fists.
For the first time in centuries, he was thinking about running. Him, the devil of the djinn.
Releasing a breath through his nose, Elias turned, vowing to himself he would break the bonds on this vessel and gain revenge.
He was brought out of his thoughts as he was yanked backward by his robes. He fell to the ground, his body sinking in the sand as he stared at Mephisto.
The sand tightened, forming a pillar around Elias that rose into the air with only his torso sticking out.
Mephisto stared into Elias' eyes. "I would say this has been fun, but I honestly expected more." Before Elias could say anything, Mephisto slammed his hand into the man's chest.
Elias's eyes widened, and a dribble of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth.
Mephisto withdrew his hand.
Sitting in his blood-covered palm was a spark of white power that gave off rainbow-colored light.
This was a small moat of the creator's power used when he brought Elias into existence.
Popping the Spark into his mouth, he closed his eyes as energy rushed through him, missing Elias crumbled to ash.